He sat down, exhaling a long breath. On screen he double-clicked a folder called ‘Rosscarbery Bay’ and shook his head on seeing the mass of subfolders inside. This was what he had been avoiding when the Begley thing came up: preparing for a Joint Task Force meeting on what should have been by far the biggest anti-trafficking success of the year – the seizure of almost a tonne of cocaine on a yacht off the southwest coast of Cork. Yet it was proving one of the most frustrating investigations he’d ever worked on, not least because both the Garda Siochana and the government were getting a regular pasting in the press for not having sewn it up.
He heard a noise in the outer office and looked up. Aisling Sweeney was back at her desk and he called her. She turned, waved and pointed at the mobile phone she was holding to her ear, then at his computer, mouthing the word ‘email’ at him, before turning away again to speak to her caller.
In his email queue he saw a message from her – ‘Thought this might help you catch up’ – with a document attached called ‘Rosscarbery Bay: Summary.’
Mulcahy’s heart lifted. Sweeney had a gift for concision, and as he opened and read through the document, he was momentarily lost in admiration at how she had covered, in just a few brief paragraphs, all the salient points quickly and efficiently. In early June, an ocean-going yacht, the Atlantean, had been spotted rolling in the swell, smoke belching from her engine, a mile off the coast of West Cork outside Rosscarbery Bay, by the Irish Navy’s patrol vessel LE Niamh. Thinking the Atlantean might be in distress, the skipper of the Niamh had changed course, approached and hailed, only to see the Atlantean’s crew immediately abandon ship and speed off past the Galley Head lighthouse on a powerful rib that had been tied up, unseen, on her starboard bow. Forced to secure the yacht rather than pursue the rib, the navy made the most spectacular discovery of the drug-enforcement year: ninety ten-kilo bales of cocaine stowed in the living quarters, street value in excess of €100 million.
It was a terrific coup, which had kept the media bubbling over for days, but a major disappointment, too, as the massive Garda manhunt launched to find the smugglers was an abject failure, and the subsequent investigation had completely stalled due to the lack of any evidence aboard the Atlantean as to who was behind the smuggling operation. Even the yacht’s GPS navigation system had been taken by the fleeing crew, meaning investigators couldn’t so much as say for sure where she had come from. Or rather, they hadn’t been able to until Mulcahy received some tantalising intelligence from a colleague in the Dutch police force just a few days previously.
He heard a cough and looked up. Sweeney was standing in the doorway, head and hip cocked as she leant her shoulder against the frame. In her late twenties, she was five seven or so, and slightly built, her tawny hair framing a narrow face dominated by big, intelligent green eyes. The first time he’d met her, Mulcahy thought she could be stunning if she wanted to be, but got the impression that she most definitely didn’t. Which wasn’t so unusual among women cops. He hadn’t really thought about it since. As with Duffy, he was more interested in her other talents – IT and languages.
‘Liam not come back with you?’ she asked.
‘No, I let him off the leash for the evening.’
‘Lock-up-your-daughters night, is it?’ she smiled. ‘I think I’ll be staying in. Not worth the risk, being out there with him on the streets.’
Mulcahy laughed. ‘Thanks for doing that background paper. It’s great. Would’ve taken me hours.’
She smiled again and nodded. ‘Make any amendments you want, and when you’re happy, just press “send” and it’ll be cc’d to everyone on the list.’
‘Great. Thanks,’ Mulcahy said.
‘Got an interesting lead on that while you were out.’ She hesitated. ‘Well, not a lead exactly, not like your Dutch thing, but interesting.’
Mulcahy sat back in his chair. ‘Go on.’
‘The Bundespolizei in Heidelberg, their liaison passed it on. Some local German woman was watching a TV doc on drugs last night. Her ears pricked up at a mention of Rosscarbery. Turns out she rented a holiday cottage there the first week in June, knew nothing about the seizure until now, but says the night before she left – i.e. our night – she saw a Land Rover towing an empty trailer down to the pier at about ten in the evening.’
That was interesting. Much of southwest Cork’s jagged coastline was a smuggler’s paradise, packed with isolated coves and rarely used piers. Rosscarbery was especially tempting for the smuggler, a wide, easily navigated bay offering a choice of gently shelving beach on one side or a solid pier and slipway on the other. Most importantly, both had good roads down to them and were at least a mile away from the village and prying eyes. Any evidence they could get to pinpoint where the gang had intended landing the drugs could help build a case against them should any arrests be made further down the line.
‘They must get a fair few cars going down there, for fishing and that,’ Mulcahy said. ‘Why would she take any notice?’
‘I’m not sure. The Bundespolizei guy didn’t go into that much detail, but apparently the woman did say that the fella driving had trouble negotiating the trailer round one of the bends, so she guessed he probably wasn’t local. And it was getting dark, so she just thought it was weird. Then, about three hours later, she saw it coming back again. Trailer still empty and going at a hell of a clip, in the dark. Made her think of the Drugs Watch signs down on the road.’
Mulcahy tutted. ‘And it took her how long to phone?’
‘Well, to be fair, boss—’
‘I’m not being serious,’ he said. ‘We’re lucky to get anything new at this stage. I don’t suppose we can hope for details – number plate, anything like that?’
‘No, nothing like that.’ Sweeney smiled. ‘But I thought I could maybe give her a call myself, see if I can dig anything else out of her.’
‘Absolutely.’ He was sure that if anyone could, Sweeney could. ‘But tomorrow, yeah? You might as well get off now.’
Sweeney nodded and turned to go. He looked on a moment while she switched off her computer and began gathering her belongings. Soon his attention turned back to his screen and the report, and what she had written about the new Dutch lead he had unearthed. It was one of the few real breaks the investigation had had in months. An information request sent out via Europol had turned up intel that a yacht identical to the Atlantean, but sailing under a different name, had put in for repairs at a boatyard in southern Holland and had vanished four nights prior to the Rosscarbery Bay seizure. From what he’d seen, and given the timings, there was a more than strong chance that she was the Atlantean. The question now was, did the smugglers take the drugs on board there, or had they been en route from elsewhere? A trio of detectives from the main investigation team in Cork were flying out to follow up, with Mulcahy’s contacts smoothing the way with the Dutch, who, like most police, resisted letting outsiders onto their precious patch for fear of being shown up.
He made a few minor refinements to Sweeney’s document and circulated it to all the attendees. Then he opened a new document, this one for his eyes only, and began making notes for his presentation, suggestions as to paths the investigation might take now, others relating to the worrying prospect of a new trafficking route opening up between mainland Europe and Ireland. It was a good hour and a half before he looked up again. Sweeney was long gone. Most of the lights in the office outside were off, just a few blooms of illumination here and there above the ranks of filing cabinets, shelves and storage units that divided up each individual GNDU fiefdom.
Peaceful, quiet, he felt a yawn begin to grow in his chest and sat up and stretched, determined to concentrate, but his mobile phone rang, shattering the silence. He grabbed it, thinking it must be Eddie McTiernan getting back to him, but it was Orla’s caller ID that flashed up. Probably checking that he was still on for dinner. She’d been doing that ever since he’d left her waiting in restaurants twice running, when he’d been delayed on urgent
jobs. He thought about letting her go through to voicemail, putting in another half-hour, but his eye wandered to the clock on the phone screen. That would probably be stretching it.
She knew in her heart it was stupid, that it verged on the downright crazy, but Siobhan spent the whole of the taxi ride home to Ballsbridge fretting, convincing herself that Cillian O’Gorman had turned Paddy Griffin against her and that he was just one step away from ousting her from her job at the Sunday Herald. By the time she was upstairs at the door of her apartment, the rush of paranoia had peaked. Hands shaking, head numb with anxiety, she felt tears brimming on her eyelids as she fumbled to get the key in the lock and blinked rapidly to get rid of them. No way would she give in to that.
She shoved the door shut behind her and leant back against it, folding her arms and digging her chin into her chest, squeezing her eyes shut, taking in bigger and bigger gulps of air until she felt her head clear a little, the pressure in her temples ease, and her eyes become ready for the light again. Looking down the corridor towards the comfortingly familiar chaos in her living room, she felt a flood of relief run through her. A picture of Griffin came to her as he’d been in the office: eyes red-rimmed and rheumy from laughing, the smell of stout on his breath. He’d been half pissed, she reasoned to herself. Maybe in a bad mood to begin with. He probably didn’t mean half of what he’d said. For as long as she’d known him he had been nothing other than a good boss and better friend to her. Why would he change now?
In the living room, she pushed aside a pile of magazines on the sofa, sat down and started thinking it through, forcing herself to be rational. Looking back over the past few weeks, maybe Griffin did have reason to be annoyed. She had been grabbing at work, she realised. Throughout her career she’d always been keen, but never desperate. And perhaps she had been questioning his judgement a lot, but she’d always done that. It was one of the reasons he was fond of her: she challenged him. But had she been more arsey than usual, lately? She couldn’t see it, but felt a flush on her cheeks as she realised she hadn’t had a proper chat with Griffin in weeks, and knew nothing about what was going on with him that might be affecting his mood at work. That was bad, when they’d always been close. But was he at fault for it, or her?
She went to the fridge, took a gulp of chilled still water to try and quell the anxiety firing up inside her again. She was going to have to sort things out with Griffin. In the short term, that meant not pushing against him. He was the most stubborn person she’d ever met, apart from herself, and though she could often wrap him round her little finger, once he’d made a firm decision he rarely went back on it. Even so, the thought of spending another week at home, doing nothing, was out of the question. She had to stay busy working to keep the churning in her mind at bay. The only way she’d got through the past year was by writing her book, writing that evil bastard Rinn out of her system and onto the page.
Could she maybe kill two birds with one stone? She picked up her bag and went to the dining table by the window overlooking the gardens. She cleared a space amid the books and papers and bits of clothing strewn upon it and opened her laptop. Her head was buzzing again with thoughts of Gemma Kearney. That was the story she wanted to follow up, and if Griffin wouldn’t let her work from the office, then she’d damn well do it from home.
She quickly scanned her notes to see what might be her next move. Cathy Barrett, the young mother who’d expressed such hatred for Gemma over the phone, was an obvious place to start. And tracking down that assistant, or anyone who could tell her about Gemma’s accountancy practice in Cork, wouldn’t hurt. But going back to the beginning of the story might yield more in terms of a story. To Cormac Horgan. What could possibly have happened to Gemma if she really had been with him in Bristol? Actually, Bristol might well be the best place to start. She called up the contact details for the police in England, the ones she’d dealt with when Horgan’s body was found. She checked her watch. It was a bit late, but the cop had given her a mobile number; she might as well try it.
‘Hi. Is that Sergeant Walker?’
‘Yes, that’s me.’
She remembered the voice now, open, friendly, unlike most of the cops she spoke to. Maybe they bred them differently in England. Maybe it was just the fact that she was dealing with a woman.
‘It’s Siobhan Fallon, from the Sunday Herald here in Ireland. We spoke a couple of weeks ago regarding—’
‘About Mr Horgan. Yes, of course, I remember. How can I help?’
That was very promising. ‘Well, I was wondering – you said there were some loose ends to be tied up, like where he was staying and all that. Did you ever figure that stuff out?’
‘You must be psychic,’ Sergeant Walker laughed. ‘We actually made some progress on that today. We located Mr Horgan’s car over near the bridge.’
‘His car? I thought he’d taken a flight to Bristol.’
‘It was a hire car. He left it parked in a side street near the suspension bridge. It’s been there a while, obviously, but was only reported to us by an irate resident yesterday. There were some of Mr Horgan’s belongings in it. I was just about to inform his family and arrange to have the items forwarded. There was some documentation, too.’
‘Anything important?’ Siobhan jumped in. ‘A suicide note or something?’
‘No, nothing like that. Other things – tickets, hotel and restaurant receipts, an overnight bag. They might help build a picture of his movements before he jumped, but I haven’t had a chance to go through them in detail yet.’
Walker was being remarkably open for a cop, but the case was pretty much wrapped up as far as she was concerned. Siobhan wondered if what she was going to say next would change all that.
‘Was there any indication he might not have been alone?’
‘No, not that I saw.’ Walker sounded surprised. ‘Why?’
‘I just spoke to a lady here today who says Horgan was in Bristol with a girlfriend, an Irish girl, called Gemma, who’s gone missing. It came as a shock to me because I thought I’d looked into the circumstances of his death pretty thoroughly.’
‘You say her name was Gemma?’ Walker asked, but not with any sense of recognition.
‘Yeah, Gemma Kearney.’
‘I don’t remember seeing anything, certainly not in the car, but I can check for you when I’m going through the items tomorrow, if you like.’
‘That would be great, thanks.’ Suddenly a jolt of possibility hit Siobhan. It was a good friend, that feeling, and for the first time in months she felt the dead hand of anxiety release its grip and something else come to life inside her: the old familiar ache, the thirst, the longing for a story. She didn’t even think about it, just knew she was going to dive straight in.
‘Look, Sergeant, I know this probably sounds mad, but if I were to come over to Bristol tomorrow, would you have time to show me what you’ve got?’
There was a pause, whether of surprise or suspicion Siobhan couldn’t tell.
‘Why would you do that?’
Siobhan was about to say it was because she was convinced there was more to the story, but she knew that wouldn’t wash with a cop, however nice. She wondered did Walker have kids herself. A daughter, maybe. It had to be worth a shot.
‘Because Gemma’s mother, the lady who contacted me earlier, is absolutely frantic with worry. She’s desperate to get some information about her daughter.’
‘But if this girl is missing, you should let the police handle it. I mean, your Garda people, over there in Dublin.’
‘They are handling it,’ Siobhan said, ‘but it looks like I’m the only one asking questions. I promise I won’t get in your way. Will you help us?’
Mulcahy was parking the car outside the restaurant when his mobile rang. He pulled on the handbrake and answered without looking.
‘Hi, I’m just coming,’ he said.
‘Lucky you,’ came the response from the earpiece. ‘It’s a marvel you can talk at the same time.’
/>
He hadn’t heard her voice for months, but recognition hit him like a sucker punch, out of nowhere.
‘Siobhan?’ he said, feeling himself flush instantly hot, glad he was in the dark, in the car, not with Orla yet. ‘Is that you?’
‘The very same,’ she said. ‘Like the bad penny, just when you think I’m gone for good, I turn up again. How’s it going, Mulcahy? Sounds like you’re not dying of loneliness, anyway.’
‘No, not so far,’ he laughed, despite his surprise. She sounded like the Siobhan of old: the wisecracks, the challenge. Not like the last time they’d seen each other. He relaxed a fraction, felt the breath easing out of him, the fabric of the car seat cushioning his shoulders.
‘But you couldn’t possibly comment, right?’
He could hear the smile in her voice, all but see the light dancing in her blue eyes.
‘You said it. But look, how are you? How’s the—’ He broke off, unable to find the word for it. ‘I mean, are you back at work full-time yet?’
‘Ah yeah, I’ve been back a couple of months now. I’m still trying to get my head around it, to be honest, but it’s okay. How about you?’
‘Yeah, good,’ he said, grinding to a halt again. What should he say to her? He cursed himself for being so nonplussed.
‘Look, Mulcahy,’ she broke into his silence, ‘I know I probably should have told you this before, but the book’s coming out. You know, the one I was—’
‘Yeah, I heard,’ he cut in. ‘Liam said he saw you on TV this morning.’
‘Oh yeah? And did I do okay?’
‘He didn’t say.’
‘Ah, right.’ She coughed. ‘And you didn’t ask.’
He let that one hang in the air, not wanting to confirm it, not willing to deny it.
‘Look, eh, you’ve obviously got somewhere to be, Mulcahy. I just thought I should tell you myself, you know, not to worry – I didn’t put anything in about … well, you and me. I know you weren’t keen on the idea, anyway. That much was—’
Dublin Dead Page 6