Little Girl Lost

by Brian McGilloway

  ‘Her charm was in their van,’ Fleming countered.

  ‘They didn’t kill Peter Kent. I believe that Mullan did.’

  ‘And you might be right,’ Fleming agreed. ‘But Travers won’t listen to anything you have to say after yesterday.’

  ‘I know,’ Lucy said. She had hoped Fleming would argue on her behalf, but he had not offered any such thing.

  ‘Which means we need to find him without telling Travers,’ Fleming added.

  Lucy stared at him, unsure she had heard properly. ‘Travers will claim it as a CID success unless PPU put their stamp on it. We can claim we were following it up in terms of Alice instead of Kate.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Lucy said. ‘I appreciate it.’

  Fleming lightly waved away her thanks. ‘You need to dig out his files now, though, to see where to look.’

  CHAPTER 42

  Their first action was to call Mullan’s partner Gallagher. She did not know where he was, hadn’t seen him in days, she said. Then, over coffee, they pored over his records again in Lucy’s office in the PPU block at Maydown. Mullan had been lifted with Kent for the roadside bomb that had not gone off. The arrest had been made over the border, in Monaghan. But the PSNI and the RUC before them had known of Mullan. He was arrested a number of times in connection with other attacks, including, they noticed, the docks bombing which had brought down the riverside building Michael McLaughlin owned. In each case, there had been insufficient evidence to charge him. Even his arrest in Monaghan had been more luck than police work. A Garda patrol setting up a checkpoint on the border had literally come upon them where they had hidden. They’d had the detonators on them.

  Fleming and Lucy split the intelligence reports on Mullan, and scanned through them for mention of any locations where he might have set up his operations. It was Lucy who made a connection first.

  ‘He was lifted four times on Trench Road,’ she commented. ‘Coming in from Donemana.’

  Fleming glanced up from his own sheaf of notes.

  ‘He claimed to have been coming from a local farm; said he helped out the owner, John McCauley, with his cattle.’

  ‘Maybe he was.’

  ‘Kent’s house, on Strabane Old Road, was registered to someone called McCauley too.’

  ‘Which means it’s worth taking a closer look at, I think,’ Fleming said, closing the file he held.

  ‘Should we contact Travers first?’ Lucy suggested.

  ‘We’re not going to do anything,’ Fleming said. ‘We’re just taking a look.’

  The narrow country tracks on the back road to Donemana were slow to travel. The snow had melted off most of the houses out in the open now, but the fields and road, in the shadow of the hedgerows, still held a thin crust of ice.

  The slower speed of travel suited them anyhow, for it gave them both a chance to examine each property as they passed. At one stage, they had to pull in tight against the hedge as a tractor trundled down the road towards them. Even with that, there was little gap between the vehicles.

  Fleming rolled down his window and flagged down the driver. The man, an old toothless figure wrapped in a blanket over his clothes as he drove, glared down from his seat.

  ‘We’re looking for John McCauley!’ Fleming shouted, striving to be heard above the rumble of the tractor engine.

  ‘Wha’?’ the man called, his hand behind his ear to emphasize his inability to hear.

  ‘John McCauley!’ Fleming shouted a second time. Mouthing the words exaggeratedly in the hope that, if the man didn’t hear him, he’d at least be able to read his lips.

  ‘Ma’Cauley?’ he called back.

  Fleming nodded.

  The old man spluttered, twisting in his seat and pointing backwards. ‘Mile or two up on the left. Wasting your time, though,’ he added, flashing his gums as he smiled.

  Fleming raised his arms in bewilderment rather than shouting again.

  ‘JP’s dead this past eight month. Farm’s empty.’

  Fleming waved his thanks. The old man snapped down the window flap and the tractor spluttered into action again, narrowly missing removing Lucy’s bumper as it passed. She pulled back out onto the road and continued towards where the old man had pointed.

  Sure enough, just over a mile further up the road, they came to a dilapidated farm building. The five-barred gate across the main entrance was closed and chained. A For Sale sign swung on one chain from a post fixed to the gate frame. Selling such property in a recession would be difficult, Lucy thought, remembering the problems Margaret had claimed McLaughlin was having in shifting his land.

  They stared in at the place, which looked abandoned. There was a barn, its large metal door lying open showing a bare interior. An old rusted car was parked in front of the house, the tyres absent, the bonnet removed exposing the innards of the engine block, which protruded in places through a coat of snow.

  The house was in a similar state of disrepair, the glass panel in the front door smashed, the window on the left-hand side boarded up. It was a small, two-storey affair, shaded by a semicircle of large oaks whose thick boughs cast long shadows across the yard and on up the brickwork. Lucy followed their path. Two bedrooms upstairs, perhaps, Lucy thought. Most of the roof was covered with snow, save for a small patch to the front right.

  ‘Look at the roof,’ she commented, pointing.

  Fleming leaned across and she could feel the pressure of his body against hers as he placed his cheek close to her arm to follow the direction she was pointing.

  ‘The melted spot?’

  Lucy nodded, lowering her hand, but Fleming did not sit back.

  ‘Could be the sun,’ he commented, glancing across at the trees.

  ‘The patch is still in shadow,’ Lucy said.

  Fleming sat back. ‘Drive on,’ he said. ‘As if we’re leaving. Then park the next chance you get.’

  Lucy did as she was instructed, pulling into a lay-by about a hundred yards further along the road. They got out of the car, both checking their weapons. The air was fresh, the cover of the trees keeping it well chilled.

  Fleming moved across to the side of the road and climbed down into the ditch bordering it. Lucy followed him down, along the ditch, then up and out the other side, picking their way through the trees lining the road and finally into the field adjacent to the property. From this position, they could see the rear end of a red van parked inside the barn, but angled in such a way that it could not be seen from the main road.

  ‘Someone’s here,’ Fleming commented. ‘Call for back-up.’

  ‘Travers claimed someone tipped them off about a red van near Prehen woods. He said it was Cunningham’s,’ Lucy said as she took out her phone, having to remove her gloves to be able to press the buttons.

  Meanwhile, Fleming kept moving up the field towards the house. There were no windows facing them which meant that their approach would be unlikely to be seen, unless the watcher were outside the house.

  She put through the request with the 999 operator and hung up, following Fleming who was crouching as he moved, staying close to the cover offered by the line of trees separating the road from the field.

  As they edged nearer the barn, they could see the red van parked inside. The bodywork was coated in the white dust of road salt, suggesting that the vehicle had been used recently. Certainly it had not been lying here since McCauley’s death if he had died eight months previously as they had been told.

  They were moving towards the front of the house when Lucy’s phone began to ring. Cursing, she fumbled in her pocket for it while Fleming swore at her. She opened the phone and recognized the number as Travers’s.

  ‘Stay where you are, do you hear me?’ he snapped. ‘We’re on our way.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Lucy managed, even as Fleming reached the front door and, twisting the handle, pushed it open.

  ‘He said to wait,’ Lucy hissed to Fleming as she closed the phone.

  ‘If Mullan’s here and heard your phon
e, Kate’ll be dead by the time they get here,’ he snapped. ‘Take the back door. I’ll go in the front.’

  He moved against the wall of the house, leaving Lucy to sprint around the back as quickly as possible while trying not to slip on the patches of ice still packed on the path.

  Passing a low window into the kitchen she risked a quick glimpse in, seeing only that the room was empty. She moved to the back door and placed her hand on the handle. She depressed the handle and, pushing open the door, entered the kitchen. Then, holding her gun in front of her, she scanned the room.

  The kitchen was empty. A stained mug and a few crusts of bread lay on top of a small wooden table in one corner. Lucy was struck by the disconcerting heat in the room and realized that the stove in the corner was turned on – two rings burned with intense blue flames. Mullan must be near.

  She moved out of the kitchen into the hallway to see Fleming emerge from the room to the front left of the house. He gestured that he had checked both rooms and they were clear. Then he pointed upstairs. Lucy nodded and pointed her gun upwards.

  Fleming took the first step slowly, placing his foot lightly to ensure creaking stairs did not betray his movements.

  Lucy moved behind him slowly, her gun trained up the stairs, in case someone tried to shoot down at them. Fleming picked his way carefully, each tread of his foot placed as softly as possible. A thick flowered carpet on the stairs helped cushion both the pressure and the noise of his ascent as Lucy followed behind, trying to place her steps in the wake of his.

  They reached the turn in the stairs. Three doors led off from the landing above, all closed. Lucy recognized the sweet smell of a gas heater, felt the contradictory sensations of heat from above and the chill of the house below. The heat at least accounted for the snow melting off the roof.

  ‘They must be in that room,’ Lucy whispered, pointing over Fleming’s shoulder towards the room beneath where the snow had melted, off to their left.

  Fleming nodded in acknowledgement, then raised his index finger to silence her. They moved again upwards, in unison, their bodies so close together that Lucy could feel each movement of Fleming’s back with each slow breath he took.

  At the top of the stairs, they reached the door she had indicated. Fleming lowered his head near the door, straining to hear any movement inside. He reached out and gripped the handle. Then, mouthing a count of three to Lucy, he shoved open the door and rushed into the room. Lucy followed, aiming her gun over his shoulder.

  Kate McLaughlin lay on a mattress against the wall. Her mouth was covered with black duct tape, her hands bound in front of her, her ankles taped together. She was blindfolded with black cloth that accentuated the pallor of her skin. She made no response to their entrance into the room, made no indication that she had heard them. Lucy moved to her quickly. Fleming tapped Lucy on the shoulder.

  ‘I’ll check the other rooms,’ he whispered.

  The air in the room was heavy with the smell of the gas burner in the corner, its hiss so loud Lucy could not hear if Kate McLaughlin was breathing. She felt for her pulse and, for a moment, thought the girl was dead. Her skin was cold, her pulse so faint, Lucy had to clasp her wrist for over a minute to be sure she had felt anything at all.

  Lucy heard the creaking tread of Fleming’s footfalls in the room next to her, then heard him again on the landing. She tugged lightly at the tape on Kate’s mouth, felt the tug of the girl’s skin against the glue, and heard her moan softly in reaction. Then, pulling out her keys, she used the edge of her front-door key to begin sawing through the tape binding her legs.

  Outside she heard Fleming push open the door of the final room. Instantly, the place shook with the low reverberation of a gunshot. She heard a thud of something falling heavily, then the further thumping of someone tumbling down the stairs. Leaving Kate, she lifted her gun and ran out to check on Fleming.

  He lay on the landing, blood oozing from between his fingers as he clasped his hand against a wound on his shoulder, trying to stem the flow. Fleming must have tripped Mullan as he made for the stairs, for the man’s gun lay on a step halfway down where he must have dropped it.

  ‘He’s gone down,’ Fleming hissed. Sweat popped on his forehead, his own skin pale and clammy-looking.

  Lucy took the stairs two at a time, twisting on the turn and aiming her gun downwards, scanning the hallway. She heard the slamming of the rear door and guessed that Mullan was making for his van. She took the rest of the stairs as quickly as she could. She moved quietly down the hallway. She could see both the front and rear doors from where she stood and both were closed, so Mullan was still in the house.

  Lucy steadied herself, crouching slightly, holding her gun in both hands. She edged closer to the kitchen. She heard a creak from above and glanced up quickly, training her gun on the area where the noise had come from. Fleming was struggling to his knees, using the banisters for support. She had just turned again to the kitchen when Mullan rushed out at her.

  He carried her down with his weight, pinning her against the floor, knocking the gun from her grip, the weapon discharging harmlessly. His face was twisted, his eyes glistening with the adrenalin rush propelling him. He grappled with her until he managed to get his hands to her throat, then banged her head against the floor twice, in quick succession.

  She felt herself weaken, felt her head go light. For a moment she thought he had released his hold, but when she tried to move his weight still pinned her.

  Then the whole room reverberated with a sharp crack and Mullan fell sideways across her. She twisted, trying to push him off. He was crawling himself now, reaching out for her gun, just beyond his reach.

  Just above him, on the bottom step, Fleming held his gun in his uninjured arm. ‘Stop, or I will shoot,’ he called.

  Mullan scrabbled for the gun, but Fleming shot twice more, in quick succession. Mullan was dead with the first shot.

  CHAPTER 43

  Some of the press arrived while Kate was still receiving attention in the rear of one of the ambulances that had arrived shortly after the police. Lucy and Fleming sat in the back of another, while Fleming’s wound was tended.

  Travers was talking to the press, about a job well done, the successful end of an operation. Lucy silently laughed at the word ‘operation’; it suggested something planned, clinical, precise. But while Travers was the main speaker, the press seemed more interested in her and Fleming. She could tell from the angle of the cameras that they weren’t filming Travers; they were filming past him. Through the open front door of the house, Mullan’s body could be seen lying, covered in a blanket.

  Travers had been furious with both Lucy and Fleming for going into the house without him. She sensed that he felt cheated, that it was not enough to have the case solved; he needed to be the one solving it. Still, he could not argue with the fact that Kate McLaughlin had been recovered and was still alive.

  The girl herself had said little since being rescued. The medics suggested that the gas fumes in the room, with the door closed, would have left her groggy and uncommunicative for the first few hours. That wasn’t taking into account the ordeal she had endured for the guts of a week.

  The first ambulance had already left with Tom Fleming, the medics tending to the wound on his shoulder. Despite his protests that it was only a flesh wound, they were taking no chances.

  The press pack shifted suddenly as a car sped up the country road and slid to a halt at the five-barred gate. Michael McLaughlin was out of the car and across the lane, pushing through the reporters who pressed their questions and microphones ever more forcibly in front of him.

  He placed his foot on the middle bar of the gate and hoisted himself over, looking desperately for his daughter. When he saw her shape in the rear of the ambulance he let out a low cry and rushed towards the vehicle.

  The girl had obviously seen him too for she stood, her silver heat blanket wrapped around her shoulders like a shawl, and opened her arms. Her father embraced h
er, gathering her in against his chest as he began to weep.

  Lucy found herself welling up just watching them. She thought of her own father, her own sense of disappointment at what she had learned about him.

  A second car pulled up on the road beyond and the press scrimmage was repeated when the door opened and ACC Wilson stepped out. Ignoring the reporters, she crossed to the gate and waited for one of the Uniforms standing there to open it for her. She entered the yard and came straight across to the ambulance where Lucy sat.

  ‘Lucy?’ she began. ‘How are you doing?’

  ‘I’m fine, Mum,’ Lucy said.

  If her mother heard the final word, she did not react. ‘You shot the suspect, is that right?’

  Lucy shook her head. ‘My gun discharged in the struggle but it was Inspector Fleming who actually shot him.’

  Her mother raised her hand. ‘Better him than you. How are you feeling?’

  Lucy felt her voice quiver slightly. ‘Fine.’

  Her mother stared at her appraisingly. ‘You’ll be suspended pending an investigation. I need you to write up your report now while the events are fresh in your mind. I need you to surrender your weapon when you get back to the station.’

  ‘I didn’t do anything wrong, did I?’

  Her mother shook her head. ‘Those are all formalities, Lucy, standard procedures in any shooting. You know that. You’ll be back in action within a day or two if I can push this through. Let me speak with the Chief Super, then I’ll take you back to the station.’

  She turned to go, then thought better of it and turned to face her again. ‘And well done on rescuing Kate McLaughlin.’

  Lucy sat in her office while she compiled her version of events. She wrote it simply, without embellishment. She wondered if Kate McLaughlin had spoken yet, if she had revealed anything about Alice and the role the child had played in her escape from Kent’s house. She also felt the urge to see Alice again, to explain that the wolf was dead, that she need no longer be afraid.

  The story had already broken on TV. She had seen herself in grainy footage, sitting in the back of the ambulance. The press had already decided the angle they would report, calling herself and Fleming heroes. Fleming, in particular, was praised for being wounded in the rescue of the girl.