Page 50 of The Trap by Catherine
That Lena was dead.
That Margaret Gold’s supposed source of Garda intel didn’t know what the fuck they were on about, and Lenahadbeen telling the truth.
And that Lena was never going to be able to open her eyes and tell them exactly what she’d seen, exactly what had happened to her, and lead them to where the other women were still, presumably, being kept.
Which answered Lucy’s question.
Shewasgoing to do this.
She didn’t have a choice.
ROGUES
On the drive back to Harcourt Square, Denise had an idea. She’d been looking at historical missing person reports, she told Angela, older than a year, to see if any other missing women might fit the Operation Tide profile. But she hadn’t wanted to risk looking at anything more recent in case it drew attention.
Every search on PULSE was logged, and if a serving member or someone on the civilian staff was found nosing around reports or records they had no official reason to be, they could get hauled in by the superiors and made to explain themselves. You weren’t allowed just to browse for shits and giggles, or because you had suspicions that one of the biggest dedicated operations in recent memory was fatally flawed. But Angela worked in the MPU, Denise pointed out, and they could get Don to OK pretty much anything, so why didn’tshedo a search of all missing persons in the last twelve months and see if there were any more for Denise’s list?
“I have some time now actually,” Denise said, as they turned on to Harcourt Street. “I’ll come up with you and we can go through the reports together. You hop out and break the news to Don, and I’ll follow you once I’ve found somewhere to park this car.”
It was past quitting time for Angela, but she didn’t say so. She wanted to do this. But she’d only just started explaining everything to Don when Denise came running in, face flushed, and said breathlessly, “Do you lot have a TV in here?”
Before either of them could respond, Denise must have remembered that there was one on the wall in the meeting room and hurried in there.
Don and Angela exchanged a glance before they followed her.
Denise was pointing the remote at the dead TV and muttering, “How the hell do you...?”
“What’s going on?” Don said, hoicking up his trousers. “Is it out about Lena?”
Angela frowned at him. “Iswhatout?”
Denise managed to turn the TV on.
“There’s that,” she said, flicking through the channels, “and then there’s a whole other pile of shite on top of that. Fucking Jack Keane. He’s really gone and done it this time. That shiny little Botoxed prick.”
“What’s it made of?” Don asked.
It took Angela a beat to realize he was referring to the aforementioned upper-tier pile of shite.
On the screen now was one of those flashy news studios, the kind that doesn’t actually exist, the type that’s only a giant green screen once you get behind the sofas.
Sitting on one of the sofas was a woman who looked to be in her late twenties. It was clear that she’d dressed herself and that someone else had done her hair and make-up; there was a total mismatch between the plain, casual, ill-fitting clothes and the furniture-polish-shiny hair, unnaturally tight curls, and heavy make-up.
She looked vaguely familiar to Angela but she couldn’t place her.
At that moment, a chyron helpfully appeared at the bottom of the screen informing viewers that this wasLucy O’Sullivan, sister of Missing Nicki.
Angela didn’t immediately understand what the problem was. The families of the missing women talked to the press all the time. She hadn’t seen Lucy O’Sullivan do it before, but why were both Don and Denise watching the screen, tensed like a bomb was about to go off?
Then Denise figured out how to turn the volume up.
“—understand why this hasn’t been made public,” came Lucy O’Sullivan’s voice, booming around the room. “But the families should’ve been told. Now it’s out there anyway and some of us are learning it from the news. That’s just not good enough. It’s very upsetting. And what aboutLena?’s family? Was this kept from them, too? Like I said, I understand that sometimes these kinds of measures have to be taken. But if you’re going to keep something secret, you’d better ensure it actually is that. I heard it’s been all over Twitter for more than a day, if you knew where to look.”
“What has?” Angela asked, but Don just shushed her.
The screen changed to a wide shot which revealed a blonde woman, the anchor, sitting on the couch opposite, holding an iPad and nodding thoughtfully. Her hair was even shinier than Lucy’s but poker straight and seemingly frozen in place.
“And before this,” she said, “would you say the families were happy with the way the investigation was being conducted?”
