Silent as the Dead

by Scott Hunter

  ‘Looks like I rushed for nothin’’, he said softy. ‘Come here, my lovely. It’s all right now.’ His arms opened and she fell into them gratefully, sobbing like a small child.

  Moran fired up the dinghy’s engine which started – gratifyingly and rather surprisingly – on the first turn. He gave O’Shea a mental nod of appreciation and fixed a course toward the dark shape of Great Blasket. The weather, thank God, was calm and looked likely to remain so – at least for as long as he hoped it’d take to get to the island.

  Two hundred metres from the mainland he tried to recall O’Shea’s hasty instructions. ‘All three initial fixes are set on the alignment of 015° T – or 195° T southbound – of the site of the old tower on Sybil Point and Clogher Rock, off Clogher Head, Brendan. This’ll lead you through Blasket Sound – the An Tra Ban initial fix gives a good point to break off for the anchorage off the beach. Have you got that? You’ve sailed a bit before, I’m hopin’?’ The answer to that question was a cautious ‘yes’, but his sailing experiences were a long time ago. He took heart that the beach, if he got that far, would at least be recognisable.

  He glanced anxiously at the compass. Despite the favourable conditions, the small craft was still being buffeted about more than he’d expected; he’d forgotten how exposed the open sea could make you feel when all you had between you and a watery end was a thin layer of plastic, aluminium and rubber. He tried not to think of the Armada, who’d found themselves literally all at sea among the Blaskets’ rocky hazards. Two had miraculously got through; others hadn’t fared so well, running aground on the hidden rocks known locally as Stromboli and Scollage.

  To the north, An Fear Marbh, the Sleeping Giant, northernmost island of the Blaskets, was a low shadow on the grey water. Moran glanced at the waterproof map, checked the compass again. His bearing was good. Visibility was good – a blessing given the notorious sea mists which often made the Blaskets invisible from the mainland. Once in the sound the sea would be less choppy and it would be a relatively easy steer into An Tra Ban and a beach landing.

  But what would be waiting when he got there? What was Black planning?

  He’d know that Moran would follow. He’d be ready. Moran felt a bigger wash on the port side of the dinghy. For a moment he thought he’d imagined it, but there it was again; a grey shape just beneath the surface. His heart leapt. A shark? Surely not in these latitudes?

  He looked again and grinned with relief. A dolphin had joined him on the crossing. It skipped along in front, maintaining a distance, then sank out of sight before reappearing on the starboard side. It repeated this trick twice before turning on its back and waggling its flippers. A good omen.

  Thanks, my friend, I needed that…

  The dolphin seemed to know where he was headed, diving and plunging along, zig-zagging towards the long mound of Great Blasket. Moran kept his hand firmly on the tiller and followed his new guide until the waves quietened and the dinghy settled into the calmer water of the sound.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Charlie nodded to Keelan’s brief, a businesslike black girl with designer spectacles and expensive taste in suits. The nod back gave nothing away. She’d be good, this one.

  Just my luck.

  Preliminaries and formalities attended to, Charlie went for the jugular.

  ‘Mr Keelan. We have a gun. We have your prints on the bullets. The weapon was used to kill a white male, aged thirty to thirty-eight-ish, in a town basement flat yesterday evening. Who was that man?’

  ‘I dunno.’

  ‘Come on, Mr Keelan. We’ll get an ID very soon anyway. It’ll go a lot better for you if you co-operate. You know how this works.’

  ‘Can I smoke?’

  ‘No.’

  A short consultation with the brief – low voices, exchanged whispers.

  Keelan moistened his lips. ‘It’s my gun, right enough, but I lent it to Caitlin.’

  ‘And why would you do that?’

  ‘She was worried about her safety. In her new apartment.’

  ‘And why would she be worried?’

  Keelan made a non-committal gesture. ‘Women, you know. They worry.’

  ‘Do they? What about?’

  ‘Stuff. Being on their own.’

  ‘I don’t keep a handgun in my house.’

  ‘Maybe you should,’ Keelan sneered. ‘Maybe you’d better watch your back.’

  ‘Are you threatening me, Mr Keelan? I suggest you retract that last statement.’

  A stern look from the brief led to another whispered consultation.

  Keelan sat back in his chair, reluctantly repentant. ‘I retract that last statement.’

  ‘Good. In which case, I’ll overlook it. Whatever happens, Mr Keelan, you’re very likely to go to prison. I’ve unearthed a little previous to help that on its way.’ She hadn’t. There would be previous, no doubt, but none had been easily discoverable in this timeframe. ‘So, my strong advice to you would be to cooperate. I’m sure your brief, Miss–?’

  ‘Ilo.’ The voice was soft, cultured.

  ‘–Miss Ilo, will be in complete agreement with me on this.’

  Another low exchange.

  Charlie waited, tapped her biro on the formica. Too slow. Push, push, push…

  ‘Miss Hannigan is going to be released soon, Mr Keelan. She doesn’t seem to mind what happens to you.’

  A fierce stare of denial. ‘That’s bullshit.’

  ‘I don’t think so. Her prints don’t show up anywhere. It’s her word against ours as to what happened in the basement flat last night.’

  ‘She’s lying. She shot him. She told me.’

  ‘Really?’ Charlie affected nonchalance. ‘That’s not what she told us.’ She let her words hang provocatively in the empty air between them.

  ‘I haven’t done nothin’. It’s all her. She’s done the lot.’

  ‘What has she done, Brian? Let’s get it sorted, shall we?’ Charlie spoke softly, sensing an opportunity. She sat back and watched Keelan wrestle with his fear, facial muscles twitching. She held herself in check.

  Keelan grimaced. ‘Sure, I was only to make sure she was up for it, you know. Push her a bit. Her family, they’ve got the history. But she came over here. And he didn’t know where her head was these days. Y’know, if she cared anymore – about home, about Ireland. But he wanted her to be a part of something. When the time was right.’

  ‘Sean Black? Is that who you mean?’

  A reluctant nod.

  ‘Good. Now, what was the deal, Brian? What did Caitlin have to do?’

  ‘Electronics, it is.’ Keelan took a swig of water from his polystyrene cup, wiped his mouth. ‘She’s a bloody whiz kid. And he knew that.’

  ‘What did she do, Brian?’

  Keelan looked Charlie directly in the eye. ‘You’ll get me off? You’ll make it easy?’

  ‘I promise I’ll do my very best. Now…’ Charlie tilted her head to one side, widened her eyes a little.

  ‘It’s a bomb.’

  Charlie went cold. ‘Where?’

  ‘She didn’t tell me, did she? Black told her to keep it tight. Need to know basis an’ all that.’

  An image of a sleek, black limo, purring its way along the M4, filled Charlie’s head. Destination, Royal Berkshire Hospital.

  ‘She must have confided in someone, Brian. She wouldn’t have planted an explosive device on her own, would she? Was there an accomplice? If not you, then who? The gunman?’

  ‘I don’t know. About him. She never told me his name.’

  ‘Oh, come on.’

  ‘She never said.’

  ‘Brian. I’m giving you a chance to make life easier for yourself.’

  Keelan’s mouth twitched. His fingers gripped the cup tightly.

  ‘You and Caitlin – you’re an item, right?’

  A dismissive snort. ‘Supposedly. She’d never stitch me up, anyhow.’

  ‘Don’t be so sure.’

  A knock. George’s hea
d appeared round the door. ‘Boss?’

  Charlie paused the recording. ‘I’ll give you a minute to think things through.’

  George was in the corridor, gnawing impatiently at his finger. ‘I can’t get hold of the guv.’

  ‘Still?’

  ‘Going to voicemail.’

  ‘Gunman ID?’

  ‘Still checking. We have a possible.’

  ‘I want definites, not possibles.’ She read George’s expression. ‘What else, George?’

  ‘The Duchess. She’s ahead of schedule.’

  Charlie’s world froze. ‘By how long?’

  ‘Twenty minutes or so. She’s due to hit Reading in around–’ George examined his phone, ‘–thirty minutes.’

  ‘It’s a low-profile visit,’ Detective Chief Superintendent Sally Gilmore spoke quietly, reasonably. ‘We have everything covered. All is well, DI Pepper. Please be assured.’

  ‘The route,’ Charlie pressed. ‘Which way is she coming in?’

  ‘Well, there’s only one way from London – via the M4, Cemetery Junction, left into Craven Road.’

  ‘She’s not using the multi-storey, surely?’

  ‘No,’ Gilmore replied with exaggerated patience. ‘She’ll enter the hospital via the main entrance. Her car has been allocated a reserved space right outside. The public have been diverted to the old London Road frontage for the day. I have resources covering Craven Road at both ends even as we speak.’

  ‘But the roadworks? Surely they’re smack in the way?’

  ‘Thames Water have cleared the site. They’re done.’

  ‘Since when? They’ve been there for weeks.’

  ‘Since I told them to. Actually the work was completed a few weeks ago. They’ve been short-staffed. It was simply a question of removing the walkway, traffic control, cones and so on. They finished everything off last night. By midnight, as I mandated.’

  Mandated. Talk about smug. ‘You’re one hundred percent on this?’

  ‘I’ll ignore that, DI Pepper. I understand your concern. But do, please, remember who you’re talking to.’

  ‘Oh, I will. You can be sure of that, Ma’am.’

  A pause. Then, ‘Let me be quite clear, DI Pepper. Leave this to us. Understood?’ Gilmore spaced the words out for extra emphasis.

  ‘Ma’am.’ Charlie stabbed the red button to kill the call.

  The clock on her wall read twenty-five to three. Charlie sat on the edge of her desk, ruffled her hair with an impatient gesture. In her mind’s eye she saw the limo pause at the police filter at Craven Road. The duty officer would smile, perhaps nod to the Duchess, wave them through. A few hundred metres, indicate right. Pull up by the main entrance. Waiting there, the reception: hospital management, senior medical staff, shuffling feet nervously in anticipation. A little banter, perhaps, a few in-jokes. ‘She’s charming.’ Or ‘Nothing to worry about. She’s lovely, you’ll see.’

  I have resources covering Craven Road at both ends …

  But none along the road itself. Charlie would have deployed a team at intervals, probably in some of the medical units on the left-hand side, one or two outside the entrance. But who knew what or whom Gilmore had seen fit to deploy? Charlie bit her lip fiercely. Time for one last crack at Keelan? Why not. But Charlie believed the guy; he only knew what he had to know. Caitlin was the one with the answers, and she wasn’t budging. Only Moran could provide the key to unlock Caitlin’s silence.

  Charlie made a fist and banged the desk hard.

  Guv, where are you when I need you?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  ‘Boss. Update.’

  ‘Make it good, whatever it is, George.’

  ‘Gunman’s name was Niall Briggs. Lot of history – dodgy, most of it – in the extended family. Irish. Been working over here for a couple of years. Last employer, Thames Water.’

  Thames Water.

  Charlie swallowed hard. ‘George. The roadworks.’

  George’s face blanked, and then, as realisation set in, reddened in horror. ‘Outside the RBH? I’m on it–’ He made as if to leave but Charlie stopped him with a look.

  ‘No time, George.’

  ‘The uniforms–’

  ‘At each end of Craven Road. Sealed off, Gilmore said.’

  ‘But she must have people nearby? I mean, trained guys who–’

  ‘Who’ll do what? Look for something to shoot at? There isn’t going to be anything to shoot at, George.’ Charlie’s fingers were dancing over her iPhone. No choice, as usual. None. But she’d promised herself … no, not possible. Too much at stake.

  Bola was at the door. ‘Eyeball on the London Road traffic cam, boss. She’s just been waved through. It’s not a limo either, it’s a Beamer. Inconspicuous I suppose–’

  ‘Just an ordinary girl. Only she’s not.’ Pick up, Tess, pick up. George was hovering, dithering. ‘Get in there with Caitlin, Bola. Tell her anything. She can’t let this happen.’

  ‘She might not be able to stop it, Boss.’

  ‘I don’t care. Just try.’

  Bola followed George out casting a backward, rather hostile, glance at Charlie as he went. What was all that about? Never mind. Later. Pick up, Tess…

  ‘Tess Martin.’

  ‘Tess? Oh, thank God. Listen. Where are you?’

  ‘Just outside the hospital, why? It’s all happening here, I can tell you. The Duchess of Cambridge? She’s opening the new orthopaedic wing–’

  ‘–Tess, listen to me–’

  ‘There’s a right old reception committee – hang on, I can see the car–’

  ‘Tess, listen, I have to ask you to do this. I’m so sorry.’

  George McConnell was standing in the empty interview room. ‘How?’ he hissed to no one in particular. ‘How–?’ he repeated, as if repetition could reverse the situation. Where the hell was Bola?

  Don’t jump to conclusions, George…

  Next stop: duty sergeant. Maybe it wasn’t too late; maybe she hadn’t left the building. Maybe she’d gone to the toilet.

  Denis Robinson was on duty, as always. An affable man close to retirement, Denis’ organisational and administrative skills had attained legendary status throughout Thames Valley. Never known to pass up the opportunity for a chat, Denis was well-liked but usually avoided at times of crisis when his meticulous record-keeping and penchant for labouring a point could become counter-productive. As he raced down the stairs George planned his approach. Simple, direct questions worked best.

  Luck was with him. Denis was stirring a mug of tea at his desk and one of the juniors was working reception.

  ‘Denis. Young girl, late twenties. Shoulder-length reddish-blonde hair. Caitlin Hannigan. Any sign?’

  Denis looked up from his task. ‘Ah. Young George. Tea?’

  ‘Bit of an urgent one, Denis.’

  The spoon was replaced carefully in its saucer. ‘Hannigan, Hannigan.’ Denis went to his log book and his broad forefinger travelled down the page. George watched its snail-like progress with a sinking heart.

  ‘You must remember her, Denis? Striking girl. Brought in earlier for questioning regarding the Eldon Square incident.’

  Denis’ finger paused on its journey. The sergeant tilted his head to one side, frowned. ‘I believe I do, George, now you mention it.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘We have a lot of people come through. It’s been like Piccadilly Circus today. Give us a moment.’ The finger resumed its line-by-line examination.

  ‘I mean, has she been signed out?’ George bit his knuckle, waited.

  ‘Patience.’

  George held his tongue. The reception area was half-full. A grey-haired lady in a floral dress was giving the PC at the window a hard time. As far as George could tell it was something to do with motorbikes and late nights, suburban teenage angst and her husband’s escalating blood pressure. George undid his top button; it was uncomfortably warm in Denis’ orderly domain. By the gods, he could murder a drink. One wouldn’
t do any harm, would it?

  ‘Here we are.’

  George peered over Denis’ shoulder at the rows of beautifully-crafted copybook handwriting, an art form which would disappear forever from the record books come the sergeant’s retirement.

  ‘Hannigan, C.’ Denis tapped his entry and glanced at his watch. ‘Fifteen minutes ago.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ George said. ‘She just came down and asked to leave?’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ Denis said. ‘She was with your buddy, the big fella. It all looked pukka. Just popping out to her car, your fella said. Hang on, that’s odd; they said they were coming straight back.’ Denis’ finger resumed its line-by-line inspection. ‘Nope, they’ve not booked in again as far as I can see … wait a sec – where are you off to?’

  ‘Run it,’ Charlie said. George pressed play and the DVD player obligingly showed the interior of Caitlin Hannigan’s recently vacated interview room. In the heat of the current activity, they’d forgotten to switch the machine off during interview breaks. Good news for them, bad news for DC Bola Odunsi.

  ‘Just need a private word,’ Caitlin-on-screen said to her brief.

  ‘Understood.’

  Exit brief.

  ‘I need to make a call, DC Odunsi. I left my phone in the car.’

  ‘Sorry, no can do.’

  Caitlin opened her handbag, produced a sheaf of glossy prints, spread them on the table. ‘Shall I run these past DI Pepper?’

  Bola looked at each in turn, shook his head slowly. Not much left to the imagination. ‘You wouldn’t.’

  ‘If I have to. Now, can we pop to the car park, please? You can accompany me, of course.’

  They watched as Bola wavered. It was uncomfortable to watch.

  Caitlin-on-screen arched an eyebrow. ‘Shall we?’

  Caitlin and Bola stood up together, left the room without a glance at the camera.

  George clicked the off button. ‘I could say something rude at this point.’

  ‘Save it, George. Get the car. Back door, under a minute – quicker if you can.’