Free The Lost by Claire McGowan

pressure. And this town – God, does it ever stop raining?’
    ‘Not really. You know what they say: if the cows are lying down, it’s raining. If they’re standing up, it’s about to rain.’
    He didn’t smile. ‘We’re not popular here, are we? The Brits. The police.’
    ‘Don’tworry, it’s all in the past,’ she lied. He didn’t look any happier. The words were out almost before she knew. ‘Listen – if you’re still on for that drink after work, I think I could actually make it.’
    He looked up. ‘Really? Could we do it later? Katie has a sleepover, so that way I can drop her off first.’
    An evening drink was different – more like a date, not like an after-work thing. And he was her boss, and still married. But he looked so lost she hadn’t the heart to say no. ‘OK. See you later – um, the Square Peg, maybe? It’s pretty central.’ An old man’s pub might reduce the danger.
    ‘Great.’ He looked better already. Giving herself a stern talking-to, Paula went to write reports. For the rest of the day she read through what they knew on Rachel and Alice (not very much), and highlighted avenues for investigation on Cathy and Majella – possible boyfriends, running away to Belfast or Dublin, accidents. The prospect of forced abduction seemed so unlikely, especially in a town like Ballyterrin, but they’d have to look at that too. She mapped them out, these girls, from their totally different homes and backgrounds. Where were they? The unanswered question that drove her on, every time. Again and again she found her eyes straying to the computer screen, where the minimised site of the Mission remained in view.
    As she left on the dot of five, copying everyone else’s dash to the door, Bob Hamilton fell into step with her. ‘You’re PJ’s girl, then, I hear. I worked with him.’
    ‘Did you?’ She wondered was he one of the officers who’d driven her father out.
    ‘He was a good man, a very good man.’
    ‘I’ll be sure to tell him that. He still is a good man, I think.’
    ‘Oh aye,oh aye.’
    She gave him a tight smile and started up the Ford Focus.
    What to wear, that was a good question. Perhaps in denial about how long she’d be in Ballyterrin, Paula had brought hardly any clothes, and mainly jeans and jumpers, anticipating the chill nights of Ireland. Nothing for a drink with Guy Brooking. In her dressing-gown after dinner with PJ – her speciality of beans on toast – she stuck her head round the door of her small bedroom. ‘Dad?’
    ‘Aye?’ He had the football on, sound down low.
    ‘Can I look in the boxes for a dress?’
    Silence. She thought he hadn’t heard, but then he said, ‘Aye, you may as well. They’re only fit for the poor box, otherwise.’ The unspoken words were there: and it’s not like she’s coming back to get them.
    ‘You don’t mind?’
    ‘Tear away.’
    The boxes were on the landing, taped up, smelling of damp. She touched the top one gently, but what was the point? It was only possessions. They didn’t mean much when the person was gone. She had a vague idea what she wanted, and after rooting around among books, photos and shoes, there it was – a rust-red raw silk dress with a Chinese neck. Her mother had worn it that last Christmas, to a dinner-dance with PJ, and Paula remembered her going down the stairs in it, clouded in Anais-Anais, her red hair done up in some kind of knot.
    She rubbed the fabric; it was lovely stuff, thick and cool. Her mother must have bought it in Dublin, on one of her Brown Thomas shopping trips. Was it weird to wear one of your mum’s old dresses? Of course not, it was probably trendy now. But maybe not when you hadn’t seen her in seventeen years.
    A ghost of talcrose up as she pulled it on. The dress was tight on Paula’s larger frame, and came to halfway up her thighs, but she got into it. She ringed her eyes in liner and attempted something with her hair, pulling it into a plait. She hadn’t her mother’s