‘You don’t seem surprised,’ he said.
‘The children all suffered with the same syndrome,’ I said. ‘Yet it’s rare. It seems a little odd to have such a high incidence of localized cases.’
Millar grunted. ‘I’m glad to see you’ve been deepening your knowledge of Goldenhar.’
‘There’s nothing stopping me finding out about the syndrome, after all.’
Millar appraised me warily. ‘You do know that I would like these deaths investigated as much as you would, don’t you?’
I nodded, though obviously with not enough enthusiasm.
‘I’m not happy to think that someone killed a child and dumped her on that island any more than you are. But my role is to recover the bodies of the Disappeared. That is all I can do, whether I like it or not. I’ve put pressure on our own people to allow this through so that it can be investigated. I’m going to give the go-ahead for the tests on the infants anyway, regardless of what they say, but I have to warn you, the issue here, Inspector, is whether you could ever prosecute anyone for the killing. The wording of the act which created our commission has never been tested.’
‘I understand that,’ I said.
‘Then why do I feel judged?’
‘I’m not judging you,’ I said. ‘I just find it impossible not to investigate something like this. I can’t think that someone got away with killing a child. I know your position means you are restricted in what you can do.’
‘I think what would be more galling would be to discover who did this, get them to court and for them to walk. No one would have answered for the killings and instead it would be public knowledge that the guards were bending the rules of the Commission for the Location of Victims’ Remains. No one benefits from that outcome – neither you, me, nor the children we found.’
Our conversation was cut short by the arrival of Father Brennan.
‘Men,’ he called, as he locked the car. ‘Just the three of us, is it?’
‘For now, Father,’ Millar called. ‘They’ll be more here. It’s a good thing you’re doing today. People will come.’
As Millar moved to step away from me I put my hand on his arm and offered my free hand. ‘I’m sorry if you feel I’ve judged you. I understand your position.’
‘And I yours,’ Millar replied, shaking my hand. ‘More than you think.’
Behind us we heard the slamming of car doors as the first of the congregation began to arrive for the ceremony. The bridge which had been erected for the Cleary dig had been left in place to allow the traffic onto the island. What would happen afterwards was not so clear, whether the island would become isolated once more or, having been received into the community’s collective conscience, remain connected again to the mainland, no longer in limbo.
Brennan stood at the edge of the shoreline in his vestments. He held in one hand his prayer book. The other clasped a small silver rod for distributing holy water, while one of the local women stood beside him, holding the small container that held the water.
I watched the crowd while he went through the ceremony. Over a hundred people had come onto the island, almost exclusively middle-aged men and women. Many wept silently as Father Brennan spoke, their expressions a mixture of mourning and relief that their pain was finally acknowledged. A few of the women clasped small toys, aged teddy bears or dolls, talismans that had sustained them through decades of being told that their children were lost not only in this life but in the next.
At the back of the crowd, holding a small blue bear in her hands, her face glistening with tears, I saw Mrs Hughes. Her husband was not with her. However, beyond her, across the shore on the Republic side, I saw someone else I recognized. Christine Cashell stood at the edge of the water, at the outer boundary of Islandview Estate. Andrew Dunne stood with her, his arms around her as she watched, following the prayers which must have echoed across to her.
When she saw me, she raised her hand in silent salute.
Chapter Forty-Two
Jimmy Callan was sitting on the bed in his cell when I came in, reading a paper which one of the guards must have given him. He looked drawn, his face silvered with stubble, his eyes bleary. Patterson himself had interviewed him through the night, attempting without success to get him to confess to Seamus O’Hara’s killing. He was now being held pending proceedings by the PSNI to have him brought across to the North.
He watched me come into the cell without comment, then turned his attention again to the paper.
‘They want you across in the North in connection with Cleary.’
‘The father or the son?’
‘The son.’
‘I’d nothing to do with it.’
‘What about the father’s killing?’
He shook his head. ‘I’d nothing to do with that, either.’
‘That being the case, you’ve nothing to fear in going across.’
Callan snorted dismissively, though did not raise his head.
‘I was thinking, though. We have to hold you until the North gets all their extradition stuff in gear.’
‘Which they won’t. Even with a European arrest warrant, you can’t hand me over if they only want to hold me as part of an investigation. They’d need to charge me. And they’ve got fuck all.’
‘That’s very impressive, Mr Callan. You should move into a career in law.’
‘It’s not my first time in this situation. So what else have you got?’
‘You could go across voluntarily and hand yourself in for questioning. If you’re clear, they’ll have to let you out again.’
‘And I’d do this because . . .?’ he said, looking up at me now.
‘Today is your son’s anniversary,’ I said. ‘Despite your better efforts, here you are in a jail cell again. We’ll have to hold you until bail is set. You’ll not be out today. Unless you agree to head across.’
Callan did not speak but his jaw flexed instinctively, as if he were chewing on a piece of gristle.
‘I know the inspector in charge of the Sean Cleary investigation. I could take you across to the PSNI, hand you over to them. In the graveyard. After you’ve had a chance to pay your respects.’
‘What if they decide to lift me before I’ve had a chance to get to the grave?’
‘They won’t,’ I said. ‘I guarantee it.’
Callan lowered his gaze, staring into the middle distance as he considered the offer. He glanced at the paper on the bed once more, then folded it shut.
‘Fuck it,’ he said. ‘Why not?’
‘If this goes to shit, I’m holding you personally responsible,’ Patterson said. ‘You shouldn’t have offered that without checking with me.’
‘Have we anything to connect him to O’Hara?’
Patterson accepted the point with a slight shake of the head.
‘He’s sitting in there, our responsibility. Hand him over to the North and let him be their problem.’
‘What’s the angle?’ Patterson asked. ‘There’s always an angle with you.’
I could not admit that, having spent the morning in the company of so many grieving parents – men and women who had waited years to publicly express their loss – I had felt sorry for Callan. Though his son’s death had seemingly been the starting point for all else that had happened, we had nothing to connect him to the killing of Seamus O’Hara. In truth, Callan looked beaten now; a man who had given his life to a cause, only to find himself left behind.
McCready and I sat up front while Callan sat cuffed in the back of the squad car. By the time I had contacted Hendry and made the arrangements, it was approaching 3 p.m. The PSNI would lift Callan at 3.30, allowing him fifteen minutes at his son’s grave. I had no doubt they would be in the graveyard long before that, in case he tried to run, but Hendry had agreed to allow him time at the grave without interruption. As we left the station, I warned McCready to avoid Lifford Bridge, where the anniversary commemoration would be ongoing, and instead head further on to Clady and cross at the bridge there.
As we drove, though, McCready’s wife called him on his mobile. While he spoke to her on the Bluetooth receiver he had clipped to the sun visor, I turned and checked on Callan. It was only as I turned my attention back to the road we were taking that I realized McCready had driven through the roundabout and had joined the queue of traffic waiting to get across Lifford Bridge, which was temporarily closed while the Memorial Service for Callan was conducted.
‘Reverse and we’ll head back through Clady and cross over there,’ I said to McCready, but too late. The traffic behind us had already backed up, the car immediately to our rear parked almost against our bumper, hemming us in. A single car in front separated us from the crowd that had gathered on the bridge.
‘Lie down on the seat,’ I said to Callan, removing my jacket and passing it to him. ‘Cover yourself with that.’ The last thing we needed was for any of the protestors to see Dominic Callan’s father handcuffed in a garda car fifty yards from the crowd.
Paul Black, one of the gardai who were policing the demonstration on our side of the bridge, came across to us.
‘Can you head to the back of the queue and get people to back up?’ I said to Black. ‘We need to get out of here sharpish.’
Black looked uncertainly at the bundle on the back seat. ‘I’ll see what I can do, sir,’ he said, and set off up the road, looking for a gap in the traffic wide enough to allow all the cars behind us to reverse enough for us to manoeuvre out.
While we waited, we could hear the voice of the speaker on the bridge reverberate through the PA system which had been set up. Those who listened numbered less than fifty, but they had taken up positions in the centre of the road on the bridge, each holding placards bearing pictures of the dead man. Some were obviously relatives or friends, their faces puffy with weeping. Others, though, stood erect, their expressions defiant. A handful closest to us wore military paraphernalia, their hoods pulled up, their eyes covered by darkened glasses. They stood to attention, their hands clasped behind their backs. Despite their attempts to disguise their features, it was clear that some of them were barely out of their teens; certainly not old enough to have been alive when Dominic Callan was shot.
Even through the windows of the car we could hear the dull resonance of the speaker’s voice. ‘Dominic sacrificed his life for the cause. How would he feel now, seeing the blatant betrayal of that cause, of what his death achieved. Our politicians have failed us, have failed the cause. They call us traitors, yet they are the ones who have become agents of British justice. Dominic Callan’s death has been belittled by their actions, his sacrifice invalidated by their capitulation to the continued presence of foreign soldiers on our streets.’
The group standing closest to us cheered, raising their placards in the air. I was struck by the simmering aggression of the group, palpable even where we sat. Several of the younger men who had seen the garda car turned and directed their shouting towards us. I glanced over my shoulder and realized that Jimmy Callan had sat up to watch the crowd.
Simultaneously one of the older protesters must have spotted Callan. He nudged the man next to him and pointed towards us.
‘Get down,’ McCready snapped at Callan, but it was too late. A small faction of the protestors was beginning to move towards us. I glanced in the rear-view mirror, in the hope that Black had created room enough for us to manoeuvre out, but the cars behind us had not shifted.
‘Get moving,’ I snapped at McCready.
He attempted to reverse but the car immediately behind us was too close. Before I could stop him, he pressed the horn, which served only to attract the attention of the group standing on the bridge fifty yards from us. Several more joined the protestors approaching us.
In the middle-distance to our rear, reflected in the interior mirror, I saw Paul Black instructing one vehicle at a time to begin backing up to create space for us to move, but nowhere near quickly enough.
The lead figure of the group had reached us by now and was staring in over our shoulders where Callan lay still across the back seat. He hammered on the bonnet of the car.
McCready shifted forwards suddenly, striking the man side on with the car, though at such a slow speed that it did little more than shift him back a foot or two before he moved in again. We could hear him trying the handle while the other men surrounded us.
Black came running down towards us, shouting, while three other uniformed guards had finally managed to come across and were trying to hold the men back from the car long enough for us to complete the U-turn.
McCready shifted forwards again, clipping the bumper of the car in front. He reversed sharply, then, circling the wheel, shot forward so quickly we mounted the traffic island in the centre of the road, knocking over the illuminated road sign. Then he floored the accelerator, even as the crowd to our rear surged forwards again, banging the back windscreen with fists and placards.
‘Good work,’ I said to him, craning over my shoulder at the receding figures of the protestors. I radioed through to the station to request support for Black and the other men on the border. I had a feeling they would need it.
‘I never thought I’d be happy to see the PSNI,’ Callan said from the back. ‘But Jesus, just hand me over.’
The hold-up on the bridge meant that by the time we got to the graveyard the PSNI were already waiting for us. Jim Hendry stood at the entrance; behind him two cars with armed officers sat, exhaust fumes fogging in the air behind them.
‘I knew they’d screw me over,’ Callan said. ‘So much for your promises.’
We drew alongside Hendry, who looked at his watch elaborately.
‘I didn’t realize we were working on Lifford time,’ he said.
‘We had an incident on the bridge,’ I explained.
‘I heard. The people on our side were delighted; it’s normally us that gets it when these things blow up; it was the guards’ turn today.’
‘I promised Mr Callan that he’d get some time alone at his son’s graveside,’ I said.
Hendry stared in at Callan.
‘Mr Callan,’ he said, nodding solemnly.
Callan scowled but did not speak.
‘We’ll be here, watching,’ Hendry said. ‘Fifteen minutes, and no hassle. Understood.’
If Callan’s expression softened at all, it was so slight as to be imperceptible. He did not look at Hendry but merely nodded to show his agreement.
We drove him into the cemetery and dropped him at the grave. Hendry followed us up and stood with us while we waited.
‘Any luck on Burke?’
He shook his head. ‘We’ve checked the hostel and have been with his mum. He’s gone underground. Presumably he’s staying with one of his mates. How’s Penny?’
‘She’s okay. Any word on the girl, Claire?’
Hendry nodded. ‘She’s given her statement and was examined by the doc. The good news is he didn’t actually succeed in what he was trying to do; Penny possibly saved the girl from being raped.’
I nodded, my sympathy for the girl’s ordeal mixed with the pride I felt in my daughter.
‘A chip off the old block, obviously,’ Hendry added. ‘Speaking of which, Mr Callan’s obsequies seems to be concluded.’
Callan was walking down towards us, his head bowed. As he approached he held out his hands for Hendry to cuff him.
‘Really?’ Hendry said.
Callan scoffed. ‘What’s this? Good cop, good cop? That’s a new one.’
Hendry looked at me and smiled. ‘He’s not a good cop,’ he said to Callan. ‘He’s a walking disaster. I only hang around with him to see what he’ll do next.’
Chapter Forty-Three
Patterson was waiting for us when we returned to Lifford. He’d had to come down to help settle the fracas on the bridge, an end finally achieved through the quiet diplomacy of local community workers rather than an armed-response unit and the garda superintendent.
‘What the hell happened?’ he snapped as soon as we
walked in. Burgess sat at his desk, studiously ignoring the whole thing. Or appearing to, at least.
‘We took a wrong turn,’ I said.
‘Do you think? Who was driving?’
McCready stepped forward and began to speak.
‘It was my fault, Harry,’ I interjected. ‘I sent us the wrong way. Joe handled it well and got us out of there before it got ugly.’
‘It got ugly,’ Patterson stated. ‘I warned you not to mess it up.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘We got him across eventually. The PSNI have him in custody.’
Perhaps he had been expecting more of an argument and my contrition had taken the wind from his sails. Grudgingly he allowed the topic to drop, though not before saying, ‘If anything comes back on this, you’ll be held to account for it.’
I nodded. ‘I understand.’
The sky was darkening by the time I got home, the bank of clouds rising to the east heavy with rain. Debbie was putting out dinner while Penny set the table. The bruise around her eye had fully purpled now, the skin reflecting the lights of the room in a livid sheen.
‘How’re my girls?’ I asked, kissing Penny lightly on the head.
‘Hey, Dad.’
‘Where’s Shane?’
Debbie pointed towards the back room with the potato masher.
Shane was lying on the floor in the back room, watching TV. A group of high-school kids were singing about wanting to be famous while their teacher nodded along in agreement that this was a worthy ambition.
‘Are we still on for the flicks tonight, wee man?’
‘Yep,’ he said.
‘It’s at eight, isn’t it?’
‘Yep,’ he repeated, his eyes following the young girl on the screen as she danced across the tops of the desks, kicking off the books with youthful abandon.
‘Any word on the young fella from the North?’ Debs asked.
It took me a moment to work out to whom she was referring. It was only when she nodded towards where Penny stood that I realized.
‘The PSNI are still looking for him,’ I said. ‘Jim Hendry will let me know when they find him. He’ll do his best.’
Brian McGilloway - The Nameless Dead (Inspector Devlin #5) Page 17