Dublin Dead

by Gerard O'Donovan

  ‘I’ve come this far,’ she said. ‘I’m not going to start taking a back seat now, am I?’

  She stepped out into the muddy yard and together they made their way up a set of breeze-block steps to the back of the house. The walls had been whitewashed once, and the door varnished, but both were now weathered back to a flaky grey, streaked here and there with layers of the mottled green and black mould that seemed to cling to every external surface. Above the door the guttering bowed precariously, and the slate roof was host to broad colonies of dark green moss. Everything spoke of utter decay and neglect, except for one thing. Mulcahy tapped Siobhan on the arm and pointed: a new lock had been fitted to the door, the shiny brass flange surrounding the keyhole, the sole thing on the door not caked in the dirt of ages.

  ‘Someone’s put that in very recently,’ he said. ‘It looks like it hasn’t been so much as rained on.’

  He rapped his knuckles loudly on the wooden door and was met with a resounding silence. He tried again, this time calling out a hello, receiving only the same silence in reply. Meanwhile Siobhan had gone to the nearest window, to look inside, but gave up after a few seconds of failing to see anything through the grime.

  ‘It’s all dark in there, impenetrable,’ she said, coming back, then stopped suddenly and pointed. ‘Shit, Mulcahy, look at that. There is somebody here.’

  He swung round, expecting to see a figure, but all he saw was Siobhan hurrying down the steps and striding out across the yard. It wasn’t until he was halfway down the steps himself that he saw what she was heading towards – just visible, the gleaming back end of a silver van poking out from the nearest barn.

  It was more of a shed, really, laid out in stalls and open to the elements on the one side that wasn’t clad in the same corrugated sheet metal as was used for the shallow sloping roof. Inside it was mostly bare, apart from a carpet of mud and empty plastic fertiliser bags, mouldering bits of broken machinery and rusting bales of barbed wire. Such was the general air of corrosion, the silver Mercedes Vito parked there might as well have been beamed in from another planet.

  ‘Look, it’s a Dutch registration,’ Siobhan said, excited. Sure enough, there was a white ‘NL’ under the roundel of stars of the blue EU flag on the van’s rear plate. The number matched the one Aisling had given him. Siobhan, meanwhile, was already up at the front of the van, peering on tiptoe through the driver’s side window. Mulcahy tried the handle on the rear door, but it wouldn’t budge. He shuffled past Siobhan and looked in the driver’s window himself, saw nothing but the bare bench seat and a plywood panel behind blocking access to the cargo space behind.

  ‘Nothing there,’ he said, needlessly.

  But Siobhan was gone. He looked around, could see her nowhere. He said her name. Listened. Nothing. He walked the length of the shed, checking each stall, calling her name more loudly each time, and got nothing but echoes bouncing off the metal siding. Thin air. Where the hell had she got to?

  He was coming out into the yard again when a hollow metallic rattle, the sound of an oil drum being knocked or something of the sort, caught his ear. He scanned the yard again and saw her, trying to pull open the tall, four-metre-high galvanised-metal door of the next barn along, the biggest one. She stopped trying when she saw him and instead gesticulated at him urgently.

  ‘Mulcahy, over here,’ she called, in a low whisper. ‘Come and have a look at this.’

  She was pointing at something inside, and stepped back as he reached her. ‘It won’t open any further,’ she said. ‘The door’s chained up. I had trouble squeezing in there myself. But stick your head in. Go on – it’s completely weird.’

  He tried to tug the barn door open a bit wider, but she was right, it wouldn’t budge. A heavy-duty steel chain was looped twice through a hole in each of the two sliding doors and secured with a hefty padlock. Like the lock on the house door, it looked new. He stuck his head and shoulders through the gap. It took a second or two for his eyes to adjust to the gloom, but when they did, what he beheld made them widen still further.

  ‘What the hell is that?’

  Of all the things Mulcahy would have expected to find inside a run-down, semi-derelict barn, the last was a house. He blinked again, to make sure he wasn’t seeing things. But no, there it was sitting there, right in the middle of the floor of the barn, a small prefabricated bungalow with walls, windows fully glazed, even a front door with a letterbox in it. Everything, in fact, that you’d normally expect to see on a house, except rooftiles. Instead it was topped off with a mix of blue plastic sheeting, and more galvanised-metal sheets – whatever had come to hand, it seemed.

  ‘It’s a bit big for a Wendy house,’ Siobhan said, pushing in beside him. ‘What do you think it’s for?’

  Mulcahy wasn’t sure what to think. The bungalow filled half the floor space of the barn and, from the condition of the windows, walls and front door, didn’t look to be of recent construction. There was a wide space cleared around it on all sides, but the rest of the barn was filled with the rotting detritus of farm-labour past, obsolete machines for ploughing, planting and threshing, stacks of oil drums and tractor tyres, feed boxes and baling wire. In one corner, a tractor so old it could be a museum piece looked like it had actually taken root in the floor of the barn. Mulcahy stepped back and looked towards the van in the shed along the yard, feeling suddenly more uncomfortable about their situation than he had before.

  ‘Well?’ Siobhan was looking up at him like he was the one who was supposed to know.

  ‘I saw photos of something like this, once before,’ he said, the anxiety clear in his voice. ‘Circulated after a raid over in England. Some London heavies bought an old farm in Suffolk, somewhere remote. The locals reckoned they were growing cannabis in the sheds, but when the police raided, they found a cabin like this inside one of the barns, wired up for electricity, heating, hot and cold water plumbed in and all. Even a satellite dish rigged on a fence outside.’

  ‘What was it for?’ Siobhan asked. ‘Illegal immigrants or something?’

  ‘No, it was far too comfortable,’ he said. ‘The gang said it was a safe house, for friends needing to disappear for a while. They could hole up in the cabin. All creature comforts. Totally invisible. But the Brits thought they might have used it for other things, too: to hold kidnap victims, or make snuff movies, or just to keep someone captive in until they had screwed what they wanted out of them.’

  ‘Why not use the farmhouse?’ Siobhan said, grimacing at the idea.

  ‘It’s a double-bluff thing. The minders live in the farmhouse to make the place seem occupied, legitimate, you know. Life goes on as normal. Nothing to make anyone suspicious. The farm’s a going concern. In theory nothing to make nosy neighbours suspicious, or get caught out by a surprise raid. In the minutes it takes to serve a warrant over at the farmhouse, anyone in here could be out the back and away across the fields.’

  ‘Jesus, you think this is the same?’ Siobhan cast a nervous glance back at the van in the shed, her thoughts exactly the same as Mulcahy’s.

  ‘I honestly don’t know, but whatever it is, I don’t think we should hang around to find out. This looks pretty heavy-duty to me. Let’s just get out of here and call for some back-up, keep an eye on the place from a safe distance, down the road.’

  She was definitely with him on that, but still found time to stick her phone through the gap in the barn door and take a couple of pictures. Mulcahy cursed and pulled her away. They were crossing the yard, halfway to the Saab, when the sound of another motor, other tyres crunching on the drive into the farm, reached their ears.

  ‘Shit,’ Mulcahy said. ‘Whoever it is, they’ll spot my car as soon as they turn in here. Come on.’ He grabbed Siobhan by the arm and steered her back across the yard and into the gap between the two barns facing the rear of the house. That way, at least, they’d have a chance to see who it was coming in, before the driver could see the parked Saab and react.

  As it happened, the
battered old pale blue Golf that appeared seconds later didn’t come all the way into the yard, but pulled up instead beside the caravan, from where the Saab was just out of sight.

  Fuck, Mulcahy thought, a chill running down his spine at the sight of the car. Both Brogan’s and Murtagh’s witnesses had said a Golf. He turned to Siobhan, whispered urgently, ‘Did you see that car down by the pier in Glandore yesterday?’

  Siobhan took another look, made a meaningless expression. ‘I don’t think so. Why?’

  He didn’t dare answer as they heard the car door open and the driver stepped out. It was a woman.

  ‘It’s Gemma Kearney,’ Siobhan whispered.

  Mulcahy called to mind the mug shot Ford had shown him, and did a double take. Whatever he’d been expecting Gemma Kearney to look like now, this woman wasn’t it. Short and quite heavily built, especially round the hips, her long, dark hair unwashed, wearing a wraparound brown cardigan over a tweedy brown skirt, she looked completely different from the willowy beauty arrested a decade before.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘It’s definitely her. There were photos of her on the sideboard in Mrs K’s living room.’ Siobhan opened her bag and removed a postcard-sized picture of an unsmiling dark-haired woman. ‘See – here.’

  Mulcahy looked down in disbelief. Siobhan must have stolen the photo and he was shocked, even in this bizarre situation, by her brazenness. He shook the thought from his head and looked across the yard again. The woman in the picture and the one standing by the car removing a bag of groceries were undeniably one and the same. A few years older, but the same, right down to the beauty spot on her upper lip.

  ‘Come on,’ Siobhan said, stepping out into the yard and hailing the woman to Mulcahy’s evident horror, but it was too late to stop her.

  ‘Gemma? Gemma Kearney?’ Siobhan shouted over at her. ‘Hi. I was wondering if we could have a word.’

  The look that appeared on the woman’s face as she whipped her head round and gawped towards the barn and Siobhan was nothing short of terror. Mulcahy could see the blood draining from her face as she dropped the shopping bag with a crash and reeled a foot or two back, before being hemmed in by the car. It was clear from her expression that her first thought was to run, to try and escape, but there was nowhere to go: on one side the car, on the other the caravan, behind her the wall and in front of her Siobhan. The panic on her face only got wilder when she caught sight of Mulcahy’s large frame emerging from the shadow of the barn and following in Siobhan’s wake.

  ‘It’s okay. It’s all right, Gemma. We’re here to help,’ Siobhan said, halting a couple of metres from the woman, flapping her palms to calm her.

  Mulcahy came to a stop a few feet behind her. His main concern now was to keep an eye on the windows of the bungalow and on the outbuildings around, worried more than ever about who else might be on the premises, and where.

  The woman said nothing, still looked dumbstruck, her eyes swivelling anxiously back and forth between the two of them. As far as Siobhan was concerned, there was nothing for it but to try again.

  ‘My name’s Siobhan Fallon. Your mother said she mentioned me to you last night on the phone. I’m the reporter. She asked me to help find you. To help you, yeah? And this is Mike Mulcahy. He’s a … eh, a friend. We’re here to help, Gemma, honestly. There’s no need to be afraid.’

  At last the woman’s face seemed to unfreeze a fraction, and she broke into a tiny, anxious smile. ‘Oh, right. For a minute there I thought—’ She broke off and the sentence went unfinished as she glanced nervously over towards the barn, then back at the grim-looking house. ‘You’d better come in. Quickly,’ she said, tilting her head towards the back door.

  She all but pushed Siobhan up the steps to the house, then stood and waved Mulcahy forward, too. He stood there nonplussed. He had no desire to go inside, but he didn’t want to stay out in the open arguing, either. He insisted she should go ahead, which she did, bending first to pick up the shopping bag where it had fallen. From a ring of keys she selected a shiny brass one and inserted it in the lock on the door. He wondered how it could have been fitted so quickly if she’d only returned yesterday, and might have asked her if Siobhan hadn’t been rabbiting on about Gemma’s mother, and how she’d been worried sick.

  29

  Inside, the house was a mess. The back door led straight into the kitchen, where every surface – floor, countertops, cupboard doors, furniture – was covered in a thick layer of dust and grime, except for the sink, a section of the old wooden draining board and the kitchen table, all of which had been wiped over with a cloth in recent days. Mulcahy noted that only one of the kitchen chairs stood away from the table, its seat alone in being free of dust. On the table, just one mug was sitting there, awaiting washing. On the draining board one plate, one knife and fork. Signs were, she was alone in the house. Hiding out.

  Gemma Kearney didn’t invite them to sit down, didn’t offer them tea. She looked a little more self-possessed now, but was still breathing heavily, a hand held up to her chest, gripped by an anxiety that gave an aggressive edge to her next question.

  ‘So how in Christ did you find me? My mother doesn’t know about this place.’ She paused, all her focus inward, then shook her head. ‘Jesus, I didn’t think anybody knew about it. That’s the reason I’m here.’

  ‘We figured it out ourselves,’ Mulcahy said. ‘Which means it isn’t safe for you to be here. I think you should come with us, Gemma. Now.’

  ‘Me? No, I’m all right. I’ll be fine here.’ Her gaze was steady as a rock and disconcertingly piercing.

  ‘What are you so afraid of, then?’ Mulcahy asked.

  ‘Nothing. You guys just gave me a fright. I wasn’t expecting anybody to turn up. Why would I? And who the hell are you to be asking, anyway?’ She glared at him, then jerked her head towards Siobhan. ‘I know what she’s doing here, or what she says she’s doing, on behalf of my forever interfering mother. But who the fuck are you? A reporter, too? You look more like a copper.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Mulcahy smiled. It hadn’t taken long for her to show her true colours. He was sure that his concern for her safety would never have extended to actually liking her, but he was glad now he wouldn’t even have to try. ‘You obviously know the type. My name’s Detective Inspector Mulcahy.’

  He watched her face closely as she took that in. Had she really expected to be right? But he saw no change in her expression.

  ‘Look, it’s okay,’ she said, turning to Siobhan again now. ‘You don’t need to be here. Neither of you do. My mother doesn’t need to worry. It was stupid of me to let her get concerned. I’ll be fine on my own here, really.’

  ‘We know that’s not true, Gemma,’ Siobhan said. ‘Your mother said you told her someone was trying to kill you.’

  ‘No, no, I just said someone was after me. Creditors, you know. I’ve just got to stay out of sight for a while.’

  ‘There’s no point lying,’ Mulcahy said. ‘We know about you and Declan Begley. The sooner we get out—’

  Her face snapped back to him as soon as he said the name. ‘Declan?’ She gave a little laugh like she’d been caught out in a lie. ‘You don’t know anything.’

  ‘We know that you and he owned this place, together,’ Siobhan said, butting in again, ‘and that you bought it back from the CAB for him.’

  ‘We also know you were in Fuengirola when he was murdered, Gemma,’ Mulcahy said. ‘I’d really like to know what happened out there.’

  Siobhan, who’d known nothing of this, was looking at him with an open mouth, but that was as nothing to the contempt on Gemma Kearney’s face.

  ‘Hang on a second,’ Siobhan interrupted, giving him a look like she thought he was playing the game all wrong. ‘I thought we were coming here to help Gemma.’

  ‘She’s the one claiming she doesn’t need help,’ Mulcahy said. ‘And even if she doesn’t, she still has some very serious questions to answer – about the conduct of
her accountancy practice, her relationship with Horgans estate agents and her movements over the last three weeks, just for starters.’

  He turned back to Gemma Kearney. ‘I know you were in Spain, Gemma. I saw your name on the passenger manifest, flying into Malaga, from Bristol. On the same flight as Declan Begley. The day after your other ex-boyfriend, Cormac Horgan, died. What were the three of you doing in Bristol?’

  Kearney said nothing for a moment, just absorbed it, expressionless. Then she turned on him, eyes blazing. ‘Like I said, you haven’t a fucking clue. If Cormac wanted to kill himself, that was up to him. Stupid fuckwit never could take the pressure. I made a multi-millionaire out of him, all the business I pushed his way, and what does he do? Loses the fucking lot. And when I offer him a way out of that, too, what happens? He goes and fucks that up as well. You know, I hope he screamed all the way down, ’cos he sure as hell fucked everything up for me and Declan. Everything would still be all right if it wasn’t for Cormac.’

  ‘That’s bullshit,’ Mulcahy said. ‘You got greedy. You were both doing just fine. Begley must have had a hell of a stash put away and nobody even knew it – except you probably. Which one of you was it? Which one of you decided you could nick that consignment of cocaine in Amsterdam?’

  She looked at him like she was both surprised and admiring that he knew about that. So much so she didn’t even bother denying it. ‘It was there for the taking. If we didn’t, someone else would have eventually. A hundred million euro? That’s an awful lot of future to leave lying in a container stack in Rotterdam.’

  ‘Maybe, but at what price?’ Mulcahy asked indignantly, knowing he shouldn’t be debating it with her, but unwilling to let her get away with it. ‘Not only did Bingo shaft Trevor Ronson, his best pal supposedly, he ended up getting himself killed over it, too. And how about you – didn’t you stop at any stage to even consider the risks involved?’

  ‘What would you know, in your stupid fucking job and with your shitty bloody salary?’ Kearney’s face was pure scorn now. ‘The whole of life is a risk if you’ve got the balls to play for it.’