A Savage Hunger (Paula Maguire 4) by Claire McGowan Page A

just a wee bit. You tell yourself it’ll be grand, she’ll walk in the door any minute. Then she still doesn’t come. I went down to the church, she wasn’t there. I even went over to the Garretts’, though I was far from welcome there. Wanted me to sell a bit of our land, see. On and on at me they were. Course they got it in the end, once Yvonne went. Anyway, the son’s car was outside, but nobody answered. So I came back.’ She took a sip. ‘At first I hoped she’d run off – maybe she’d go and be a nun somewhere else, where nobody knew her. I’d see her in Spain . . . Seville, maybe. We went there once, when she was wee, for Holy Week. All the white hoods and the chanting. She’d have liked that, she loved all the incense and singing in church. It was why she went down there, to Saint Blannad. She loved that place – said the land was sacred. She didn’t like the idea of selling up to the university, wouldn’t let me do it.’ Sip. ‘But now I think someone took her and killed her.’ Another sip. ‘I just hope it was fast.’
    Corry was speaking gently. ‘And Alice – Mrs O’Neill, did it occur to you they might be connected, the two cases?’
    ‘No.’ She looked confused. ‘Alice ran off, did she not? That’s what her friend told me.’
    Corry stopped. Set down the piece of bread in her hand, slow and measured. ‘What friend?’
    ‘The young fella. The boy who called in yesterday. Wanted to know if she’d told me she was going. I said no, but he said she did it all the time, she’d come back.’
    Paula and Corry exchanged a look. And then Corry explained about the blood in the church, and watched as the woman’s face changed, and she shakily set down her cup.
    ‘Mother of God. Jesus, Mary, and Saint Joseph. That poor wean.’
    Corry was on her feet. ‘Sit down there, Mrs O’Neill.’ She pulled a chair for her. ‘I’m sorry we’ve given you a shock.’
    It wasn’t right, Paula thought, pouring out more tea and stirring in sugar. The woman should have her daughter there. Things should be in their proper place. None of this was right.
    ‘Blood,’ Yvonne’s mother said, when she could speak. ‘Do you think someone hurt her, wee Alice? In the same place . . . Mother of God.’
    ‘We don’t know,’ said Corry. ‘It’s true Alice does have a history of running away, but because of the blood, we’re treating it suspiciously. And the relic’s gone too, of course.’
    ‘And you think my Yvonne . . . it’s the same person? Who would it be? There’s nobody round here; we know every man, woman and child on the land.’
    ‘We don’t know. But we’re looking into it. We just wanted to keep you updated.’
    ‘Aye,’ she said, distracted. ‘Aye, aye, look into it, please.’
    ‘Mrs O’Neill?’ Corry clicked open her phone. ‘If you’re feeling all right in a minute, would you look at this picture for me and tell me if it’s the boy who came?’
    She hunted for her glasses, found them on her head, then peered at it. ‘Oh – I don’t think so, no.’
    ‘No?’
    ‘I think he had darker hair.’
    Corry gave Paula a look, then scrolled through. ‘How about this one?’
    More peering. She gripped the phone, holding it away from her. ‘Oh – I think that’s him, yes. He had glasses. Well-spoken.’
    Paula leaned over to see the picture. Dermot Healy.
    Corry put the phone away ‘And – I’m sorry, this is the last question, I promise. Could you tell us if you think you’re missing a photo of Yvonne? One where she’s at her graduation?’
    ‘Well, I don’t know . . . Wait there a minute.’ She left the room shakily, leaning on her stick, and they heard her open the door of the living room. For a moment there was silence. Then she came back. In her old hands she was holding a picture frame. Empty. ‘I don’t understand it. The picture’s always been in there, but I don’t be in that room much these days.’
    ‘Mrs O’Neill . . . I think