One Bad Turn

by Sinéad Crowley

  Or was it all too bloody simple? Flynn frowned and flicked through the papers again. The CCTV from the village was surprisingly clear – Fernwood shop owners didn’t skimp on security – and showed that Delaney had indeed been poorly dressed for the weather in a light hooded sweatshirt and jeans. He had pulled the hood up to give himself some sort of protection, but the light from an ad on the side of the bus shelter illuminated him perfectly, leaving no doubt as to his identity. That was probably why Abina Regan was so sure it was him she had seen.

  Flynn frowned. That was it. That was what had been niggling at him. Why was he at the bus stop in the first place? He looked back at the map of Fernwood again. The village was laid out in a circle. On the bottom left-hand corner of the map a road led from its centre, down to the sea front. It doubled as the main Dublin road and was in fact the route he and Boyle had taken when they had gone to question Heather Gilmore two days before. Meanwhile in the top right-hand corner of the map another road led to a number of new-build apartments, among them Marc Gilmore’s home. The bus shelter where Alan Delaney had been seen was on the Dublin road, on the opposite side of the village to the route he would have taken from Leah’s party, and nowhere near the road to Kennockmore Hill. It didn’t make any sense for him to have ended up there and, besides, why had he been taking cover in the first place? There was no public transport at that time of night, and would he have been bothered about getting wet, if he was thinking of ending his life?

  As Flynn continued to stare at the map, more questions occurred to him. What had the lad been looking at on his phone? His phone records were right here, and he had made no calls around 1 a.m., no calls at all that night, actually, just a text message to Michael Taft at seven-thirty to say he was on his way to the party and then a burst of data usage that tallied with his Facebook post at twenty past two. Although it would be possible to check his movements by his phone activity, no one had put in for those records at the time of his disappearance. The evidence of suicide was so clear, that it quite simply hadn’t seemed necessary. Everyone, from investigating gardaí to Alan’s own mother, had agreed on what had happened: Alan had gone to the party, fought with Leah, failed to meet her father, walked back into Fernwood, decided for whatever reason that his future was hopeless, climbed up Kennockmore Hill and jumped to his death. But – and now Flynn could feel his rib throbbing in time with his racing heart – there was at least an hour missing.

  Even allowing for the fact that he shouldn’t have been there, Alan had been sitting at the bus shelter at a quarter to one. He had jumped, judging by the Facebook post, at twenty past two. It took much less than an hour to walk up the hill even if you used the most difficult route. You could do it in twenty minutes if you were sure of your way. What had he been doing the rest of the time?

  Something was off about all of this, and Philip Flynn knew it. Did it have anything to do with Leah’s kidnap? Maybe not, but Flynn had been a guard long enough to know it wasn’t enough to blame ‘coincidence’, not in a case so serious.

  He sat stock-still in the chair, his thoughts coming together so slowly, he was afraid to move his head in case he dislodged a link. The idea of Marc Gilmore sitting calmly in his bedroom while his teenage daughter threw what sounded like a pretty drunken party in the room next door had never sat easy with him, and the scenario that was unfolding in his head sounded much more likely. What if Gilmore hadn’t been in the flat at all? What if he’d been elsewhere in Fernwood, and what if Alan had gone looking for him—?

  His phone interrupted his thoughts and he picked it up immediately he saw Boyle’s name.

  ‘Are you free? We have to go back out to Fernwood. I’m still waiting for Perth Police to get back to me, but there has been another ransom demand. And it looks like Marc Gilmore has really messed things up too.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Hiding in the crawl space wasn’t half as bad as she’d thought it would be. In fact, when it came to it, Leah wasn’t frightened at all. Being snatched from Kennockmore Hill, then shoved into a room with no clue as to how long she’d be there, that had been terrifying. But lying under the floorboards felt completely different, because it was her choice to be there.

  The moment the man had arrived back in the house the last time, she had noticed the change in him. Before he came into her room, even. Usually he moved around the house quite quietly, and the last few times he had even knocked on the door before he’d come in to her, to give her water or just to see if she was okay. But this time when he came through the front door he’d slammed it so hard that the window in her room shook, and for at least fifteen minutes after that she could hear him stomping around upstairs.

  So when he burst through the door to her room – there was no polite knock this time – she was sitting bolt upright on the sofa, waiting for him.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  He hadn’t been expecting a direct question and answered her instinctively.

  ‘Your bloody father, that’s what’s wrong.’

  Confused, Leah had assumed he was talking about the ransom demand.

  ‘Fergal? What’s he done?’

  ‘Not Fergal.’

  The man made a fist with one hand and hit it against the flat palm of the other.

  ‘Not him, your father, the real guy. Marc Gilmore. Arrogant prick. So, come on, stand up, we have to leave.’

  ‘Leave?’

  Leah stared at him, trying to buy time. She’d been dreaming of getting out of this room, of being brought to safety, but somehow she didn’t think that was what he meant.

  The man stopped thumping and scowled at her.

  ‘Yeah, leave! Are you deaf? We have to move! The guards reckon they’re on to me, so your father says anyway. I have to get you out of here.’

  He’d grabbed her arm and dragged her out of the room, down the hall and through the front door. Taken by surprise, and dazed by the light outside, Leah hadn’t been able to resist and for the second time in three days she found herself being shoved into the back of the red van.

  ‘Now don’t move!’

  He’d slammed the door then and Leah cowered in the corner, blinking as the daylight disappeared. Except this time it didn’t, not entirely. The strip of light at the edge of the door was tiny, but it was there. Careful not to make a sound, Leah crawled forward, exploring the edge with her fingers. There was a tiny piece of plastic jammed in there, the top from a sports water bottle, and in his haste he hadn’t noticed that it had prevented the door from fully closing. Slowly, unable to breathe, she removed the plastic and slid the door open a couple of centimetres. The van was parked in a rough gravelled driveway in front of the house. The front door was open and upstairs, in what must have been a bedroom, she could see the back of the man’s head. Those loud noises she had heard earlier, the pulling and the dragging, must have been him packing, and even as she was figuring this out she could see his head rise as he reached for something from the top of a wardrobe.

  This, then, was her moment. She eased herself out of the van and crouched low. She had only moments, so which way to go? Which would be safest? As she looked around, she realized the answer wasn’t that simple. The house she had been held in was, as she had guessed, in a rural area. Ahead of her was a long, straight dirt track, which was probably the only way out to the main road, while the house itself was surrounded by fields, wide open fields, without so much as a tree behind which to hide. In the window above her head she saw the man disappear from view. She had only seconds, but if she ran now he’d get her for sure. Unless he just thought she was gone … The decision was made before she had time to think about it.

  Checking to make sure the van door was now shut tight, Leah tiptoed back into the house, down the hall and into the room where she’d spent the last three days. Moving as silently as she could she pulled back the carpet, lifted the boards and ducked into the crawl space. She didn’t have
time to arrange the boards properly, so pulled them down after her instead and hauled the carpet over her head. It wouldn’t fool him if he walked across it but if he just stuck his head through the door she might get away with it. Through the material she could hear him run down the stairs and slam the front door. There was a pause. Was he looking for her in the back of the van? It was too difficult to judge what he was doing from this distance. Her heart was beating so fast she was afraid she was going to pass out. This had been a terrible idea – he would kill her if he found her – and then Leah heard, muffled by the blocked-up windows but unmistakable, the sound of the van pulling away.

  He was gone. She was safe. Leah felt close to tears but there was no time for that, not now. Five minutes, maybe ten to be on the safe side, and then she’d run. She’d be free. It was over. She’d done it. She was going to be okay. After a moment, giving him time to get out of the driveway, she tugged the carpet away again, clearing a space over her head. The smell of the dirt and must in the room was so strong that it was another minute before she recognized the strong smell of petrol. Then the smoke.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  ‘You stupid idiot. You stupid, thoughtless fool of a man.’

  As Claire followed Fergal Dillon down the now familiar hall and into the kitchen, she heard Heather Gilmore’s voice rise almost to a scream.

  ‘What were you even thinking?’

  She and Flynn were back in Heather Gilmore’s home, but there would be no matching teacups and no discussion of the south Dublin property market this time. As Claire walked into the kitchen she could see that Heather was where she had last seen her, in the seated area overlooking the garden, but this time she was standing up, yelling at her former husband who stood in front of her, head bent, flinching occasionally as the abuse rained down.

  ‘You’ve made things worse, just like you always do!’

  Heather raised her hand and Claire thought she was actually going to strike him. Then she caught sight of the newcomers and turned to them.

  ‘Oh, good, you’re here. Maybe you can tell my cretin of a husband how stupid he’s been.’

  It was Fergal Dillon’s turn to flinch as everyone in the room apart from Heather took note that she had left out the ‘ex’. Now was not the time to point it out, though, Claire decided, as the doctor fell backwards onto the sofa, her rage temporarily spent, and broke into hard, painful sobs.

  Gilmore moved forward as if to comfort her, then stopped abruptly as Fergal Dillon brushed past him and sat on the sofa instead. It would be hard to imagine a more difficult situation for the three of them to be in, Claire thought. This might be Dillon’s family home now, but it had been Marc and Heather Gilmore who had bought it together, shared it for more than a decade and raised a child in it. Claire could tell from Dillon’s body language that he was aware of this too. He had draped an arm around his wife’s shoulders, but was sitting too close to the edge of the sofa for comfort and her body was angled away from him, making her look as if she was about to duck out of his hold.

  It was time to take charge. Claire nodded at Flynn and they sat opposite Heather on the second sofa. As she turned slightly towards them, Dillon reclaimed his arm and took his wife’s hand instead.

  Claire turned her attention to Marc Gilmore, who was standing, as if unsure as to where to go next.

  ‘When exactly did the latest text arrive?’

  Marc Gilmore walked over to her and handed her his phone.

  ‘Fifteen thirty-five exactly. And I called you straight away – look.’

  Claire had already seen a copy of the text when it had been forwarded to Collins Street, but took the phone anyway, angling the screen so Flynn could read it over her shoulder: I need 300K by 5 p.m. – you can wire it to the following account.

  A second message followed, giving the name of a popular internet payment site and a series of account numbers. Claire knew from the quick chat they’d had at the Garda station that Sean Gilligan’s people were working on tracing the account, but Richard had used a fake name and email address to set it up, all of which would take time to unravel. Whether they could do it before the two-hour deadline had passed was by no means guaranteed.

  ‘Should I pay it? Should I just pay it and get it over with?’

  His anguish clear, Fergal Dillon spoke directly to Claire.

  ‘I know you said not to but I can organise the transfer quite quickly.’

  The three of them, Leah’s parents and stepfather, were all looking at her now, waiting for reassurance she couldn’t give them.

  ‘That wouldn’t be our advice, no. We have no guarantees that Leah is safe and he hasn’t said what he’ll do even if you do hand over the money.’ Her words were drowned out as Heather Gilmore let out a loud, raw wail. She needed to keep things moving, Claire realized. The search in Perth was ongoing. It was by far their best chance of finding out who the man was and, from then, where he might be holding Leah. But it was clear her parents didn’t have much patience left and that could be dangerous. She turned to Marc Gilmore again.

  ‘We’ve traced the phone he used to text you, but it’s another pay-as-you-go, I’m afraid, and I’d say we can assume he’s already dumped it.’

  Gilmore scowled.

  ‘And that, what, forty minutes ago? What are you guys at? Jesus – this country! My daughter has been missing for three days and all you can do is arse around about text messages. Are you people for real?’

  ‘We have hundreds of officers involved in the search.’

  Claire paused before speaking again, keeping her voice deliberately low and calm so he’d have to strain to hear it.

  ‘I can give you a full update in a moment, but I just want to clarify something. When you got the text, Mr Gilmore, can you tell me what you did?’

  He pursed his lips, clearly ready to defend himself. But his ex-wife had heard the question too and spat to Claire:

  ‘He rang him! The idiot did exactly what you told him not to do and phoned the guy. And you didn’t just phone him, did you, Marc?’

  The big man hung his head again.

  ‘You threatened him! You threatened him and you told him—’

  Heather was sobbing now, her breath heaving between each word.

  ‘You told him that the cops knew who he was and that they were going to find him! Well, tell the woman! You fool! You’ve made things worse. That’s all you ever do!’

  And then Heather Gilmore fell backwards onto the sofa and began to weep again.

  Gilmore’s face flooded with colour as the other three looked at him for confirmation. After a moment he nodded, then passed one large hand wearily across his face.

  ‘Yes, I did. I rang him back and told him what you told me earlier, that you had his name and were close to tracing him. I’m sorry. I know it was the wrong thing to do. But you have to understand, Guard, I’m desperate and it seems to me that none of you are doing anything. You’re just sitting around and issuing appeals and making calls, and nobody is out there looking for her. Nobody is trying to find her.’

  ‘We are looking for her.’

  Although her own rage was easily equal to Heather’s, Claire kept her voice calm.

  ‘We are looking for her and, honestly, Mr Gilmore, what you did wasn’t helpful. It wasn’t helpful at all. I told you in confidence that we were close to identifying the man but we’re still waiting for vital information from Australia. What you did was really unhelpful.’

  ‘And it could get your daughter killed,’ was what she wanted to add, but didn’t.

  After a moment Flynn intervened:

  ‘There is a large team of detectives working on this case, Mr Gilmore, and you really would be better leaving it to them. We’re going through everything in great detail. Even the original investigation into Alan Delaney’s disappearance, we’re looking into it all.’

  Ah,
so that was how he was going to handle it. Claire hid a smile. Flynn had told her on the way over in the car of his suspicion that Gilmore hadn’t been telling the whole truth about that night. Maybe his panic would make him more honest now.

  Flynn was still talking in easy, reasonable tones.

  ‘You’d be surprised, really, the stuff we’re able to find out, the investigation we’re able to do even years after something happens. Take Alan Delaney’s death, for example. I’ve been looking back over those records and I found a few . . . shall we say discrepancies? But there are things we can do, like mobile phone triangulation. We can look at his exact movements on the night. Maybe the guards at the time were too quick to come to a conclusion. Who knows?’

  Gilmore was staring at him, his brow furrowed.

  ‘What – what the hell are you talking about? Alan Delaney, something that happened two years ago? Is any of that even relevant?’

  ‘It depends, Mr Gilmore.’

  Flynn was still speaking in that light, almost disinterested tone, and Claire felt her admiration for him grow.

  ‘We know Eileen Delaney did what she did because her son died. I suppose everything that happened that night is relevant, really, when you look at it like that. Remind me again, Mr Gilmore, where were you that night?’

  The older man’s colour rose even higher.

  ‘I’ve been over this fifty times. I stayed in the bedroom. I didn’t want to get in the kids’ way. Stupid, maybe, but that’s what happened.’

  Flynn nodded.

  ‘And did you stay there all night?’

  For a moment, everyone in the room was silent. And then, as Claire looked at him, Marc Gilmore’s head sank onto his chest.