‘Jane Hillen’s child?’
Clark shrugged. ‘Maybe. I don’t remember the names.’
‘She kept the child.’
‘She did,’ Clark agreed. ‘That’s right. Her father wanted her to put him up for adoption, but she stuck with him, even with the . . . problems.’
‘He’s still with her,’ I said. ‘And he still carries those problems.’
She nodded, clearly not wanting to be drawn on any culpability she might feel for Christopher Hillen’s condition.
‘The next one was born the same way, but was already dead,’ she continued. ‘From then onwards, they were all stillborn.’
‘All but the girl,’ I added.
She swallowed dryly. ‘We thought it would die when it came out, but it kept fighting. We could hear its cries. Dominic Callan took it out of the room, pushed it out in a little clear plastic trolley. He didn’t come back. I thought it had died naturally, but . . . maybe not. Dominic and Seamus O’Hara buried it. Seamus said he knew where they could rest without being disturbed.’
‘Without being found, you mean? So what happened with Declan Cleary?’
‘His own partner got pregnant and he started to get squeamish about what was happening. We’d already told Alan Martin about the reactions to the drugs and he’d stopped the girls using them, but Declan wasn’t happy with that. He went to the Martins about it.’
‘The only one with a conscience,’ Patterson commented.
Clark snorted derisively. ‘He was trying to blackmail them. He needed money for his own kid coming and tried to get it off the Martins. Then when the army shot Dominic, the word went round that Declan had gone to the RUC and touted on him for money.’
‘You don’t believe that, do you?’
Clark shrugged. ‘I don’t know what happened.’
‘Niall Martin killed him,’ I suggested.
She shook her head.
‘If he didn’t, he at least put him in the frame for it.’
‘Possibly,’ she said. ‘I stayed clear of that. The Martins arranged for children to be brought in from a home in eastern Europe that they supported, to cover up for the seven children who had died. It meant that there would be a paper trail.’
‘But the mothers knew that their children had died already,’ I said.
‘The girls in those homes were usually told their children had died,’ Clark said. ‘Even when they hadn’t. It made it easier for them to move on and forget the child. If they knew it had lived, they’d have gone looking for it. If they thought the child was dead already it would make the parting easier.’
‘You really don’t understand grief, do you?’ I said.
‘Grief is the cost of having loved,’ Clark repeated. ‘If they didn’t know the child, they couldn’t have loved it, so their grief would be easier.’
‘All these platitudes about the cost of loving. You have no children of your own, have you?’ I said.
She shook her head. ‘Only the children I’ve helped to find new homes. And new parents to love them. I think of them often.’
‘And the seven on the island. Do you think of them?’
‘On occasions,’ she said. ‘They were never named, though. They never existed.’
‘They existed,’ I said. ‘And still do to those who lost them. Ask Christine Cashell. Her son is Michael. She named him that to keep him alive in her mind. Because he was still her son. And that girl, the one that was murdered. Someone somewhere had a name for her, too. So, you tell yourself that what you did was good and right and helped people, but you were party to the killing of a child.’
She shook her head, but her features became pinched, her eyes glassy, her lips thin and purpled.
‘Is Niall Martin still involved in the illegal adoption of children?’
‘Yes,’ she whispered, after a moment’s pause.
‘Will you testify that Niall Martin has been involved in the smuggling of children into the country for the past thirty-five years?’
She nodded her head, curtly, once; it was enough to dislodge the tears that had gathered in her eyes.
Chapter Fifty-Three
I called Hendry and told him what we had learned. He, in turn, had assembled two squads and had already set out for Martin’s home on Liskey Road.
When I arrived the PSNI were conducting a search of the property, though it was already too late. Niall Martin had left; presumably Clark had informed him that we were on to her and he had realized it was only a matter of time before we came looking for him. I suspected he was already making his way around whatever properties they had been using for the smuggled children, destroying any evidence which might link him to them.
Maria was in the house, visibly upset at the conduct of the police officers. She had resisted their attempts to search the bedroom which she and Martin had shared, until Hendry had instructed for her to be cuffed. She sat now on the sofa, watching her own reflection in the large plate-glass window that gave away nothing of its spectacular view due to the darkness beyond.
The team that entered the bedroom found that one of the closets was empty, the hangers lying on the floor, as if someone had removed the contents in haste.
‘He’s long gone,’ Hendry said, standing with me, watching Maria staring at her reflection. ‘She’s refusing to speak anything but Russian or something.’
‘No idea when he left?’
Hendry shook his head. ‘He’s taken a load of clothes, so either he’s left for good, or else he’s having to work out what he was wearing the night Cleary and O’Hara were killed and get rid of them.’
I walked over to where the woman sat staring impassively ahead.
‘Where’s the child you took from the house in Drumaghill tonight? Sheila Clark contacted you, didn’t she? Where is the child now?’
She looked up at me disinterestedly, then turned away.
‘I know you speak English. Where is the child? Clark is already talking. Help yourself now by helping us.’
She remained mute. I waited a moment, hoping she might provide me with something. Eventually, I moved back across to Jim Hendry.
‘He can’t stay away from here forever.’
Hendry nodded. ‘His old man is getting back out soon,’ he said. ‘He’ll have to come back for that. We’ll pick him up as soon as he reappears. I’ll leave a team on the house until then.’
I headed back over the border. On the bridge, the wind running down the river valley had torn down one of the posters advertising the commemoration march. It lay on the centre of the road, the passing traffic driving over it. I stopped and placed it against one of the bins along the pavement. Callan smiled jauntily in the image, carefree in his youthfulness.
I was getting back into the car when my mobile rang. I did not recognize the number.
‘Inspector?’ The voice was timid, hesitant.
‘Yes?’
‘This is Christine Cashell, Inspector.’
‘Christine, how are you?’ I said, shifting the phone to my other hand while I started the ignition. ‘I meant to call with you again to see how things were going.’
‘Mum said you told her I should phone you if . . .’ she began. ‘Andrew says I shouldn’t bother you about it anymore, but you told Mum that I should call you if the woman across the way came back again.’
‘I appreciate it, Christine,’ I said. ‘But we’ve found her already.’
‘Oh,’ she sounded disappointed. ‘It’s just that there’s someone over there now.’
I parked up a few streets back from where Clark had been living, so as not to alert whoever was there. I suspected it would be Niall Martin, cleaning up after Clark, destroying any evidence connecting him to the adoptions.
As I neared the house I could see Martin’s car parked in the driveway. Just as I approached the bottom of the drive, the house door opened and Martin stepped out. He wore jeans and a light-coloured shirt which hung loose about his frame. Clasped in his hand was an object wrapped in
a black plastic bag.
‘Raise your hands where I can see them, Mr Martin,’ I said. ‘An Garda.’
He stopped moving and raised his hands to shoulder height.
‘Step onto the driveway and lay flat on the ground,’ I instructed him, moving forward with my gun trained on him.
He glanced around, trying to work out if I was alone.
‘Lie flat on the ground,’ I repeated.
His hands wavered slightly, dropping from shoulder-height, as he weighed up his options.
‘Don’t do anything stupid now. Support officers are on their way.’ I edged closer to him as I spoke.
As soon as he realized I was alone, his stance hardened. His back straightening, he shifted suddenly sideways and, rounding the corner of the house, sprinted for the back garden. I set off after him, though he had a twenty-yard head-start on me. By the time I reached the fence at the rear of his property, he had already cleared it and was sprinting across the field beyond.
I took off after him, climbing over the fence, then following the path he had left in the long grass. I tried as best I could to keep pace with him, though he was undoubtedly fitter than I was. Not for the first time, I forswore cigarettes.
The wash of moonlight on the field meant that I could see him ahead of me. He seemed to be widening the gap between us, and I raised my pace, taking short deep breaths in an attempt to pump a little more power into my muscles. Instead, as I neared the broken-down pump house, I skidded on something and fell on my face. I thought of Peter O’Connell as I struggled to my feet, wiping away the detritus and setting off again, trying desperately to breathe through my mouth.
Ahead of me Martin was making a break for the river. I suspected I knew his intentions; he believed that if he could traverse the river onto Islandmore he could make it across the border and out of my jurisdiction.
The temporary bridge was still some way upriver, so I assumed Martin was hoping to wade across the hundred-or-so yards to the shore of the island. If that was his plan, he didn’t know the river well. The edges of the river on both sides were mostly silt-beds, the mudflats exposed at low tide. If Martin attempted to wade out into the water, he might find himself unable to make it more than a few feet before he became bogged down.
I saw him drop from view as I set off in pursuit again. I knew that the field through which I was chasing him dropped down to rocks before the river itself. Martin had made it that far, at least. As I ran, the ground beneath me grew soggier, the waterlogged earth, still heavy with autumn rains, providing a squelching soundtrack to my movements.
As I drew near the edge of the field I could see that the tide was out. For perhaps twenty feet from the shore to the water’s edge the land lay slick and smooth, the raw moonlight glinting off its surface. Grooves traversed the mudflats where streams of water ran from the sewage pipes from the shore into the river, while the mud oozed up between the rocks across which Martin was still struggling. He had clearly realized that his progress was hampered, for he stopped, staring around him wildly, trying to work out which route might offer him the best chance of escape.
‘You can’t go anywhere,’ I shouted, dropping down myself onto the rocks. Martin twisted to look at me, then began to raise the object he held in his hand.
‘Don’t do it,’ I shouted, unclipping my own gun-holster. But then I saw him lift the object above his head and fling it away from him.
As I drew nearer, I heard the plop as it struck the surface of the mud. It settled for a second, then was sucked beneath the surface, the mud oozing up around it to fill the void that it left as it sank.
‘Stay where you are, Mr Martin. There’s nowhere to go.’
Martin inched closer to the edge of the rocks, moving away from my approach.
‘It’s over. Sheila Clark has told us everything. About the acne cream, about O’Hara burying the children on the island. About Declan Cleary being set up because he tried to blackmail you. We have it all. Even if you get across to the North, you’ll be arrested there for the killing of Sean Cleary.’
‘Bullshit,’ he shouted back.
‘She’s told us everything.’
‘Don’t come closer,’ Martin shouted.
I was weighing up my own options, wondering how to bring him in. There was no back-up coming; my only hope would be to talk him into surrendering.
‘Where’s the child? We know Clark had one in the house at Drumaghill. Where is he now?’
Martin stepped gingerly from one rock to the next, ignoring the question. Then he launched himself out towards the mud, evidently hoping that, in a few strides, he would reach the water.
He landed in the mud, the impact marked with a loud sucking sound. His legs sank to halfway up his thighs. He seemed surprised at the depth of the sludge and tried to move forward, attempting to lift one leg. He stretched out his arms to balance himself but, in so doing, overcompensated and suddenly lurched to the right, falling prostrate onto the surface of the mire. I could see him scrabbling to stand again, his arms pushing against the thick slime to find purchase against the solid ground beneath. But the mud was too deep. His arms disappeared to the shoulder into the ooze.
He began to panic now, twisting his head out of the slime, shouting incoherently for help. His mouth was black with mud already, his face splattered by the ooze.
I ran to the edge of the rocks and tried to reach out for him. ‘Take my hand,’ I shouted, stretching out as far as I could. But he was too far from me.
He writhed now, his body sinking into the slime so that he had to twist his head around to keep his mouth clear of the surface. He began puffing, trying to catch a breath in case his face should go under.
I stepped down into the mud myself, its immense coldness taking my breath from me. It stank of salt and something more unpleasant. I tried to reach him, not lifting my leg out of the mud as he had done, but trying to push my way through the mire towards him. But it was too thick; I shifted only by tiny increments, for all my effort.
I reached out, my finger-tips grazing the fabric of his trouser leg where he lay. I leant forward, scrabbling with my fingers to catch purchase with his leg, in the hope it might offer him some incentive to keep fighting to stand.
He thrashed wildly now, his head twisting from side to side, though by this stage the mud had covered his face. I tried again to pull at his leg, even to pull myself closer towards him. Finally I managed to grip his trouser leg and began pulling him towards me. He twisted his head to the side, catching a breath, then began thrashing out with his foot, perhaps in panic, perhaps to force me to release him.
I tugged harder, pulling him closer, until I had good grip on his leg.
Behind me, I heard shouting and looked around. Andrew Dunne, Christine Cashell’s partner, was dropping down onto the rocks, obviously having seen me arrive.
He ran to the edge of the rocks and offered me his hand to help pull Martin on to the solid ground. At first, I could not reach him. He leaned forward a little more, his fingers brushing the tips of mine. With an effort, I shifted my position towards him, until I felt him grip my hand and the tug as he tried to pull me from the mire. The sucking of the wet mud marked my progress, slow as it was, as I freed myself from the slime and allowed Dunne to pull me, with Martin in tow, onto the rocks of the shoreline.
Sunday, 4 November
Chapter Fifty-Four
Patterson arrived with the second team after I called for assistance. I explained to him how I had found Martin and that he had thrown something into the mudflats, possibly his gun. He directed a team to look for the gun while Martin was taken under armed guard to Letterkenny General for a check-up.
‘What’s happening with Clark?’
‘We’ll have to let her go,’ Patterson said. ‘We’ve nothing to hold her on.’
‘She’s a flight-risk, Harry. We’ll not see her again.’
‘We’ll set a high bail, dependent on her staying in the state.’
‘What about t
he child smuggling? The adoptions?’
‘What child smuggling?’ he said with exasperation. ‘What child? You went to the house; there was nothing there. There is no child; there might not ever have been one.’
‘You know there was,’ I said. ‘She admitted she had a child in the house.’
‘Which she was watching for a friend.’
‘The neighbour said she’d seen someone leave the house with an infant. At least, if we let her go, put someone on her for a while. She might lead us to the child.’
Patterson took a deep breath, then held it long enough for me to stop.
‘Let’s say she does,’ he said. ‘So what? What’s the best that’s going to happen? You find the child, take it from some poor saps who have paid through the nose for an adoption, and place it in foster care. Do you really think someone desperate enough to pay to adopt a child will not provide better care than the social-care system?’
‘That’s not the point.’
‘Of course it’s the bloody point,’ Patterson snapped. ‘Even if there was a child, someone has taken it, someone is looking after it. Leave it at that. You look at that bloody island, coming down with children’s bodies. Someone wants this one; that’s good enough for me.’
But I could not reconcile myself to what he had said. My issue was not with the child, but with the role that Martin and Clark had played, the impunity with which they had acted across three decades.
As I headed back to the car, I called Joe McCready.
‘I need a favour,’ I said. ‘Patterson is releasing Sheila Clark. I want you to follow her, see where she goes.’
‘Then what?’
‘Just keep an eye. I need to go home and shower. I’ll take over as soon as I’m done. She’ll be taken from the station in the next hour, I’d suspect.’
McCready stifled a yawn at the other end of the line, as he agreed.
As I drove home, I suspected a car was following me. At first I dismissed the thought as a result of tiredness, but sure enough, as I pulled into my driveway, the car behind me likewise indicated and pulled to a stop in front of our gates.
Brian McGilloway - The Nameless Dead (Inspector Devlin #5) Page 22