Helter Skelter

by Des Sheridan

  ‘Tara, you need help. That means you need helpers around you. You can’t sail this ship alone, you need crew!’

  She was very nervous and hesitant and bottled out twice but eventually spat it out in a jumbled sort of way. Robert’s response was not what she was anticipated at all. He smiled.

  ‘Now why doesn’t that surprise me?’ he said. ‘OK, so it’s going to be Ground Control to Major Cornelius from here on in?’

  They all laughed, recalling the David Bowie lyric. Tara felt enormous relief. Robert hadn’t distance himself from her interpretation. He was reacting to the situation with humour, however disturbing or improbable the implications might be. She had been certain that he would walk - back off immediately and withdraw into the safety of his professional comfort zone. Instead he had listened and accepted the situation, without questioning or comment.

  She realised now that she needed him and Malachy to stick with her in this. Unlike them she didn’t have the luxury of choosing to step away. She couldn’t stop the dreams coming. She had to see the situation through or admit that she was going insane. And then there was Shay. She didn’t want to think about him right now, in fact she desperately needed company so that she didn’t have to think about him. She was struggling to cope with the feelings of guilt, which were arriving periodically in waves.

  Supper time was approaching so Tara retrieved from the fridge a plate of sandwiches that Mrs Ryan had readied earlier and placed it on the kitchen table. The two men’s appetites were unaffected by events but Tara found she had none at all. Outside, darkness had fallen and Tara got up to pull the curtains. Through the window pane she caught sight of a Garda carrying a sub-machine gun. He made no attempt to conceal it. The sight cut though her attempt to shut out the world. She thought of Shay. And she thought of the people who had killed him. The blood in her veins ran cold and again she felt alone and vulnerable. What was so important about the find that people would kill for it? Was it just the lure of the gold or something else?

  Chapter 8

  Limerick, Ireland, 29 September 2014

  Pascal was not in a good mood. He stood at the foot of the bed, near the window, and looked out. Outside a light morning mist was rising from the beautifully manicured grounds of the Limerick stud. He pulled his clothes on determinedly, Kirsten’s shrill voice ringing in his ears.

  ‘I just don’t follow why you don’t trust me. I hope you did kill the Healey man; it would show you had real balls. But no, you just deny it and freeze me out. You bastard! I am your equal! Why can’t you accept that?’

  Down on the lawn he saw to two groundsmen look up. Perhaps they could hear her voice. He crossed swiftly to the bed, grabbed a wrist and wrenched her over in the bed. Her gorgeous breasts looked up at him and for a moment he was tempted. She was luscious and she opened her mouth seductively. But he was not in the mood. He spat the words at her.

  ‘Shut up, for fuck’s sake, Kirsten. We are not at home. I do not want any scenes, nor do I want gossip. Do you understand? We will talk later but for now shut your face!’

  He resumed putting on his cufflinks. Then stepped into his trousers and pulled the belt tight.

  ‘Pascal, I’m sorry. Don’t go. Come back to bed. I am a bad girl. You can punish me! I need you to!’

  ‘You heard me, later. We will sort this out then.’

  Grabbing a jacket off the back of a chair he left the room. The last thing he saw was her face crumpled in petulance, surrounded by crumpled sheets. She could be so childish sometimes. It was maddening!

  The building was a large modern country house and he tripped down the wide staircase and out through a French window on to the area of raised path and beds that fringed the house.

  The two groundsmen stared at him as he passed. He nodded at them but kept going, pulling a cheroot out of a silver case and lighting up.

  It felt immediately better to be on his own but his ire was raised. Fine, if Kirsten wanted punishment, she would have it. In general Pascal went to some lengths to avoid leaving marks on her. She was his public consort, and a celebrity model in her own right, so he had to be careful. That was why he often used specially designed electronic gadgets to inflict the pain. But this time she had really annoyed him. A subtler form of punishment was needed but he couldn’t think what.

  Of much greater importance however was his main objective, to get access to the Triskell. He was getting very close, he reckoned. This current moment of opportunity, he sensed, was on a par with the decision to kill Le Maitre. With the ability of the Triskell to read the future under his control, he would acquire huge power. But it would only happen if he seized the chance. That was why he had destroyed the Healey man with such flamboyance. The occasion merited it. And he would not flinch. He would destroy anyone who got in the way of his attempt to achieve power. He would play merry havoc with them. The prize not only merited it, it called for it. His hour had arrived and that reminded him that he needed Freya’s advice on how to play some of his cards.

  Freya had been a friend of his mother’s and was the medium when they had summoned up Ambiorix in his childhood. She was one of the best mediums in Europe and he had used her many times since. Freya also had an unrivalled knowledge of Celtic religion and was his special adviser on the topic. He was determined to revitalise the Samhain ceremony and needed a deeper understanding of the autumn ritual. He would contact Freya today and invite her to join them in Ireland. Then a door unlocked itself in Pascal’s mind. Through Freya’s arrival he could open up a new front in his battle with Kirsten, for she was insanely jealous of the access that Freya had to him. He would use that vulnerability to bend Kirsten back to his will. But in the meantime he would play a game with Kirsten. He would invite her to breakfast and announce that they were returning to Sligo. She would see that as a concession and he would not disabuse her of that interpretation. Pascal walked back towards the house, his good humour restored.

  Chapter 9

  Sligo, Ireland, 28 September 2014

  Tara hugged Niamh tightly, thinking how complicated sibling relationships were. Years of competition and daily tussles to maintain position in the pecking order were the normal rules of engagement. It was the cause of their estrangement. Yet the underlying affection on both sides was visceral, if only expressed openly at moments of arrival and departure. It had never been clear how long Niamh and her family would stay, but Neil discovered that he could manage his business pretty well by phone and e-mail, so it had ended up being all summer and into September. It had never been stated but Tara knew they stayed because of her ill-health; they were supporting her and Brian. They had intended to return home the following week, when Aoife’s school re-opened, but the murder of Shay brought their departure forward. With armed police all around, Rosnaree wasn’t the right place for a child so they had decided it was time to go home to County Clare.

  ‘Stay in touch, won’t you?’ Niamh pleaded, the disbelieving tone in her voice voicing her doubt on the matter.

  ‘Yes Niamh, don’t worry, of course I will,’ Tara replied, although she knew she probably wouldn’t. She had maintained very little contact when she had lived in America. Mind you she would genuinely miss Aoife’s non-judgemental company. She turned to hug her niece goodbye.

  As their light blue Peugeot estate disappeared down the drive, Tara saw DI Flanagan’s BMW pull over to let them pass. It was time for her interview with the police. She didn’t mind, she was reasonably ready for it.

  The Inspector’s manner was pleasant enough, only probing where she needed to. Tara gave her a shortened version of the row with Shay, saying only that he had overstepped the amorous mark. On Boston she was more forthcoming, providing a toned-down, potted summary and contact details for further inquiries. She was glad the Detective was a woman. Flanagan’s blue eyes seemed to Tara to be non-judgemental. Tara was less in command when giving her account of finding Shay, faltering several times as the horror of it came back, and Flanagan didn’t press too hard thankfull
y.

  The Inspector looked at her watch. ‘I would like to brief you and Mr Grainger on our inquiries at the cave, but am awaiting a call on the early forensics. Could we meet again please this afternoon?’

  Chapter 10

  Bay of Biscay, 1660

  Donovan slept late and only stirred when he heard his door being rattled.

  ‘Yes, who is it?’

  ‘It’s me, Tom, with your breakfast.’

  Donovan got up and unlatched the door. The boy entered carrying a bowl of hot porridge and prunes and placed it on the small table. He made no eye contact but otherwise behaved as normal. Donovan closed the door.

  ‘Will you be up the sails again today, boy?

  ‘I expect so sir.’

  The lad looked much as he always did, dressed in the same dirty clothes, but for the first time Donovan observed him closely. The unkempt curls still danced about when he moved but no longer conveyed to Donovan an impression of gaiety. Tom’s eyes he now noticed were watchful and the pupils enlarged as though he was in a daze.

  ‘You mean they hold no fear for you.’

  ‘Why no sir, when I am aloft I feel free, I...’

  The boy halted, sensing that there might be more to the exchange then was safe. Donovan grabbed hold of his wrist.

  ‘Promise me, when you get back to London you will leave this ship.’

  Tom, frightened now, tried to pull away.

  ‘What? What are you saying? Who are you?’

  ‘You know what I mean. The Captain is not good for you. He means you harm! Go home! I know, look!’

  He tugged up the boy’s shirt sleeve, revealing a forearm blue with bruising.

  Tom’s face reddened, realising what the passenger must have guessed. Donovan released his grip and the lad pulled back a foot. But he did not run. Lowering his voice he muttered.

  ‘I can’t go home. I stole things. They will get me. It would mean prison!’

  Donovan, raised his hand to his mouth, thinking.

  ‘Very well, when do we reach Bilbao?’

  ‘The Captain says we made good time yesterday. We will dock tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Good then, tomorrow, come ashore after me and journey with me. Have no fear! Although I wear no outward sign, I am a man of the cloth. You need not fear me. Not much anyway, apart from the odd clout if you vex me. But here, not just your body but your soul is at risk. Do you understand what I mean?

  The boy nodded and blushed, looking down, his features contorting in shame.

  ‘You won’t say will you?’ his voice pleaded. Donovan shook his head in reply and continued.

  ‘Well then, answer me! Will you escape him?’

  ‘I...I don’t know, maybe. I speak no Spanish! How can I?’

  ‘I promise I will protect you. When we are safe you can go your own way. Will you at least think about it? It is your choice.’

  ‘Aye, I will give it thought, sir. Now is there anything else you need before I go? He will be wondering where I am.’

  ‘Yes there is one thing. For my safety I need a knife or dagger and a sharp one. Just in case. Could you get me one without anyone noticing?’

  The lad thought, then nodded and vanished swiftly out the door. Donovan felt better; he had done his duty, the charitable thing. His conscience felt relieved.

  A noise made him turn and he jumped involuntarily. The hulk that was the Captain filled the doorway. Another one of his unannounced visits.

  ‘My friend, it would be good for us to converse more. I still know so little about you and when we dock I will see you no more! I am a story teller and you must tell me tales of your life so that I can pass them on. It is the way of things! Come to my cabin this afternoon and be my guest? We can have a little Madeira wine?

  Donovan’s throat had gone dry and he hoped his voice didn’t convey the dread he felt.

  ‘Of course Captain, it would be an honour.’

  Chapter 11

  Sligo, Ireland, 28 September 2014

  When Tara and Robert met up again with DI Flanagan they found that Mac was in tow and he stayed put when the DI invited them to sit down. Her manner was very different from Robert’s last encounter with her; she was more forthcoming and less hostile. Something had changed.

  ‘Well, I’m pleased to report that our investigations have taken us quite a way since yesterday. And I am grateful for Mac’s advice on various points. You know that we didn’t enter the caves until yesterday morning. As a result of the heavy rains the crime scene was a washout. Most of the forensic evidence has been contaminated or destroyed. But we set to work anyway and we also conducted inquiries about Mr Healey’s whereabouts in recent days. We found Mr Healey’s car abandoned near a petrol station this side of Castlebar.’

  This was interesting, thought Robert. What had happened in the cave was so barbaric that it was hard to credit actual human beings were involved. But the DI was starting to unravel the trail Shay and the killers had left.

  The DI continued, pacing the floor.

  ‘In the car was a suitcase with clothes. Mr Healey’s middle brother, Tim, has confirmed that his brother had contacted him by phone and asked him to pack clothes as he was going away for a few months. The brother says that Mr Healy was buoyant but agitated when he met him, saying that some media people wanted information on Rosnaree and he had obliged. But they wanted more and were forcing his hand, so he was getting out of town until the heat died down. We also found Mr Healey’s mobile phone cast away in the weeds a couple of yards off the road. No prints interestingly. The device had a tracker in it and we believe that his pursuers used it to follow and locate him. We think that they then abducted him and took him to the cave, where they tortured him for further information and then killed him. It is a fair bet that they wanted information on the gold hoard so that they could plan to steal it. Or at least that is my working hypothesis – there to be proven or disproved. So I would like you both to know that you should consider yourselves potential targets and not expose yourselves to risk.’

  Robert and Tara just looked at each other in silence. It was one of those situations where no acknowledged the obvious until someone just blurted it out. It was not a comforting thought.

  Flanagan paused and sat down, bringing herself closer to them.

  ‘And that brings me to something I need to discuss with you, the manner of Mr Healy’s death. Forensics advise that Mr Healey had been dead at least twenty-four hours before you found him. We will need to confirm your alibis but I know already from others that your whereabouts at the time are accounted for. So you are no longer prime suspects. The killers probably thought that it would be at least the weekend before anyone would go in there. But there are some aspects of his death that puzzle me, and I hope you can help me.’

  They both nodded.

  ‘The first thing is the brazenness of the killing. I suspect it is a signal to you – and by ‘you’ I mean all those closely associated with the find – of how determined they are. But who is to say? Can either of you think of anyone you know who would be prepared to kill to achieve their aims?’

  Robert found the woman’s sifting of the evidence and her thoughtful analysis fascinating; you could almost see her brain at work. Beneath her demure appearance the DI’s mind was rich with the colour and detail of a good observer. He realised that her appearance was itself a careful distraction. She was smarter than she looked. Robert spoke up.

  ‘It’s a good question Inspector and I have been wrestling with it for the last two days. I have met killers before, face to face, who wouldn’t hesitate to murder in order to thieve artefacts in places like Iraq and Bulgaria. But no one I have met in Ireland matches the profile.’

  DI Flanagan followed through, ‘and you, Ms Ruane?’

  ‘No,’ shrugged Tara. ‘I have no idea at all. I don’t mix in archaeological circles or the antiques trade and I only returned to Ireland recently. But there is something that has struck me about the murder. It does feel personal. The m
urder was so vicious, there is such anger behind it.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed the DI. ‘I know what you mean. The aura of violence in that cave is overwhelming. As though some mad creature did the killing, but believe me, whoever they are, they are real and human. And I say ‘they’ for an obvious reason. Mr Healey was no pushover so it must have taken at least two men to overpower him. It is just possible that Mr Healey got caught up in something else, for instance paramilitaries or cross-border drugs. But I doubt it. Paramilitaries don’t behead people in caves as a rule. No, I think this is linked to the treasure; it provides the motivation. Now if you will bear with me I would like to show you some pictures of people, to see if you recognise any of them.’

  Robert was able to identify Tríona and some other faces that he couldn’t put a name too, but he had seen amongst the protestors in recent days. Another face was familiar, that of the handsome man with streaked hair that had been at the second press conference. When it was her turn, Tara picked him out too.

  ‘I met that man the other day at the press gathering. I think he said his name was Pierre or something. He was very charming.’

  ‘I am not suggesting that any of these people are murderers, but they are all linked to what you might call fringe Celtic groupings,’ replied DI Flanagan. ‘And that brings me to the other puzzling aspect of the killing, the symbolism. What did you make of that – in the cave, I mean?’

  Tara and Robert looked at each other, not comprehending. Robert spoke first after a pause.

  ‘However farfetched the analogy I suppose it needs to be said. Celtic warriors usually beheaded their slain enemies. Is that what you mean?’

  ‘Yes, and the rest as well,’ Flanagan added.