Free The Dead Ground by Claire McGowan Page B

pleased.
    ‘An honest girl. It’s Dr Maguire, is it? Over from England?’
    ‘Yes. Paula. I grew up in Ballyterrin, though.’
    ‘And what’s your name, son?’ She smiled at Gerard, who seemed suddenly shy.
    ‘DC Monaghan.’ He paused. ‘I mean, it’s Gerard. Ma’am.’
    ‘Well, Gerard, maybe you would pop out there to Father Brendan and ask for tea. I’d like a wee word with your colleague alone. It’s the energy,’ she explained. ‘The Holy Virgin sometimes won’t come to me if there’s men around.’
    Gerard took his large frame out, casting curious backwards glances. Paula and the psychic regarded each other. She’d expected to approach this interview as if assessing someone deluded, hallucinating, but now she had the distinct feeling she was being assessed herself. ‘Um – I understand you’re acquainted with Alek’s family, and they asked for you to be brought in.’
    ‘Poor young people. They came to me when she had trouble falling pregnant.’ She indicated a small end table, which held a box of tissues, a crossword book, and a blue teddy. Paula knew where she’d seen that teddy before – in Alek’s empty crib. The psychic’s hand stroked the toy’s soft ears. ‘It helps if I have something they touched – not much choice for Alek, poor wean.’ Her accent was hard to pin down, veering on different words between Irish and English and possibly American.
    ‘And can you see anything?’
    The psychic seemed amused. ‘Not yet, Dr Maguire. I’m praying. I don’t just ring the Holy Virgin up on the telephone, you know.’
    ‘What do you do?’ She met the woman’s eyes, framed by the large glasses.
    ‘I’m often asked this question. I say it’s like standing with your back turned, and when you aren’t expecting it someone comes up behind you and takes you in their arms. When I was a child I heard the Holy Mother speak – she said carry your cross, Magdalena, and go on the roads of Ireland. Bring my grace to everyone you see, and I will give you the gift of healing. And she did. You can talk to any number of people I’ve made well again.’
    ‘I see.’ Paula tried to keep her face neutral. ‘Do you understand how it works – your gift?’
    ‘It’s a miracle. I’m not required to understand and neither are you.’
    ‘Yeah. Mrs Croft – do you keep records of the women you see who want a baby?’
    ‘Records?’
    ‘Yes. You see, we think Alek was taken by someone who can’t have their own child, and we wondered if they’d come to you.’
    Magdalena smiled; it was strangely chilling. ‘Dr Maguire. If you came to me for help in your darkest hour, would you like to think I’d pass your name on to the police?’
    ‘No, but we are the police, and—’
    Suddenly the woman got up and came over to Paula. She was wearing slippers over her tights. She sat down beside her and laid a cool, firm hand on Paula’s forehead and another on her stomach, over the baggy jumper. Her hands felt very heavy. Paula froze against the sofa. Magdalena’s eyes were closed. ‘Yes. You have a very deep heart. Your mother – she’s no longer with you?’
    Paula was paralysed under the hand. ‘That’s one way of putting it.’ She tried to hide the quiver in her voice. The whole town knew about Margaret Maguire’s disappearance. It hardly required a psychic gift to recognise who Paula was. The hair was distinctive enough.
    ‘You know, I could see her, maybe, if I had something of hers, something she touched—’
    Paula jerked away. ‘Please. Stop it. ’
    Mrs Croft withdrew. ‘Enough. I can see right into you.’
    ‘Good for you.’ She was quaking.
    ‘I don’t think you really want to lose this baby, do you, Paula?’
    ‘Alek? Of course not, that’s why we’re here. That’s why I’m asking you these questions, so if you could help us and—’
    ‘Not Alek.’ The woman stood up. ‘I mean the one in your belly.’
    A rattle. The door opened, Gerard and the priest coming in with tea