Living Death

by Graham Masterton

  ‘You won’t be mentioning my name, will you? Not to the news people.’

  ‘Maureen, this is strictly between you and me. Nobody else will ever find out where we got our information from, even when this comes to court.’

  ‘Thank you, DS Maguire, and bless you. You’re the only guard that I’ve ever liked, or ever trusted. All I can wish for after today is that my sisters tell me where Branán’s body is buried, so that I can give him the proper funeral that he deserves, and lay flowers on his grave.’

  ‘That’s very touching, Maureen,’ said Katie. ‘I won’t let you down, believe me.’

  Maureen hung up without saying anything else. Katie sat at her desk staring at her phone for a few moments. In spite of what she now believed, there was still a remote possibility that Maureen had been telling her the truth as she saw it. What if she really had been doing a line with Branán O’Flynn, but instead of killing him, her father and sisters had paid him to stay away from Cork for a week or three, just to scare her, and teach her a lesson?

  What if the warehouse at Sarsfield Court Industrial Estate really was crammed with automatic weapons, and she did nothing about it? Every innocent person who was shot by one of those guns would be on her conscience, for ever.

  She called Detective Ó Doibhilin. ‘How’s it going with your N-Bomb salesman?’

  ‘It’s not going at all at the moment. He’s asked for his lawyer and his lawyer won’t be able to get here until four o’clock at the earliest.’

  ‘He’s an N-Bomb pusher and he has his own lawyer?’

  ‘Not a cheap one either. Charles Cathal from Cathal and Brogan.’

  ‘Now, that is interesting. Charles Cathal mainly deals with cases of medical malpractice. Why would he take on a drug-pushing scummer like this – what’s-his-name – Boxty?’

  ‘Search me. But Cathal usually charges anything up to two hundred and sixty-five euros an hour. He must feel sure that Boxty’s going to be able to settle his bill.’

  ‘Maybe he knows that whoever employs Boxty is going to be able to settle his bill for him.’

  ‘That could be more like it, sure. But I’ll call you anyway when Cathal gets here.’

  ‘You should be clocking off by then, shouldn’t you? You’ve been up for most of the night.’

  ‘I’ve had a shower and a bite of breakfast and I’ll be having a day off tomorrow. I’d like to see this one through.’

  ‘All right. Just this once I’ll approve your overtime. But don’t make a habit of being too conscientious. I can’t afford it. Right now, though, would you keep a fierce close eye on Maureen Callahan for me? I may be totally mistaken, but I have the feeling that she’ll be making a move soon.’

  ‘I will of course.’

  Katie checked the map on her computer screen. Sarsfield Court Industrial Estate was only about twenty minutes’ drive to the north of Cork City, past White’s Cross and Upper Glanmire, and not too far from Fairy Hill, but it was surrounded by nothing but farms and fields. ‘Right in front of your nose but right in the back of nowhere in particular,’ as her Grannie used to say.

  To mount a raid, or not to mount a raid? That was the question. She almost felt like tossing a coin. The trouble was, her whole career would depend on that toss, and she always preferred judgement to chance.

  She called Superintendent Pearse. ‘Michael, it’s Katie. Can you spare me two of your men as back-up this afternoon? Only the two, yes – but tooled up, please, the both of them, although I’m not expecting any armed resistance. Sarsfield Court Industrial Estate. Yes. About half-past three. But I’ll come down anyway at half-past two to give them a briefing.’

  That’s decided then, she told herself. You know you’ve made the right decision. Well – you hope you’ve made the right decision. And if you haven’t, and you get sacked, you could always marry Conor and live happily ever after as a housewife. Four out of six of your sisters have done it, why shouldn’t you? I could quite fancy the name Katie Ó Máille, and I would love to have children. Two boys, and two girls. And another dog.

  Conor’s phone was engaged the first time she rang, and still engaged ten minutes later. She left him a voice message and after another five minutes he rang her back.

  ‘How’s the form, girlfriend?’ he asked her.

  ‘Now then, let’s keep this strictly professional, shall we?’

  ‘I’m sorry. How’s the form, Detective Superintendent? Did you have any joy with Lorcan Fitzgerald?’

  ‘That’s why I was ringing you. We haven’t been able to trace him yet. He doesn’t appear to have any previous convictions, not under that name anyway, and he’s not listed on any electoral register. I thought I might be able to get some information about him out of Gerry Mulvaney, but Gerry Mulvaney seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth, and Keeno’s still in a coma.’

  ‘So what do you want me to do?’

  ‘I’d like you to call him on the number that Bartley Doran gave us. Tell him you have some fantastic fighting dogs and would he be interested in buying them off you.’

  ‘Okay. As soon as I’m dressed I’ll come down to the station.’

  ‘You’re not dressed yet?’

  ‘No. I’m standing here stark naked in front of the mirror admiring myself.’

  ‘Oh stop. I never felt jealous of a mirror before but I do now.’

  *

  Conor arrived at Anglesea Street half an hour later, and a female garda from reception brought him up to Katie’s office, all smiles. When the garda had gone, he took Katie in his arms and kissed her. His beard was neatly trimmed and he smelled of some woodsy spicy shower-gel.

  ‘I missed you last night,’ he told her, in a very soft voice.

  Katie said nothing, but shrugged and twiddled with the button on his coat.

  ‘So you want me to call this Lorcan Fitzgerald?’ he said. ‘And – what – offer him some fighting dogs?’

  ‘That’s right. Tell him what dogs you have and arrange to meet up with him.’

  ‘What dogs do I have?’

  ‘So far Sergeant Nolan can get me a Neapolitan mastiff and two bull terriers. He may be able to borrow an Akita too. I have all their details... age, height, weight, vaccinations, whether they’re microchipped or not.’

  ‘What if Fitzgerald’s not interested?’

  ‘Then do your pet detective bit and try to get some clues out of him about his location, at the very least, and how you can contact him again. Tell him you can get him more dogs if he wants them.’

  ‘And what if he does want to meet?’

  ‘Sergeant Nolan will fetch you the dogs to take with you. Then – when you meet Fitzgerald – try and engage him in conversation about the way he does business. Ask him as many questions as you can about the dogs he supplied to Guzz Eye McManus and where he got them from. If you can get him to admit that he hobbled them from the Sceolan Kennels, that would be fantastic, although I doubt that he will. Anyway you’ll be wearing a wire so whatever he says will be recorded.’

  ‘All right, then. When do you want me to ring him?’

  ‘Right now, if you’re up for it. I’ll just call Dooley and Scanlan. They can bring us up a phone which can’t be traced, so Fitzgerald won’t be able to check up on you. They can also listen in – well, if and when Fitzgerald rings back.’

  ‘I’m beginning to enjoy this,’ said Conor. ‘Maybe I should have been a Garda detective rather than a pet detective.’

  ‘There’s not as much money in it,’ Katie told him. ‘You’d be earning less than thirty thousand, even after three years’ service.’

  ‘Yes, but what a beour I’d have for a boss.’

  31

  Detective Ó Doibhilin was sitting in front of his PC, pecking out a report on last night’s N-Bomb incident, when he heard a beep! from his iPad. He picked it up and saw that Maureen Callahan’s car was on the move.

  He watched it for a while, swigging the last of his can of warm Pepsi-Cola, trying to see if he cou
ld judge where it was heading. The car left Douglas Lawn, where Maureen Callahan lived, and joined the eastbound lane of the main N40. Its signal temporarily disappeared while it drove through the Jack Lynch Tunnel, but then it reappeared on the other side of the river, and turned east again when it reached the intersection with the N25.

  It was only then that he called Katie.

  ‘Maureen Callahan’s on the move, ma’am. She’s on the main Cork Road heading east. Just passing the Euro Business Park. She’s driving like she stole it, too, the speed she’s going.’

  ‘Thanks, Michael, and listen – get yourself ready to go after her. If she’s going where I think she might be going, I want you to be there, to see what she does, and who she meets.’

  ‘No bother, ma’am. My jacket’s hanging ready on the back of my chair.’

  Detective Ó Doubhilin kept watching the progress of Maureen Callahan’s car as it crossed over Harper’s Island and reached the roundabout at Cobh Cross. It left the main Cork Road then and turned due south towards Fota Island.

  He called Katie again. ‘She’s heading towards Fota. She’s slowing down. She’s turning into the Golf Club.’

  ‘Go after her, Michael. Now! And fast.’

  Detective Ó Doibhilin pushed back his chair, picked up his jacket and his iPad, and hurried out of the squad room. He passed Detective Markey as he clattered down the stairs, and Detective Markey said, ‘Jesus, Michael! You got the runs, boy?’

  He ran across the car park, unlocking his dark green Astra as he ran. He climbed into it, slammed the door, and screeched out on to Old Station Road, almost colliding with a laundry van. His Astra had flashing blue lights concealed behind the front grille, and a siren, and he switched them both on as he weaved through the traffic on Albert Street and crossed over the Eamon De Valera Bridge.

  Once he was clear of the city centre and heading east on the Lower Glanmire Road, he put his foot down until he was speeding along by the river at over 90 kph. Once he was past Tivoli and the road became a dual carriageway, he sped up even more, to 140 kph. He reached Cobh Cross in less than fifteen minutes, and turned south towards Fota Island.

  When he drove into the Fota Golf Club, he saw Maureen Callahan’s red Audi on the right-hand side of the car park, close to the main entrance. There was no sign of Maureen Callahan herself.

  He called Katie. ‘I’m here at the golf club. Her car’s here all right, but she’s not in it.’

  ‘Why don’t you go inside and look for her? She doesn’t know you by sight, does she?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so. I’ve only seen her once myself and that was when she was up in the District Court.’

  ‘That’s good. But keep sketch for Assistant Commissioner O’Reilly. He’ll reck you for sure, and that could mess up everything.’

  ‘I have you,’ said Detective Ó Doibhilin, although he didn’t ask her to explain what ‘everything’ was, or how ‘everything’ could be messed up by Assistant Commissioner O’Reilly recognising him. ‘The sun’s almost nearly on the verge of shining so I’ll put my shades on.’

  The Fota golf clubhouse was made up of a collection of old limestone farm buildings. It looked grim and grey from the outside, but inside it had been expensively renovated and it was airy and light with the atmosphere of a five-star hotel. It was crowded this morning because of the three-day charity tournament, and it was nearly lunchtime. Detective Ó Doibhilin carefully manoeuvred his way between circles of red-faced men in tweeds and Aran sweaters, braying loudly to each other about birdies and eagles and how they had nearly come unstuck at the newly designed Par 38th hole on the Barryscourt Course.

  He went from one reception room to the next, looking for Maureen Callahan. At last he caught sight of her sitting on a stool in the Spike Bar, drinking a glass of white wine and chatting to the barman. She was wearing a smart grey suit and very high heels, and her blonde bob was shining. The barman said something to her and she threw back her head, laughing.

  Almost all of the tables and chairs in the bar were occupied, but Detective Ó Doibhilin managed to find a leather armchair in the corner which afforded him a view of the bar. He sat down and texted Katie to tell her that he had found Maureen Callahan and that he was keeping her under observation. He even took a surreptitious photograph of her and emailed it as a follow-up to his text.

  So far there was no sign of Assistant Commissioner O’Reilly, but the bar was packed and it was difficult for him to see everybody from where he was sitting. He caught the barman staring at him as if he were wondering why he hadn’t bought a drink, but then a large gingery man came up to the bar to bellow out an order for another round, and the barman turned away.

  Katie texted him to ask ANY DEVELOPMENTS?? but he had to text back with a thumbs-down emoji.

  He had only just sent that, though, when a very thin man with grey brushed-back hair stood up from a table by the window, turned around, and came walking across to the bar. Detective Ó Doibhilin half-covered his face with his hand, and pretended to be concentrating on his mobile phone. The man was Assistant Commissioner O’Reilly, wearing a dark brown three-piece suit of Donegal tweed and carrying a brown leather briefcase. He stood close to Maureen Callahan, although he didn’t appear to acknowledge her in any way. He didn’t even turn to look at her. Instead he snapped his fingers for the barman and the barman brought over his bill.

  Detective Ó Doibhilin texted: J O’R’s here. He’s signed his bill. Now he’s leaving. Didn’t say word one to MC.

  He had to keep his head right down as Assistant Commissioner O’Reilly passed him by, so close that he could have stuck out his foot and tripped him up. When he was able to look up again, he saw that Maureen Callahan was still joking with the barman. But he saw something else, too: when Assistant Commissioner O’Reilly had been signing his bill, he had set his briefcase down on the floor, next to the legs of Maureen Callahan’s barstool, and his briefcase was still there.

  Detective Ó Doibhilin couldn’t really pick it up himself and run after him and say, ‘Stall the ball, sir, you forgot this!’ Assistant Commissioner O’Reilly would demand to know what the hell he was doing here, in the Fota clubhouse, and in any case Detective Superintendent Maguire had told him that it would mess up ‘everything’.

  He quickly texted Katie and told her about the briefcase, sending her a picture of it, too. Katie texted him back. If MC picks it up & walks out with it follow her. If she doesn’t hand it in or return it to J O’R lift her for theft. Don’t open it in case it’s a bomb.

  Detective Ó Doibhilin waited another ten minutes while Maureen Callahan finished her glass of wine. During all of that time she didn’t look down at the briefcase once, and he began to wonder if she had even noticed that Assistant Commissioner O’Reilly had left it behind. Eventually, though, she blew the barman a kiss and slipped down from the barstool, and without hesitating she picked up the briefcase and walked out of the bar with it.

  Detective Ó Doibhilin followed her as she made her way out of the clubhouse and into the car park. She went straight over to her Audi, lifted the boot, and dropped the briefcase inside. As soon as she had slammed it shut, and opened the driver’s door, Detective Ó Doibhilin went up to her and held out his ID.

  ‘Detective Garda Michael Ó Doibhilin,’ he told her. ‘Would you please tell me your name?’

  Maureen Callahan blinked at him in surprise, as if he had magically appeared out of thin air. ‘Maureen Callahan. What’s it to you?’

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you what it is to me. Maureen Callahan, I am arresting you under section four of the Theft and Fraud Act, 2001, for appropriating property with the intention of permanently depriving its owner of it, namely a briefcase that a fellow left behind in the Spike Bar and you have just hobbled. You are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but whatever you say will be taken down in writing and may be given in evidence.’

  ‘C’mere to me?’ said Maureen Callahan. ‘What in the name of God are you talking
about, boy? The briefcase belongs to me anyway. Your man was taking care of it for me, that’s all, and when he left he gave it back to me.’

  ‘Do you know who your man happened to be?’

  ‘I don’t know. Just an obliging fellow, that’s all. I didn’t want to have the briefcase down at my feet while I was sitting at the bar in case somebody tripped over it.’

  ‘Would your man corroborate this?’

  ‘Would he what?’

  ‘Would your man back you up and say that you were telling me the truth?’

  ‘Of course he would, if only I knew who he was.’

  ‘You must think I came up the River Lee in a bubble,’ said Detective Ó Doibhilin. ‘I know who he is, and you know who he is, and you must know that I know who he is. And I know that he knows who you are, and I know him well enough to know that he’d be the last person on the Planet Earth to mind a briefcase for any member of the Callahan family.’

  Maureen Callahan blinked at him again, as if she hadn’t understood a word that he had said. ‘I’m saying nothing,’ she snapped.

  ‘What’s inside the briefcase?’

  ‘I told you. I’m saying nothing.’

  ‘Right. I’m taking you in to Anglesea Street Garda Station, where you’ll be formally charged. Will you open up the boot for me, please, so that I can take out the briefcase.’

  Maureen Callahan stayed where she was for a few seconds, breathing deeply, as if her patience with the world was just about exhausted. Then she went round and opened the Audi’s boot. Detective Ó Doibhilin took a forensic glove out of his pocket, snapped it on, and lifted the briefcase out.

  ‘You muppet,’ said Maureen Callahan. ‘I can promise you this, boy – there’s a fair few people who’s going to be fierce sorry about this by the end of the day, and I can promise you this, too – one of those people won’t be me.’

  32

  Detective Dooley dialled Lorcan Fitzgerald’s number and then passed the handset to Conor. They were sitting on the couches in Katie’s office – Katie and Conor and Detectives Dooley and Scanlan – and they could all hear the ring tones on her conference phone.