Bleed a River Deep (Inspector Devlin Mystery 3)

by Brian McGilloway

  I phoned An Garda Research Unit and placed a request for details on V M Haulage. The woman who answered promised to get back to me as soon as possible. Then I called Letterkenny station to see if our techies had had any luck with Leon’s camera. They were, I was told, off for the weekend and would be available on Monday morning, if I wished to call back.

  Finally, Gilmore and I made our way to Limavady, where Strandmann was being held pending interview.

  He was slouched in the chair when we came into the interview room, his legs stretched under the table at which he sat, his blue jeans tight against his thin calves.

  On the table was a polystyrene cup of watery tea and he played with a packet of cigarettes as he waited, rotating the pack between his finger and thumb. Every so often he would lean back to look at the clock on the wall behind him, as if he were waiting for someone to come. If so, he was to be disappointed, for despite his making a phone call, no one arrived to represent him.

  Finally the duty solicitor was called, a tall, uninterested-looking young fella, who spent most of the interview doodling on a page in front of him.

  The Customs and Excise officers started the interview. They cautioned Strandmann, putting to him that he had been seen illegally selling cigarettes from the back of his lorry. In addition, counterfeit DVDs had been discovered. Could he explain their presence?

  Strandmann looked at them, his legs crossed at the ankles. He sucked between his teeth and twisted his head until the bones cracked. But he did not talk.

  Next Gilmore spoke to him. Drugs had been found amongst his possessions. Could he explain that?

  Again, Strandmann said nothing. Even his solicitor looked at him askance and stifled a yawn with the back of his hand. ‘Do you speak English?’ the young man asked. Strandmann looked at him for a second, then returned his gaze to the cigarette box in front of him.

  ‘You’ve been hung out to dry,’ Gilmore said finally. ‘I know you’ve been told to say nothing if you get lifted, but you’ve been landed in it, pal. You called your boss, I’m guessing. They didn’t even send you legal representation – you’re on your own, pal.’

  Strandmann stared at him, one eyebrow slightly raised.

  ‘Of course,’ continued Gilmore, ‘all this stuff today is minor in comparison with rape.’

  Strandmann smiled, a tight feral twist of his mouth that extended no further than his lips.

  ‘You think that’s funny, pal? We have your victim. An illegal immigrant you helped bring into the country, whom you raped and then forced into prostitution. We have her, pal. Which means we have you, too.’

  The duty solicitor had perked up at finding himself involved with a case more serious than a driving offence. Strandmann, for his part, still did not speak, but nor was he smiling any more.

  ‘You’re screwed, pal,’ Gilmore said, gathering up the contents of the folder in front of him, as if to leave. It was a trick it seemed Strandmann’s solicitor hadn’t seen before, for he looked up at Gilmore open-mouthed, wondering why it was all over so quickly.

  ‘Pol,’ Strandmann corrected.

  Gilmore slowly sat again and opened the folder.

  ‘Pol,’ he agreed.

  Over the course of the next hour or so, Strandmann admitted to selling smuggled cigarettes and, after some denial, the counterfeit DVDs. He denied any knowledge of Natalia or the other Chechen illegals. He did not know, and had never heard of, anyone fitting the description of the pony-tailed man.

  ‘We have a witness who can place you at the scene of various crimes,’ Gilmore said. ‘A woman who claims you raped her before forcing her into prostitution—’

  ‘A hooker?’ he interrupted. ‘You’d trust a whore!’

  ‘Don’t get smart-arsed with me, son,’ Gilmore said. ‘All we need is her evidence and you’re sunk. Are you going to carry the can for whoever’s above you? You’re a bottom-feeder, son – you didn’t set up these girls. But you know who did. Time to be selfish, Pol.’

  Strandmann simply smiled. If it was a show, it was good. I decided to follow a different tack.

  ‘What is V M Haulage?’ I asked. Gilmore turned and looked at me quizzically, clearly wondering where I had plucked the name from.

  ‘Why?’ Strandmann asked edgily.

  ‘I noticed the logo on the side of your van,’ I explained.

  His shoulders relaxed, almost imperceptibly, but the change in body language was enough to let me know that the mention of V M Haulage had struck a chord of some sort.

  ‘I work for them,’ he said.

  ‘Selling girls?’

  ‘Selling toilet paper,’ he retorted.

  ‘Is that what they do? Sell toilet paper?’

  He shrugged his shoulders. ‘They do all kinds of stuff.’

  ‘What exactly?’ I persisted. ‘You work for them – you must know what they do.’

  ‘Stuff,’ he repeated, as if it was in itself sufficient explanation. Which, in a way, it was.

  ‘We’ll need Natalia in to ID him,’ Gilmore said as we stood outside the interview room. I looked into the room, where Strandmann reclined in his chair, his legs stretched under the table, while the duty solicitor seemed to be vainly attempting to engage him in conversation. ‘Where did you get V M Haulage from, anyway?’

  ‘Like I said, it was on the side of his van,’ I explained. And, of course, the name had cropped up before. I suspected that Eligius had not been using V M Haulage to buy toilet paper.

  Excusing myself, I went outside for a smoke and to call Karol Walshyk to tell him the PSNI would collect him and Natalia within the hour. Then I called the lady in the Research Unit with whom I had spoken earlier.

  ‘It is Sunday, Inspector,’ she replied a little irritably when I asked her had she found out anything for me about V M Haulage. ‘In fact,’ she continued, ‘I shouldn’t even be here today. I came in to catch up on stuff left over from the last week.’

  I apologized and empathized with her about having to work Sundays, which seemed to mollify her.

  ‘V M Haulage,’ she said finally. ‘Owned by Vincent Morrison. Started in 2005. Freight Company – specializes in cross-Europe transit of goods. Does a lot of charity deliveries. Permanent staff of five. Based in Derry.’

  After she read out the address, I thanked her for her work.

  ‘You could have Googled it,’ she said. ‘That’s all I’ve done.’

  Gilmore showed me to his desk, where I could access the Internet. I was able to access the information Research had given me off the home page of the VM website. Googling the name also brought up a number of articles from local papers about the aforementioned ‘charity work’. Seemingly, a number of Northern Irish groups who had collected goods for underdeveloped eastern European countries, particularly in the wake of the Bosnian conflict, had found in V M Haulage a free method of transport for their donations. The owner, Vincent Morrison, explained that, as his drivers were often taking or collecting deliveries to or from Eastern Bloc countries, there was no reason why they couldn’t do some good at the same time.

  None of the articles had accompanying photos, so I did an image search to see if I recognized Morrison’s face. Several images were brought up. The first few showed Morrison shaking hands with various charity representatives, or helping load boxes of goods into the back of one of his lorries. I recognized the man as Vinnie, Strandmann’s companion at the market. One other photo in particular interested me. Morrison was standing with some of his team, who were preparing to drive to Chechnya on an aid-delivery mission, according to the banner on the side of the van behind them. Standing to Morrison’s left, his hair tied back from his face, his weasel features accentuated by the image’s lack of colour, was Pony Tail. Behind him, almost out of shot, I recognized a second face: Seamus Curran.

  Gilmore was in the station canteen, sharing a story with some of his colleagues. I showed him the picture, which I had printed out.

  ‘You’re sure it’s him?’ Gilmore asked.

&n
bsp; ‘Absolutely,’ I said. ‘We need to show it to Strandmann. He can’t deny knowing him.’

  ‘He’s made another phone call,’ Gilmore explained. ‘He’s trying to post bail. We need Natalia here before he gets out.’

  ‘Has anyone gone for her?’ I asked.

  Gilmore nodded. ‘We’ll try him with this while we’re waiting,’ he said.

  Strandmann looked at the picture once and tossed it back across the table at us. He pulled a face, sniffed, rolled his shoulders.

  ‘You don’t know him?’ I asked.

  He shook his head, refusing to speak.

  ‘Answer the question. You don’t know him?’

  Strandmann shook his head again, then stopped himself. ‘Never seen him.’

  ‘That’s very strange,’ I said. ‘You see, this man works for the same company as you. A full-time staff of five, apparently. I find it hard to believe that you don’t even know his name. His name would mean nothing – nothing suspicious about knowing a colleague’s name. Not knowing the name of someone you work with, now that is suspicious. That makes me think you’re lying.’

  ‘Ford,’ he said. ‘Barry Ford, his name is.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me that straight away?’ I asked.

  ‘I thought you’d use it to get him in trouble too. I know his name, is all.’

  ‘What does he do?’

  Strandmann stifled a smile. ‘He’s a handy-man. He does odd-jobs.’

  ‘His address?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ve no idea. I work with him, that’s all.’

  At that, someone rapped sharply on the door. Gilmore left the room and spoke to someone, then asked me to join him outside. He led me into an adjoining room in which now stood Natalia and Karol.

  Gilmore explained slowly that he wanted Natalia to look at the images of Strandmann being relayed from the room next door onto a video monitor. Karol translated, pointing at the monitor as he explained what she was being asked to do.

  Natalia leant close to the screen, squinting at the seated figure. Finally she said something to Karol.

  ‘She can’t make him out,’ he said. ‘He’s too . . . indistinct. She needs to see him closer.’

  ‘We need to set up an identity parade anyway,’ Gilmore said. ‘It makes no difference – we can still charge him with the ciggies and stuff, see if we can make the other charges stick later.’

  Natalia seemed to follow the gist of what Gilmore had said, for she spoke forcefully to Walshyk.

  ‘She said she only needs to see him for a second, to be sure,’ he explained. ‘Just for a second, she says.’

  Gilmore looked at me and shrugged. He led Natalia out to the corridor and, standing at the door of the interview room, flicked up one of the slats of the blinds covering the window. We could all hear the breath catch in Natalia’s throat. She turned and nodded slowly, then spoke quickly to Karol, who moved over and stood beside her, his hand on her arm.

  ‘It’s him,’ he said.

  Later that evening I found myself back in Seamus Curran’s pub in Derry. He was standing behind the bar, listening to two musicians playing an Irish reel. I scanned the bar and noticed that many of those slapping their knees in time with the music were tourists. The locals sipped on their Guinness and waited for the noise to die down to resume their conversations.

  ‘Mr Curran,’ I called, raising my hand. ‘A Coke, please.’

  He brought a Coke and a glass over to me.

  ‘The Guard. I remember your face, but not your name,’ he said, clicking the top off the bottle and placing it in front of me.

  ‘I never gave it,’ I said. ‘Benedict Devlin. I think we should talk.’

  Curran smiled as he gestured around the crowded room. ‘I’m a little busy,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to come back.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me you were involved with V M Haulage.’

  His smile faltered slightly and then was back in place.

  ‘You never asked. So what if I am?’

  ‘You called Hagan an arsehole the last time we spoke.’

  ‘That opinion hasn’t changed, Benedict. And you don’t need to be a cop for me to confess to that.’

  His use of my forename rankled.

  ‘If you think he’s such an arsehole, how come your company is doing business with his? Is it not a bit hypocritical, chanting anti-war statements from the window of a business partner’s office?’

  ‘Who told you we work with Eligius?’

  ‘The documents Leon Bradley sent out. Funny, actually, you were the only one I discussed it with, the one who told me it would arrive the day after we spoke. Then the local postman gets robbed. Coincidence, eh?’

  ‘And that’s all it fucking is,’ Curran snapped, his hair flicking into his face.

  ‘So what’s the deal with Hagan?’ I asked again. ‘How do you know him?’

  ‘We met on a Peace and Reconciliation visit to Chechnya. We led a group on conflict resolution. He supports some of our charity work from time to time. A way to appease his conscience, perhaps.’

  ‘But you have no problems with yours, I suppose.’

  ‘None,’ Curran said. ‘I have to serve someone.’

  He walked away from me and dealt with his customer. For the next half-hour he avoided my edge of the bar and did not look at me until I stood to leave. I placed £2 on the counter.

  ‘For the drink,’ I said.

  As I drove home, I considered what he had said. If Hagan had made charity donations, V M wouldn’t be invoicing the company; the work would have been done for free. But like all practised liars, Curran probably retained an element of truth in his story. I believed that he probably had met Hagan on a ‘Reconciliation’ tour in Chechnya. I had little doubt that V M Haulage, or someone working for them, was carrying something for Eligius to Chechnya, and on the return leg was bringing back illegal immigrants. A mercy-mission lorry would be the last place someone would check for illegals. Plus the lorry would already have any necessary paperwork to explain the cross-country journey.

  Whatever they were carrying for Hagan, it was clearly illegal; otherwise, why the secrecy? Why the attack on the Strabane postman, unless the documents he was thought to be carrying were potentially damaging? All I had to do now was work out whom they were damaging to, and in what way. Then make sure that the damage was done.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Monday, 23 October

  That evening Natalia had seemed unusually jumpy, and even Penny and Shane managed to elicit only the briefest flicker of a smile from her as they danced wildly to a TV theme tune. I suspected that she knew she would have to give evidence against Strandmann, and that this in turn would lead to questions about her status and the work she had been engaged in before her arrest. If Strandmann could be charged with something significant – say, people-smuggling – then Natalia would be spared the trauma of having to give that evidence.

  On Monday I went into the station legitimately, for the first time in a fortnight. Several officers approached me and welcomed me back. I was aware that some of the younger Guards didn’t want to be seen to be too friendly, lest it affect their promotion chances. Even Helen Gorman was circumspect.

  I phoned through to Letterkenny and asked to speak to the techie who had been given Leon’s camera. I was forwarded to someone called Marty, a civilian IT specialist who, for the first few minutes of the conversation, explained to me the processes by which he had retrieved the photographs from the camera. I tried to sound suitably impressed.

  Finally, I interrupted him: ‘So, did you find any shots?’

  ‘A load,’ he said. ‘He had a memory card, and images saved on the internal drive. He has over a hundred here. Which ones are you looking for?’

  ‘Any of someone brandishing a shotgun?’ I asked, half jokingly.

  ‘None, but there’s some right dirty stuff on this. Must be shots of his missus. Very artistic.’

  ‘Were they the last shots he took?’ I asked, assuming tha
t the woman in question was Janet Moore. If the last shots he had taken had been of her, then he had not used his camera on the night of his death.

  ‘No, the last photos are of some old bloke working in the woods.’

  ‘What kind of work?’

  ‘Shifting stuff,’ he said quickly. ‘Look, do you want me to send you these? You can look through them at your leisure.’

  ‘Can you e-mail them to me?’

  ‘There are too many,’ he said. ‘I’ll save them to a Shared Documents file and you can download them from there.’

  Sure enough, several minutes later, the techie sent me an e-mail with details of the file in which he had saved the images. I noticed that he signed off his message with a yellow smiley face.

  I opened the file and began to scroll through the contents. Most of the pictures were of no interest. Leon and his friends. The old grey dog I’d seen out at Carrowcreel with the crusties. Images of trees, taken at artistic angles. Then I opened an image of Leon and Fearghal. They were standing side by side. Leon slouched slightly, though still a few inches taller than his brother. His arm rested across Fearghal’s shoulders, his legs crossed at the ankles. He sported a half-smile. Fearghal stood erect, his hands behind his back, his body upright, though he had inclined his head just slightly so that it rested against his younger brother’s.

  I printed the picture off, then continued moving through the images. Janet Moore was photographed in various stages of undress, in a manner Leon had probably considered artistic: her breasts obscured by cushions, her face alive with mischief. Then there was one image of her standing naked, uncovered, her hands by her sides, her expression a little plaintive. I flicked on to the next image quickly.

  It became clear that I was moving towards the most recent shots. Several images of the crusties out at the camp appeared. One of Peter, the older man, a joint hanging from his mouth. Ted Coyle, half bent over his prospecting pan, his hand raised in salute. Other campers whose faces I recognized, some posed, others caught unawares.

  Finally, I saw an image that made me start. I almost missed the person in the shot, for the image was ostensibly of an area of woodland. In the background was an old barn-like structure, its corrugated-iron roofing riddled with rust-edged holes. Just emerging from the barn, though, was a man I recognized, his greying hair pulled back into a pony-tail. The next shot was a better image again. It was also the last. Pony Tail was facing the camera, his features clear, his expression one of bemusement. I suspected that he had seen Leon taking his picture.