Two Kinds of Blood

by Jane Ryan

  Darling Elizabeth,

  I write from the desk of my new practice in Fitzwilliam Square. I would have to say working with Des was the most enlightening and lucrative time of my career, thus far. His support was invaluable to me as I set up my own legal practice. Fear not, I won’t parade around in a black gown, a dancing crow, as Vincent does. I am not a frustrated actor and will work with people who need my help. As you know, I have always wanted to study Law and would have done so years ago if my parents had the money to send me to university.

  I cannot tell you how I wish things were different. How I wish you would have taken another course of action. But we don’t need to tell one another about missed opportunities.

  You expressed a view in your last letter that your husband might not appreciate our correspondence and that the time had come for us to part ways. I disagree but would urge you to keep our friendship secret from Vincent. His colleagues speak well of him, but I have never found him amiable. I hope he treats you with decorum. He will have me to reckon with, if not. You know there are secrets and people depending on me – no one else can protect them. Never worry about that, my darling. I am constant but you must do your part.

  I would like to meet during the week – you can come to my office.

  Your most faithful friend,

  Richie

  Chapter 27

  The residue of drugs in Seán’s system made him nauseous. They’d bound his hands behind his back with cable ties, similarly his feet, and injected him with Propofol, but Seán had never taken drugs and had no tolerance for narcotics. Each time he was injected he passed out for longer than expected and was weak when he woke. They downgraded him as a threat, leaving him in an apartment with a pothead to stand guard.

  He had woken to early morning light and quiet, calling for his captor. When no answer came, he realised the man had gone on his regular trip to the shops. Seán had timed these trips and knew he had four hundred and eighty seconds maximum. He got off the bed and began to do high-knee jumps, the ties on his feet helping to keep his knees together. With each jump he pulled his elbows forcibly up and out into chicken wings. The cable ties bit deep into his wrists with each jump and after the fourth he could smell his own blood. He increased the pace of his jumping and the cable ties snapped.

  He found a blunt knife in the kitchen and inserted it into the plastic lip mechanism holding the cable-tie tracks in place and popped it, freeing his feet.

  Then he waited.

  His captor’s neck snapped back as Seán elbowed him savagely in the face as he came in the door. No doubt he had broken the cartilage between the man’s nostrils and the pain must have been searing. He lay semi-conscious on the ground. Seán wouldn’t have hesitated to stamp on his head, but the drugs had made him unsteady on his feet. He ran out the apartment door and skidded on the milk his captor had dropped. The burst two-and-a-half-litre Tetra Pak lay on its side leaking. He stumbled along the corridor, the smell of cooking oil and hot spice hurting the back of his throat. He didn’t know where he was but he found a stairwell and took the steps two at a time leading into a painted foyer. He made for the apartment-block door and exited into harsh daylight in a city he didn’t recognise.

  A shop window caught his reflection. A madman with hair standing on end, bloody wrists and bare feet. People shied away from him. Seán didn’t wait. He crossed the plaza-like square. It was too open and populated. His legs pumped. Broken glass, rough pavement and small stones cut his feet to shreds, but he couldn’t stop. On and on, into a side street then a smaller alley where he crouched in an apartment service area. Mouth-breathing in the rank smell of organic rot coming from brown bins. He couldn’t keep running. He was too conspicuous and would draw police attention. He burrowed down behind a bin and closed his eyes, listening for voices. The gusts of wind lessening the smell of the bins brought sounds from nearby streets – the voices were busy and babbling in a language he thought could be Spanish. He knew his captors were Africans in the hire of the Fuentes cartel and wondered if he was in Caracas being prepared as a tapa for the cartel bosses.

  He scrounged around in a blue bin and found a MARCA newspaper. It looked Spanish rather than Venezuelan from the football results. The paper calmed him. So he was in Spain and in a big city, but which one?

  He opened the drawer of what looked like a clothes recycling bin and pulled out clots of material. Jackets, shirts and coats, everything had a hard sheen of dirt, but nothing to put Seán off. He pulled on a coat and found formal patent shoes with holes on both inside seams and put his bare feet into them. His blood squelched against the inside of the shoe. He limped when the pain built to a pointy heat as he moved down the alleyway, but Seán could put his mind elsewhere when pain came calling.

  He made it to another street and found a name on a building. Carre or Calle something-or-other, the letters not in any order he could remember, so he tried to latch onto one word but failed. The buildings were old, graffiti at ground level cheek by jowl with boxy cafés and their tired outdoor seating. He kept to the shadows, searching for a busy parent with an open bag, or harassed businessperson mid-call, but this was a neighbourhood with watchful inhabitants. He was jittery and as near his end as he’d ever been.

  A door opened and an elderly woman encumbered with a spiky-looking stroller and a raucous toddler emerged. He would not get another chance. Seán ran at her, full force. He whipped the bag off the buggy handles, knocking down the old woman and child in the process and took off up the street. He could hear the roars of indignation but kept going, swerving around corners. It was like running on knives. He threw off the coat to make himself less recognisable and kept going.

  After ten minutes of dodging into lanes at full pace he was breathing hard and in danger of passing out. He slowed and ducked into a side street, shielding himself as he dumped out the contents of the bag. A tattered-looking purse yielded gold: twenty euros and a phone card. Still limping but forcing his legs to straighten, Seán walked in left turns, no thought in his mind other than finding a phone.

  Outside a grubby grocery shop was a battered brace of payphones. First one was coin, rare as hen’s teeth – in any other circumstances it would have made Seán laugh. The second took phonecards and his stolen card put up ten euros on the screen.

  He dialled Gavin, desperation and disbelief at his own circumstances threatening to undo him.

  Gavin picked up on the third ring. Suspicion in his voice.

  ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘Gavin!’

  He tried to say more but relief strangled the words in his mouth.

  ‘Jesus, Seán! Where are you? Are you OK, man?’

  ‘I was taken from the Gardens by a bunch of niggers working for Fuentes.’

  ‘What? How? Where are you?’

  ‘I’m in Spain, but I don’t know what city.’ He looked around for street signs, saw one and started spelling. ‘Where’s C-A-R-R-E-R D-E-N R-O-BA-D-O-R?’

  ‘OK, hang on.’

  ‘Take the number as well – the money on the phone card is running down.’

  Seán threw out the number, the fear thawing a fraction with the sound of Gavin’s familiar voice.

  ‘Seán? Google says you’re in Barcelona.’

  ‘Money’s nearly gone. Call me back.’

  Seán waited for the phone to ring. He sagged against the Perspex hood of the phone booth, his mind and muscles exhausted. The downswing of adrenaline left him in a haze. His hand was on the blue plastic of the handset when it rang, the vibrations thrumming against his palm.

  ‘Gavin?’

  ‘Seán, are you OK? Are you injured?’

  Seán let out the breath he hadn’t known he was holding in.

  ‘I’ve made a mess of my feet but I’ll live. I need to get out of here.’

  ‘What do you want me to do? I’ll send money over by Western Union –’

  ‘No,’ Seán cut across him. ‘I’m standing here in clothes I took out of a recycling bin. I have
no identification, nothing.’

  ‘Go to the Irish embassy –’

  ‘And have them arrest me? Are you well?’

  ‘What would they arrest you for?’

  ‘A body found in the Dublin Mountains.’

  ‘That was you? It’s in the news? Jesus, Seán, what’s going on?’

  ‘Stay calm, Gavin –’

  ‘Why would Fuentes have taken you? We can pay them back for the drugs we lost.’

  ‘Can we?’

  His current predicament began to make some sense to Seán.

  ‘Fuentes spent millions building up that company Aceite de Oliva Barcelona – they let it run for over four years before they started shipping gear through it and they bought a new shipping route through Guinea Bissau. The seizure in Kilkenny jeopardised all this. We don’t have the money to replace that.’

  ‘Does Guy?’

  ‘I doubt it – but find him and tell him to get me someone in Barcelona. He has contacts everywhere.’

  ‘Do you trust Guy?’

  Seán let out a hot bark of laughter. ‘Not on your life, but you’ll go to him and put a gun to his head. Don’t leave him until I’m home. Tell him you’ll kill him and every member of his family unless I get back safe.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Gavin sounded relieved, ‘I can do that.’

  ‘I know you can, Gavin man. Get Guy and call me back in an hour.’

  ‘OK, Seán. This number in an hour.’

  For the first time since his kidnap, Seán could see a way out that didn’t involve him dying.

  Chapter 28

  ‘Bridge!’

  ‘Yes?’

  I didn’t recognise the voice, but the urgency in the caller’s tone had me off my chair, making for the corridor. Amina raised her sculpted brows at me as I went, the other CAB gardaí carried on with their own work, unperturbed. Our office had all the atmosphere of a bus station with everyone bar Amina and me hot-desking. We refused.

  ‘Bridge, it’s Yvonne.’

  Yvonne, the duty scientist in Forensic Science Ireland who had helped me identify the severed arm in the pig carcass. She’d had a temporary contract and had wanted me to put in a good word for her last year. I had – she was more than competent – and it would appear to be yielding dividends.

  ‘Hi, Yvonne! No number came up.’

  ‘It’s the new switch, no more caller ID. Are you somewhere quiet?’

  ‘In an empty corridor.’ I checked both ends. Nothing.

  ‘The man with the broken neck found in the forest near Stepaside.’

  ‘Yes, it’s being handled out of Rathfarnham Garda Station?’

  ‘That’s going to change. It’ll be over to you lot in a day or so – you know how things move slowly here.’

  ‘To us?’

  ‘Seán Flannery’s DNA’s all over the dead man, around his neck, blood on a nearby stone, skin under the man’s fingernails. I’ve done all the testing and matched the samples. I’m not supposed to tell you yet and if anyone knew I was giving you the heads-up I’d be in a world of trouble. But it’s Flannery and you’re tracking him. We got lucky – some Coillte workers found the body under a pile of logs in an area of forest they were chopping.’

  Yvonne was still speaking, but I’d stopped listening. My soul was soaring. Untethered hope. Seán Flannery had make a mistake. In all the years I’d followed his oblique presence I’d never come close. Until now. Irrefutable forensic proof of wrongdoing.

  A squad room disgorging detectives brought me back to reality. I cupped my hand over the phone’s speaker and crouched in a closed doorway.

  ‘Yvonne, make sure you bring this to Detective Chief Superintendent Graham Muldoon, do you hear me?’

  ‘OK.’ She sounded somewhat unnerved. ‘Isn’t he a bit senior? Would DS O’Connor be a better option?’

  ‘No! Under no circumstances bring it to him. Give it to Joe first if you have to and he’ll pass it on, but your protocol dictates information on an OCG goes to the most senior officer investigating. You won’t get into trouble giving it to Muldoon, trust me.’

  ‘All right, Bridge, but you know it won’t go from me? It’ll be our head of department.’

  ‘Then send her an email advising her to send it to DCS Muldoon.’

  ‘All right.’ Yvonne sounded doubtful.

  No way would I give DS O’Connor the chance to lose evidence or warn Seán Flannery. I would find him and bring him in. A dead body in the mountains. Small wonder Flannery was hiding. I closed my eyes and pictured leading him, hooded and cuffed, into the Special Criminal Court. It filled me with a prickle-edged joy.

  Chapter 29

  Liam and I made our way to the Daintree building. They made paper and woodcuts for old-fashioned printing, and huge swathes of handmade paper sheets hung on washing lines billowing in the courtyard breezes. It was a scant five minutes’ walk from Harcourt Square, and had the finest cake and coffee shop of anywhere: delicate sponge cakes, tiny orange-blossom-and-caramel macaroons. It wasn’t a place I’d associated with Liam. He was more of a chicken-fillet-roll-standing-at-the-counter-of-the-Ritzy type man.

  We walked up to the café. They had a moist coffee cake with swirls of buttercream icing you’d give away your firstborn for. If I had a firstborn.

  ‘What’ll it be?’ said Liam.

  ‘Americano and slice of coffee cake, please, Liam. But, tell me, am I dying?’

  ‘Why? Because I’m being nice to you? We’re all dying, Bridge.’

  ‘My philosopher! Blob of fresh whipped cream with the cake, please.’

  He got to the counter in four strides. The woman serving gave him a shy smile and cut him a wedge of cake.

  He arrived back to our table with a tray. ‘There you go,’ he said to me as he sat down. ‘I’ll have a bit too – she gave me a load.’

  ‘No, sorry, Liam – I’ll go up and get you a piece, but I don’t share coffee cake. Can’t do it, my dude.’

  He grunted and ignored me, hacking into the sweet cake with a fork that looked like a toy trident in his hand.

  ‘No wonder you come here so often – this is good,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not here that often.’

  ‘You get takeaway all the time! Never seen a woman with a sweeter tooth.’

  He spoke between mouthfuls, his enjoyment evident, and I took a bite. The sweet coffee flavour sat on my tongue and the sugar made straight for my cells.

  ‘How do you stay so skinny when you eat so much cake, bread and marmalade?’

  ‘I do not and I’m not skinny! I’m strong and healthy, plus I run most nights.’

  ‘Is that safe?’

  I shook my head. ‘Not safe for my mental health if I don’t. And they can’t catch me – I’m going too fast.’

  ‘I believe you – one of the lads at the training centre said your scores are off the charts. But be careful, Bridge. You wouldn’t know with Flannery and his mob, if they saw you had a routine.’

  ‘It’s OK, Liam. I’m not complacent and go a different route every night, but I like the quiet and the dark.’

  I was a loon saying that out loud.

  ‘Doesn’t surprise me you’re nocturnal. Mind you, it’s nice to have a bit of space. I miss the fields back home and going out to puck a ball. This city crams in on you. Pokes you when you’re not looking.’

  It was the jostling people determined to get their pound. ‘The city’s changed in the last few years,’ I said. ‘You can taste the greed, everything is me.’

  Liam finished off the last of the slice, a few crumbs loitering on the side of his goatee. He flicked them away.

  ‘Seeing as we’re chatting,’ I said, ‘what’s Joe’s connection to Muldoon? Why did he take Joe into CAB so fast?’

  ‘And why did you have to jump through hoops and get stuck advising the tributes?’

  ‘I can wonder, can’t I?’

  ‘You’re an inquisitive thing, Bridget Harney. Why don’t you ask him yourself?’

  ‘B
ecause I don’t have that kind of relationship with Joe – ours it too formal, mentor and protégée vibe. You and he gossip all the time.’

  ‘Discussing minor county football is not gossiping, Bridge.’

  I put a hand up, resigned to having my question unanswered. Liam was being a twat.

  ‘They go back years. Joe’s mam was Muldoon’s cleaner. Joe’s father died when he was twelve or so and his mam went out to char.’

  My heart sank. ‘I didn’t know Joe’s dad died when he was that young.’

  ‘Joe doesn’t talk about it much. Died of colon cancer. Happened before you and I were born.’

  ‘Even so.’

  I couldn’t picture a young Muldoon – there was nothing of the boy left in his face – but Joe was another matter. He was there, with his big round laughing face.

  We sat for a bit, each of us in our own space, a twinge inside me for a boy growing up without his father.

  ‘Is everything OK, Liam?’

  ‘Oh yes. Are you under a lot of pressure at the minute? O’Connor’s on your back about Flannery?’

  ‘Isn’t he always? We’ve linked him to the body in the Dublin Mountains, but struggling getting an ID for the body – just takes so long.’ My voice was pot-holed with frustration.

  ‘And the drug seizure? Any leads who got it out of the Port so fast?’

  ‘Nothing yet.’

  ‘So dead ends all round?’

  ‘For the moment,’ I said.

  A pause.

  ‘How’s your mum?’

  ‘Not so good,’ I said and stood. ‘Another coffee?’

  I didn’t want Liam to see how thin my skin was. Underneath I was standing on a crumbling white cliff edge.