follow the football. None of them spoke to Paula. She’d do her reports, but she wanted to look into this Mission herself too. Anne-Marie had said it was on Flood Street, near the hospital. Who would know about it? She lifted the receiver of her desk phone.
It rang a few times, and when she picked it up Pat was breathless, music in the background. ‘Ballyterrin 44520!’
Paula had a jolt; her mother had drummed it into her to answer the phone this way. It was rude to say ‘hello’, apparently. ‘Pat, it’s Paula.’
‘Ah, hello, pet. Just doing my aerobics. On my own today, what with your daddy’s leg.’
‘He does aerobics with you?’
‘Oh aye. We like that Davina McCall best.’
‘OK. Eh . . . right. Justwanted to ask, since you’re doing that history project, do you by any chance know about some youth mission that’s in town?’
‘The Mission? Of course, pet. It opened up in the summer, Flood Street, and all the young ones are off to it. You know wee Sarah that lives next door, she went down a few times and—’
‘Eh, Pat? Do you know where on Flood Street? A big building, I’d have thought.’
‘It’s in the old home, pet.’
Bingo. ‘A children’s home?’
‘No, no. You’d call it a Magdalene home, I suppose.’ Pat lowered her voice fastidiously. ‘For girls that got in trouble, you know. They had their weans and gave them up for adoption. Safe Harbour was the name, there was a whole chain of them.’
‘And when did it close – I suppose years back?’
‘No no, it was open till the eighties.’
‘No way!’ How had she never heard of this before?
‘It’ll all be in my project. It’s very interesting. You see . . .’ Oh dear. Once started on the topic of local history, Pat couldn’t be stopped.
‘Sorry, Pat, you’ll have to tell me all about it one time. I need to run now.’
‘When are you calling in for your tea? Aidan said he saw you at the school.’
‘Yeah, he did.’ What expurgated version of the meeting had he told his mammy? ‘Bye so, Pat. Take care!’
The website took forever to load on the clunky computer. She sighed and tapped her pen as it came through. THE MISSION, it said, in big letters. There were stock photos of smiling teens, and a large image of a cross. The few other pages had waffle about spreading God’s word to the community through song and prayer. It was hard to work out who was behind the parent company. They had offices everywhere: London, America, red dots all over the map of the globe marking the Mission offices. Paula couldn’t help thinking of her own red spots, representing missing people. One dot hovered over Ballyterrin, so she clicked it. Just the address on Flood Street, nothing else. Site of the old fallen-girls home. Who would run a place called Safe Harbour?
But this wasn’ther job. Recalling the bollocking she’d got for investigating Kaylee Morris, she went to Guy’s office, glass-fronted with slatted blinds.
‘Inspector.’ Guy was sitting at his desk staring at some papers in front of him. ‘Quick question?’
He seemed dazed. ‘Oh . . . sorry.’
‘About this Mission thing, for whoever looks into it.’ She showed him the printed-out screen. ‘I found out a few more things about it.’
He nodded slowly. ‘I’ll pass it on to Gerard. They’re very stretched up there though, with the DCI being off.’
‘Are you OK?’ Because he didn’t look it. His skin was the colour of the plasterboard walls.
‘Yes.’ He sighed. ‘Just got a package.’
She looked at his desk and saw it was covered in photos, slipping and sliding all over – all of the boy from the desk picture, the one with gap teeth.
‘My wife sent it. My soon-to-be ex-wife, I gather.’
‘Oh. You mean—’
‘She wants a divorce, or so she tells me.’
‘I’m sorry.’
He ran his hands through his hair. He was still wearing his wedding ring. ‘I’m sorry too, Paula. Just struggling a bit. You can see we’re under a lot of
It rang a few times, and when she picked it up Pat was breathless, music in the background. ‘Ballyterrin 44520!’
Paula had a jolt; her mother had drummed it into her to answer the phone this way. It was rude to say ‘hello’, apparently. ‘Pat, it’s Paula.’
‘Ah, hello, pet. Just doing my aerobics. On my own today, what with your daddy’s leg.’
‘He does aerobics with you?’
‘Oh aye. We like that Davina McCall best.’
‘OK. Eh . . . right. Justwanted to ask, since you’re doing that history project, do you by any chance know about some youth mission that’s in town?’
‘The Mission? Of course, pet. It opened up in the summer, Flood Street, and all the young ones are off to it. You know wee Sarah that lives next door, she went down a few times and—’
‘Eh, Pat? Do you know where on Flood Street? A big building, I’d have thought.’
‘It’s in the old home, pet.’
Bingo. ‘A children’s home?’
‘No, no. You’d call it a Magdalene home, I suppose.’ Pat lowered her voice fastidiously. ‘For girls that got in trouble, you know. They had their weans and gave them up for adoption. Safe Harbour was the name, there was a whole chain of them.’
‘And when did it close – I suppose years back?’
‘No no, it was open till the eighties.’
‘No way!’ How had she never heard of this before?
‘It’ll all be in my project. It’s very interesting. You see . . .’ Oh dear. Once started on the topic of local history, Pat couldn’t be stopped.
‘Sorry, Pat, you’ll have to tell me all about it one time. I need to run now.’
‘When are you calling in for your tea? Aidan said he saw you at the school.’
‘Yeah, he did.’ What expurgated version of the meeting had he told his mammy? ‘Bye so, Pat. Take care!’
The website took forever to load on the clunky computer. She sighed and tapped her pen as it came through. THE MISSION, it said, in big letters. There were stock photos of smiling teens, and a large image of a cross. The few other pages had waffle about spreading God’s word to the community through song and prayer. It was hard to work out who was behind the parent company. They had offices everywhere: London, America, red dots all over the map of the globe marking the Mission offices. Paula couldn’t help thinking of her own red spots, representing missing people. One dot hovered over Ballyterrin, so she clicked it. Just the address on Flood Street, nothing else. Site of the old fallen-girls home. Who would run a place called Safe Harbour?
But this wasn’ther job. Recalling the bollocking she’d got for investigating Kaylee Morris, she went to Guy’s office, glass-fronted with slatted blinds.
‘Inspector.’ Guy was sitting at his desk staring at some papers in front of him. ‘Quick question?’
He seemed dazed. ‘Oh . . . sorry.’
‘About this Mission thing, for whoever looks into it.’ She showed him the printed-out screen. ‘I found out a few more things about it.’
He nodded slowly. ‘I’ll pass it on to Gerard. They’re very stretched up there though, with the DCI being off.’
‘Are you OK?’ Because he didn’t look it. His skin was the colour of the plasterboard walls.
‘Yes.’ He sighed. ‘Just got a package.’
She looked at his desk and saw it was covered in photos, slipping and sliding all over – all of the boy from the desk picture, the one with gap teeth.
‘My wife sent it. My soon-to-be ex-wife, I gather.’
‘Oh. You mean—’
‘She wants a divorce, or so she tells me.’
‘I’m sorry.’
He ran his hands through his hair. He was still wearing his wedding ring. ‘I’m sorry too, Paula. Just struggling a bit. You can see we’re under a lot of
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