The Dead Ground by Claire McGowan

Author:Claire McGowan
Language: eng, eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Headline
Published: 2013-11-20T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Three

Helen Corry lived in a fancy-dan house on the outskirts of Ballyterrin, on a road that quickly gave way to green fields, cut through by the motorway to Belfast. Paula was standing on the doorstep realising she should have brought something – wine, or chocolates, or a collection envelope for St Vincent de Paul. Her mother had drummed it into her from an early age, catching the child’s arm as they walked to someone’s doorstep – never go empty-handed, Paula. They’d arranged to have a drink after the end of a long, exhausting, and ultimately futile day. Melissa Dunne was free, and they had no other suspects.

She rang the doorbell, which gave out a tinkly bing-bong sort of noise. Nothing happened, so she put her ear to the door, which was thudding slightly. Was that Metallica? The door flew open, almost hitting Paula in the head, and there stood the Chief Inspector, in a luxury black cashmere tracksuit, a large glass of wine dangling from one red-taloned hand. ‘There you are, Paula, I can’t hear myself think over this racket.’ She shouted, ‘Shut that bloody music off! It’s not even music, it’s noise!’ It was exactly how she spoke to her officers at the station.

There was a vibration from upstairs, and the din went down a fraction. ‘Teenagers,’ Corry said, by way of explanation. ‘They’ve my heart scalded. Come on in, Paula.’

The house was very tidy, showroom-shiny with large vases holding bits of twig, abstract oils in splashy colours, slippery marble floors underfoot. Christmas lights had been strung over the pictures and cards lined the mantelpiece in the sitting room, glimpsed in passing. A huge TV blared in the same room, unwatched, and the place was as hot as a hammam. Paula took off her heavy coat and held it over her arm awkwardly, as the DCI led her into the (also marble-topped) kitchen. ‘Have a wee seat.’ Paula hopped onto a chrome stool at the kitchen island. It had been her mother’s dream to get a kitchen island one day, not that there was room in the pokey terraced house they still lived in. ‘You’ll have a drink?’ Corry was already filling a huge balloon glass.

‘Well, I’m driving, so maybe just water—’

‘Have a bit.’

A vast lake of wine was set in front of Paula, who regarded it helplessly. ‘You wanted to see me?’

‘It’s about time we had a chat, I thought. Woman to woman, if you buy into all that bollocks.’

‘Er—’

‘You like working at the unit?’

‘Eh – yes, of course. It’s fascinating. I don’t think there’s another job like it in the country.’

‘He’s a good boss, Brooking?’

‘Yes. Very good.’

‘And good-looking.’ Helen took a sip of her wine. ‘Don’t you think? Very English, but easy on the eye.’

‘Eh—’ Paula tried to give nothing away. ‘He’s a very good boss, everyone says so.’

‘I’m sure.’ Corry set her hands on the marbled countertop. ‘I’m a good boss too, Paula. Ask Gerard Monaghan. I like to put the fear of God in

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