Free The Dead Ground by Claire McGowan Page A

but still.’
    Grunting in irritation, Gerard put up the window and turned off the engine. Aidan seemed unmoved by their attitude. ‘What’s up with your man – was he off sick the day of the “good cop” training module or something?’
    ‘Leave him be. He’s right, you’ve no business being here.’
    ‘Maybe I wanted to see you. Seems I caught a flash of red hair at the hospital the other day – avoiding me, are you?’
    ‘If you wanted to talk I’m sure you knew where to find me for the past month, when you’ve not been in touch.’
    He frowned; she’d got him. ‘I was busy reopening the paper. You know it’s got new investors – I was busy. And you weren’t well anyway.’
    ‘Neither were you.’ She felt the ache in her temple where the gun had been pressed, the night she and Aidan had come face to face with a desperate man. They’d got through that ordeal alive – not everyone had – but it had left scars. ‘Tell me this. How’s the arm?’
    Wrong-footed, Aidan blinked down at his shoulder, where the bullet wound was barely healed. Snow was settling in his eyelashes. ‘It’s all right. I’m supposed to do physio on it, but it’ll be grand.’
    She turned to approach the house. ‘Then I suggest you get in your crappy car and fuck off out of here, or I’ll have Gerard arrest you.’
    ‘Maguire! You’re so tough these days. What, did you watch too much Law and Order when you were off sick?’
    ‘I mean it. You need to leave right now.’
    As she walked off she could hear Aidan’s laughter in her ears. She forced herself not to look.
    The door of the large white mansion was opened by a priest. That was a surprise. Paula’s mind went blank.
    Gerard stepped forward. ‘Morning, Father. Is Mrs Croft in, please? We’re from the MPRU.’ He flashed his ID. Paula remembered and righted herself – this was the psychic’s ‘spiritual adviser’, Father Brendan, a Catholic priest she’d convinced of her visions.
    The priest was middle-aged, his head pink and bald as a baby’s, small glasses slipping down his nose. ‘Could you give your feet a wee wipe there,’ he said, fussily moving the doormat. ‘All that snow’s so dirty when it melts.’
    The house was expensively furnished – mahogany chairs, large ceramic vases – but with no sign of being lived in. There was an echoing feel, and a smell of new plaster. Rooms stretched off on either side of the corridor they walked down, and Paula had the impression of a large building around her. She knew people came to stay sometimes, trying to get cured of terminal illnesses, and often conveniently leaving all their money to Mrs Croft when it didn’t work.
    ‘She’s praying,’ the priest whispered, as he opened the door to the sitting room. ‘Don’t disturb her.’
    ‘You’d think she’d have been able to predict we were coming,’ Paula muttered, once he was out of earshot. The woman in question was sitting forward on a blue-and-cream striped sofa, hands on her knees, lips muttering. She wasn’t what Paula had expected at all. She couldn’t have said what she had expected, but not a woman in her early fifties with grey hair plaited round her head, glasses on a jewelled string, and dressed in an acrylic jumper and slacks. She looked like somebody’s auntie.
    The door creaked as Gerard and Paula went in, and Magdalena Croft’s eyes opened. She gave a little yawn, as if waking from a refreshing nap. ‘The police?’
    ‘The MPRU.’ Gerard dipped his head respectfully. ‘Ma’am.’
    She put the glasses on and peered at them. ‘You’re very young, both of you.’
    What to say to that? Sorry? Thanks? Paula sat down, struggling to get any purchase on the slippery cushions of the sofa. ‘DCI Corry sent us to have a word with you, Mrs Croft, to see if you can help us find Alek Pachek.’
    ‘Do you believe I can?’ A direct stare.
    ‘Erm – I don’t know.’ Gerard shot Paula a look when she confessed this, but the psychic looked