The Dead Ground by Claire McGowan Page A

hair round her face.
    Inside Guy’s BMW was calm and warm, compared to the flurry of activity she could see up and down the steps of the building. Yellow coats flashed in the dark, obscured by a new veil of snow, falling like ashes in a nuclear winter and whirled against the car windows by a slicing wind. Tensed like a bow, Paula scrubbed at the patch of window to try to keep track of things. There was the cold blue light and thin wail of an ambulance illuminating the snow, and a rush of bodies. What was going on?
    This was intolerable. Unable to stand the wait, she flung open the door, shielding her face against the onslaught of snow. The wind seemed to tear layers off her skin. At the door of the church, a bundled paramedic emerged with something pressed to their chest, and then sirens kicked up a howl as they raced to the ambulance. Was that Alek? Paula staggered up the steps of the cathedral, past several uniformed officers in huge jackets, unrecognisable beneath their layers. She shouted her name over the wind and hauled back the heavy door into the dark exterior. The sound dropped away.
    In the dark, incense-scented aisle she stopped, suddenly afraid. What would she find? She’d been in all kinds of crime scenes, faced down sociopaths, even been taken hostage. But this. Babies. The soft warm place where the bones didn’t meet. No way to protect yourself.
    She made herself walk towards the altar, where they were rigging up huge lights that made her blink, black spots swimming. The pews and naves were busy with techs and police officers, surely the oddest congregation the place had ever seen. High-vis jackets struck an incongruous note against the old stone. There was Helen Corry, already directing everything with her own brand of ruthless authority. She wore a grey coat with a black fur collar, like Julie Christie in Dr Zhivago . ‘Dr Maguire. We’re hoping you can shed some light on this.’ She looked up at the spot lamps. ‘No joke intended.’
    ‘Where was he?’ She was scanning the altar – tabernacle, candles, advent wreath with one candle lit for the first Sunday in December. Over to the side, a nativity scene with waist-high wooden figures of Mary and Joseph, plus assorted animal companions. It was charming in a primary-school way, and made Paula yearn for something she couldn’t quite name. No baby.
    ‘There.’ Corry pointed. ‘The blankets.’
    ‘In the crib?’
    In the manger, where the Jesus figurine would be placed come Christmas Day, was a pile of white cot blankets, soft waffle knit. The kind with silky edges. The kind you wrap babies up in.
    ‘Taking the place of Our Lord himself,’ said Corry drily. ‘Apparently he’s fine. A wee bit cold but basically OK. He wasn’t here long, they say. The priest only left an hour back.’
    ‘He was exactly where she said,’ Guy said, his hands in the pockets of his long black coat. The snow in his hair made him look older, distinguished.
    ‘Um—’ Paula tried to focus. ‘So putting him in the manger, that could be one of two things. Either thumbing the nose at the police – a mockery sort of thing. Or some kind of delusion. And if he was well treated—’
    ‘Yes,’ said Corry. ‘The paramedics said the baby clothes were fresh, and he’d been given a bath. Nappy new on – also, he didn’t have those blankets when he was taken. Someone’s been looking after him.’
    ‘So that doesn’t really fit.’ Paula circled the altar, trying to get a sense of it. It was very cold inside the church, icy breezes catching you at odd angles, the spire vanishing up into gloom. The faces of the statues shrouded in darkness, the rack of devotional candles guttering in the draught, casting shadows that moved and wavered. She hugged her arms to herself over her coat. ‘Giving the baby back is very unusual. What you’d expect in this kind of case is you’d either hear nothing again – the child would grow up in a new family, or perhaps die, since this