The Lost Read Online Free PDF Page B

glanced at her as he waited correctly at the Market Street box junction, ignoring the hoots of the locals, who interpreted traffic law as loosely as they saw fit.
    She shook her head. ‘I’ve been away twelve years. I don’t follow local news.’
    ‘No?’ He was surprised. Well, he didn’t know she had her reasons.
    The family of Cathy Carr lived on the hill above town, in a street where each house spread itself out for room and the driveways jostled with cars. If Cathy was found, if she came home safe, Paula had no doubt she’d get her own car for her seventeenth birthday.
    Guy slid her in past thecamera crew from a local TV station, which was doing a broadcast on the street outside the house. The blonde reporter flicked her hair at him. ‘Any progress, Inspector?’
    Guy was charming with them. ‘We’re proceeding. We’d like to thank all the press – especially you, Alison – for your sensitivity at this difficult time. Excuse me.’
    Paula cringed behind him. It was a side-effect of the job, sometimes, but she hated seeing herself on TV or in the paper. It brought back too many memories. Guy was leading her up the crushed-gravel path to the front door. Neat lawn, children’s shoes lined up in a rack on the porch. The windows seemed to have been recently cleaned, and through the frosted glass of the door Paula saw the dark shape of a man approach. She smoothed down her shirt as the lock clicked open.
    ‘Inspector.’ Eamonn Carr wore jeans and a golfing jumper, an expensive watch on his wrist. He was going grey at the temples – a handsome man.
    Guy was shaking hands. ‘Good morning, Eamonn. This is Ms Maguire, the psychologist I told you about. Can we have a quick word?’
    He shook her hand in a powerful grip, and gave her a slightly doubtful look. Paula was used to this, and met his gaze full on. ‘Mr Carr. I’m very sorry for what you’re going through.’ She could hear that her accent had already compressed, flattened back to its Ballyterrin tones, shaping itself unconsciously to the landscape.
    He nodded, still watching her. ‘Will you have a cup of tea?’
    ‘Lovely, thanks.’
    A ginger cat shot pastthem as they went in, heading for the safety of upstairs. Despite the damp weather of the past few days, the hardwood floor bore no trace of muddy childish footprints. It reeked of newness – the furniture gleaming, the walls white, even a fresh smell of paint. Paula heard noise from the living room, and as they were led in saw that the huge TV was on, blaring out a daytime programme where people sold stuff from their attics.
    ‘Angela,’ said Eamonn gently. ‘The police are here, love, will we put that off?’
    It took the woman on the sofa a few seconds to react. ‘Oh! I just had it on for the news, in case . . .’ She looked vaguely round for the remote control, until her husband found it and switched off the TV. Silence poured into the room. Irrationally, Paula thought of the playground rhyme: Silence in the courtroom, silence in the street, the biggest mouth in Ireland is just about to speak . . .
    ‘Tea then? Sugar, milk?’ Eamonn Carr took charge as his wife stayed seated, twisting the gold rings on her thin hands. She had on a silk top, expensive jeans, very heavy makeup for a weekday. She looked to be younger than her husband, in her thirties, slim and dark-haired. Paula watched her closely.
    Guy smiled at the woman as they sat down on the stiff leather sofa. ‘The kids at school?’
    ‘Oh.’ Angela Carr seemed to think about this. ‘Yes. Yes, the weans are out.’ Over the fireplace was a large family portrait, Angela sitting with Eamonn behind, and around them five children. An upwardly mobile Catholic clan, nothing strange there.
    ‘This is Cathy?’ Paula got up and examined the face of the eldest child – a dark-haired girl, neatly dressed in a maroon school uniform. Bright smile, concealer caked on a few pimples. ‘She’s at St Bridget’s?’ You had to be tactful,