Excited and fearful, anticipating his rescue and the welcoming embrace of his mother, he drew closer. The headlights flicked on, dazzling him with their light. He raised his hands to shield his eyes and the light dimmed. They flashed on and off, beckoning him closer. He took a few more steps.
‘Come here,’ said a voice from the driver’s window. ‘I won’t harm you. I’m a policeman.’
‘My name is Jack Hewson,’ he shouted. ‘The police are looking for me.’
He walked closer to the driver’s window and saw a look, puzzled yet knowing, flash across the driver’s squinting features. His eyes were bloodshot, and he seemed very old to be a police officer.
‘What makes you believe the police are looking for you?’
‘I ran away with the travellers. My mum and dad are searching for me.’
‘Your face is dirty. You look like a gypsy to me.’
Jack did not know what to say. The encounter was not going as he had expected.
‘Why did you run away?’
He held back from answering the question. Instead, he asked, ‘When is my mum coming to get me?’
‘That depends. Where’s your daddy?’
‘He was meant to be here. But he hasn’t shown. Are you really a policeman?’
‘Yes.’ The driver’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’ve been a policeman a very long time. Before you or your father were born, as a matter of fact.’
‘So what are you going to do?’
‘What do you want me to do?’ Not a muscle moved on his face. In the moonlight, he resembled a tired old owl staring at its prey.
‘I want you to take me home.’
Dogs from the camp began yelping in the moonlight.
‘I will, very soon. But first you must be patient.’
‘Why?’
He grimaced, and craned his neck out of the window. He looked up and down the road. ‘Do you know where you are, Jack?’
The boy stared into the bottomless darkness of the pine trees, their needles shivering with drops of rain. Deep within the forest, he could see lights from the caravan camp, swaying through the trees.
‘No.’
‘You’re on the wrong side of the border, son. Which means I can’t do a damn thing for you right now. I’ll have to make contact with the Gardai station in the next town and get their permission before I can rescue you. Do you understand?’
‘Yes.’
The driver glanced at his watch, leaned forward and sniffed the air. ‘In a little while, I’ll come back with a team of officers. We’ll rescue you from the gypsies and take you back home. But first I need you to tell me some things. OK?’
Jack nodded.
‘How many travellers are in the camp?’
He made a rough guess, and then the driver fired more questions at him. He wanted to know about the travellers’ vehicles. He mentioned some names but Jack did not recognize them.
‘Are there any other children like you? Children who are missing?’ His eyes bored into Jack’s.
‘I’m the only one.’ He hesitated, unsure whether to mention what was on his mind. ‘But I’ve heard them talk about a woman who is missing, too. Someone called Mary O’Sullivan.’
A shadow crossed the driver’s face, darkening his eyes. ‘What do you know about her?’
‘Nothing.’
‘You’re lying. You’re keeping a secret. I can see it in your eyes.’
Watching the driver’s empty staring face, he no longer felt elation at the thought of being rescued. Instead, he felt fear, the same fear that had been plaguing him for days. Why was the policeman asking him so many questions? The lights from the forest played across the man’s face. Their movement gave Jack the feeling he was staring at a dangerous border, a point of intersection, where different stories and identities criss-crossed each other.
‘Your gypsy friends picked the wrong place to run with their secrets,’ said the driver. In spite of his age and tiredness, he looked capable of swooping down with his claws and carrying off his prey. ‘Their backs are to the mountain, and there’s only one road in and out. In an hour or so, my men will arrive and tear the camp apart. Then you and I can continue our little conversation.’
Jack said nothing as the driver leaned back in his seat.
‘Are you going to run back and tell everything to the gypsies?’
He shook his head.
‘Good.’
For the first time, the driver smiled. He gave Jack the thumbs up and drove slowly away. For some reason, the gesture did nothing to alleviate Jack’s worries as he lurched back through the trees.
*
Daly’s conversation with Caroline Black had given him a new edge. When he returned to the incident room at police headquarters, he got himself some coffee straight away and read the latest updates on the search for Jack Hewson. He was completely absorbed in his concentration. It had been at least a year since he felt so like a proper police detective. The leads were beginning to come to him, the urgency and complexity of the investigation growing like a balloon, slowly taking him up and away from his dispiriting personal life.
His eye caught a name in the duty inspector’s summary of the previous night’s crime reports. He was at pains not to show his surprise as Irwin was lurking somewhere behind. He did not want to draw the Special Branch detective’s attention to what had snagged his interest, but now that he had spotted the name, it was unignorable, hovering above all the tawdry details of car accidents, petty vandalism, assaults and attempted burglaries. As soon as Irwin slipped away, he scrutinized the bare details of the crime report, and then he tracked down the duty inspector, who was about to go home.
‘What happened last night in Culdaff graveyard?’ Daly asked him.
‘Some vandals attacked a grave.’
‘Can’t you tell me more than that?’
The officer wore a tired expression. ‘A passing motorist spotted two men with a mini-digger just after midnight. The vandals scarpered when the police patrol arrived and left the digger behind.’
‘What damage did they do?’
‘They’d dug right down to the coffin.’
‘Any fingerprints on the digger or other evidence left behind?’
‘No, thank goodness.’
‘What do you mean, thank goodness?’
‘They were a couple of mindless vandals. Most probably drunk. What’s the point pursuing them and causing more work for us?’
Daly was silent for a while, thinking through the details he had gleaned from the duty inspector, who was so clearly keen to get home to his bed.
‘Anyone inform the next of kin?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Get some rest and say no more about this.’
He tracked down Detective O’Neill in the incident room.
‘How’s Rebecca bearing up?’ he asked.
‘Not very good at all.’
‘Did you tell her about the map in Hewson’s camper van?’
‘Yes. She doesn’t understand what the pins mean.’
‘Do you think she’s telling the truth?’
‘I can’t believe she had no idea what her husband was doing or thinking. It makes me suspicious of her.’
‘It’s not unusual for husbands and wives to keep secrets from each other. What else did she say?’
‘She remembered more about the telephone conversation with the traveller woman. They asked her for copies of Harry and Jack’s birth certificates.’
Daly said nothing. He was thinking of his conversation with the police ombudsman.
‘What does it all mean, Celcius?’
‘It means that everything is connected. Samuel Reid’s death, Jack’s disappearance, the intruders raiding O’Sullivan’s mansion, and now Hewson’s murder. Our only problem is finding the evidence that will lead us to the murderer before he strikes again.’
Daly grabbed his coat and made for the door. ‘Let me know when the forensics team come back with their report on Hewson’s camp
er van. I want a full analysis of all fingerprints and DNA traces. See if they match any paramilitaries or former members of the army or the police. Check with the records of anyone who was even held in custody during the Troubles.’
‘Where are you going? You just got here.’
‘To talk to someone I should have brought in for questioning last week.’ Then, before leaving, he shouted back: ‘I almost forgot. Get some officers down to Culdaff graveyard immediately, and tell them not to take their eyes off Samuel Reid’s grave. Someone very dangerous is desperate to remove his remains.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Jack waited for the sound of the policeman’s car trundling along the track. He listened above the crackling of the fire, the drunken murmuring of the travellers’ voices and the pounding of the blood in his head. He shivered. His back was wet with sweat and cold, while his chest and face almost hurt in the blaze of heat. He slipped into a restless doze and woke to the sound of a hoarse cough. In the darkness beyond the camp, he sensed the presence of strangers gathering silently.
‘Who’s there?’ shouted one of the travellers, scrambling to his feet. Sparks erupted from the fire, illuminating the shadows with a flickering light. Jack heard a series of small metallic noises that might have been the sound of weapons being prepared. The darkest of the shadows drew closer.
‘I can see you,’ shouted the traveller. ‘Who are you?’
A figure materialized out of the gloom. A man with a red face and a grey handlebar moustache tinged yellow with cigarette smoke. There were others with him, but they ignored the fire and began rummaging through the caravans, searching for something.
‘Take it easy,’ said the visitor to the travellers, who were all standing now. ‘I haven’t come to do you harm.’ There was a slight American accent in his voice.
‘Black Paddy, is that you?’ asked the traveller.
‘Yes.’
Although the men sat down and resumed their drinking, they did not look relaxed. Jack felt a deathly prickling shiver pass through the children assembled around the fire.
The head traveller tipped his bottle of beer at the new arrival. ‘Good to see you, Paddy.’ However, the tone of his voice suggested it was anything but.
The other men joined the circle by the fire, followed by a teenage girl with a single black plait, who kept looking at Jack as though she had a secret to communicate. One of the children explained to Jack that Black Paddy was a cousin and the girl his daughter. They had recently returned from the US after getting into trouble with the law there.
‘Why creep up on us in the dark like thieves?’ asked the head traveller.
‘I like creeping around in the dark,’ replied Black Paddy. ‘Besides, we’re all thieves, we O’Sullivans, aren’t we? We thrive on opportunity and risk.’ He lifted a stick, seared it in the fire, and used it to light a cigarette.
‘We’re not thieves.’
‘Are you sure?’ He threw a glance at Jack, his eyes glinting with a sinister light. ‘If you’re not a thief, why did you steal the boy?’
Edginess uncoiled in the travellers’ bodies, bringing some of them to their feet, empty bottles in hand. None of them took their eyes off Black Paddy.
‘Nobody stole him. He’s here under our protection,’ said the leader. ‘You’ve spent that long in the States you’ve no idea what’s going on.’
Black Paddy rubbed his forehead and moustache. ‘Relax. I haven’t come to steal anything. Or cause trouble.’
The group calmed a little. ‘It’s our way to always welcome visitors,’ said the leader. ‘Why don’t you have a beer?’
‘That’s decent of you.’ He pushed his way through the circle until he was sitting next to Jack. There was a long silence as they drank their beers.
‘Where’s the boy’s father?’ asked Black Paddy after the final slug of his drink. His voice was cold and knowing.
‘What do you mean?’
He turned Jack’s head round so there was no escaping the interrogation. ‘Missing your dad, son?’ He spoke in a voice intended to hurt.
Jack shrugged. ‘He was meant to be coming here. Now I don’t know where he is.’
‘Your dad’s gone,’ said Black Paddy, sniggering.
‘If he’s gone, he’ll come back.’
‘Believe me, son, he’s not coming back.’ Black Paddy turned to the travellers. ‘Really, folks, I’m sorry, but like I said I haven’t come to cause trouble. It’s not worth my while.’
‘We appreciate that.’
Bitterness crept into his voice. ‘I’ve only come to take what is owed. I might have been away for a long time, but I know what my due is.’
‘We owe you nothing.’
Black Paddy leaned over and peered too closely into Jack’s eyes. The firelight made his face look yellow and waxy, like a grotesque dummy of a gypsy. He poked Jack in the ribs with a stubby finger lined with grease and dirt. ‘You think I don’t know how valuable he is?’
One of his accomplices, a man with wild black sideburns and baggy eyes, forced his way to the other side of the boy.
‘I want my share of the money.’ Black Paddy placed his heavy hand on Jack’s neck and squeezed it. ‘I’ve come to do business. Tell me what compensation you’re prepared to give me and I’ll let you keep the boy.’ From the waistband beneath his exposed belly, he removed a gun.
‘This is private business, Paddy. Nothing to do with you.’
‘We’re the same family. You and I. Nothing is private between us.’ He squeezed Jack’s neck so tightly hot wires of pain shot down his shoulders. The boy wished that the travellers would just pay the visitor and make him go away. However, none of them moved or said anything as the two visitors lifted him into the air. They backed away from the fire, pointing their guns at the travellers, some of whom broke from the circle and sprinted into the darkness.
When he understood the travellers could do little to save him and that he was in great danger, Jack kicked at Black Paddy’s knee. It buckled satisfyingly and he grunted in pain. However, more of his accomplices pressed in towards Jack. He struggled in their grip, and bit at their hands. He saw flushed cheeks, grabbing arms, bodies twisting and turning in the mêlée. He felt their hot breath on his neck.
‘He’s like a wild animal.’
‘Not so rough.’
‘Easy. You’re hurting him.’
He had never been hit before, and the first blow to his head left him dazed. He looked back at the fire and saw the figures of the other travellers moving about like moths fluttering in the light. A gun went off, and the figures stirred frenziedly, roars and shouts filling the darkness.
He fell to the ground with a heavy thump. The last thing he heard was the cursing and shouting of his kidnappers. The coldness of the ground was dense and palpable. He felt the darkness rise up and devour him. Very soon, there was no ground or starlit sky, no fire, no road, no travellers, no space or time, no story left to tell, just darkness and the cold ground.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Daly made eye contact with several burly-looking men hovering in the shadows of the hallway, before a young woman led him upstairs and ushered him into a lowly lit room, where a faded individual greeted him from behind a mahogany desk. Alistair Reid seemed to have lost weight. The veins stood out on his greying temples and his shirt collar looked too big for his neck. His thick eyebrows resembled ragged slashes in a hood through which his frightened eyes peered. He looked as though he had just returned to this dark sanctuary after weeks of wandering lost and hungry along the border.
‘It took me a while to track you down, Mr Reid. Your office said they didn’t know where you were. I’m glad they passed on my message.’
‘I needed the privacy.’
Daly’s eyes adjusted to the light and took in the emblems and flags blazoning the walls and the shelves of leather-bound books. A dark tapestry depicting a bloody battle with men on horses masked the wall behind Reid along with banners marked with vag
uely Masonic symbols. If Reid had ever derived a sense of comfort or pleasure from the surroundings, he did not show it this evening. He looked agitated, with dark smudges of worry beneath his eyes, and the smooth charm he had displayed towards Daly at their prior meeting was now transformed into churlishness.
‘Your privacy is well protected,’ said Daly. ‘Do all politicians have so many security staff?’
Reid glared at Daly. He flexed his thumbs and folded his hands at the desk. Another physical barrier to be penetrated. ‘Is that what you’re here to talk about, my desire for privacy at this difficult time?’
‘What I’ve come to talk about is the attempt to remove your brother’s body from his grave.’
The rings beneath Reid’s large eyes seemed to grow darker. ‘That was a senseless act of desecration by mindless vandals. What else do you want to know about it?’
‘I suspect it was something a lot more sinister. I believe they were trying to steal your brother’s body.’
Reid continued to stare at Daly, his face taut with reserve. ‘Who would be crazy enough to steal the body of my dead brother, an elderly farmer who led a solitary life?’
‘That is precisely the question I have been asking myself.’
‘And what have you concluded?’ The politician’s tense face seemed to grow heavier, as if his apprehension had a weight, burdening his eyebrows and flaccid features.
‘They wanted to remove his remains because they are an important piece of evidence. One that is linked to other crimes.’
‘How?’
‘At first, I suspected that your brother’s death was directly connected to Jack Hewson’s disappearance. Now I see that the links are more indirect. The two crimes run parallel to each other.’
‘What proof do you have?’
‘I have one or two leads.’
Reid’s mouth twisted into a grim smile. ‘For Christ’s sake, Daly, don’t play the plodding detective with me.’
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