‘Don’t come down,’ he said. She stood up, and he hugged her. She held on tight.
‘Call me when you get there,’ she said.
‘Right.’ He bent his head and kissed her hair. She hugged harder, for just a second, then let him go.
‘I’ll come to Ireland next time,’ she said. ‘Let me know when it works for you.’
‘I’ll come back,’ he said. ‘I’m on suspension. So . . . all the time in the world.’ He gave her a crooked smile. He kissed her one more time. ‘I’ll call you later.’
The cab was waiting on the street. Cormac asked the driver to take him to the train station. He made a quick phone call at the station, then boarded a train. Lyon was less than four hours south. The train was no more than half full, which was a gift. He sat in silence, stared out of the window and tried not to think about Emma. The train pulled into Lyon just after one o’clock. Cormac found a cab, asked the driver to bring him to a bar near Interpol headquarters, then ordered a pint and sent a text to Matt Staunton to let him know where he was. Matt found him at the bar half an hour later, announcing his arrival with an enthusiastic pat on Cormac’s back.
‘Cormac, good to see you.’
Cormac stood up. They hugged, backslapped.
‘I thought we were meeting tomorrow?’ Matt said.
‘Change of plan,’ Cormac said. ‘I hope I didn’t interrupt anything important.’
Matt eyed his near-empty pint glass. ‘Are you finished that? Are you hungry? This place doesn’t do food, but there’s a good spot around the corner.’
‘I could eat,’ Cormac said. ‘Lead the way.’ He smiled to himself. Matt was six foot five and a bear of a man. Redheaded in his youth, the red had faded to mostly grey, and now he wore a scraggly beard where he’d once been clean-shaven. The appetite, it seemed, remained the same.
The place around the corner turned out to be a steakhouse, cosy rather than fashionable, with quiet background music and little booths that offered a degree of privacy. Drinks came quickly. Matt watched him while they waited for their food.
‘Well?’ he said. ‘What’s the story?’
There was a tone to the question, and Cormac raised an eyebrow.
‘You’ve obviously heard something,’ he said. Matt had left the Garda Síochána ten years ago, had been with Interpol ever since, but the garda grapevine still worked fine, even here.
‘I’ve heard a lot. None of which I believe. So spit it out.’
Cormac blew out a breath. ‘I think I fucked up,’ he said.
‘No kidding.’
Cormac raised an eyebrow.
‘What?’ Matt said. He took a drink from his pint. ‘Three years ago, you left Dublin with a halo firmly attached to your head. Now you’re on unpaid suspension with a disciplinary noose tightening around your neck. What happened? Is there a drink problem I don’t know about? An interest in drugs you have never before exhibited? Women? Gambling?’
Cormac shook his head, half laughing, despite the situation.
‘Well?’ Matt said.
‘Politics.’
‘Ah.’ Matt grimaced. ‘Talk to me.’
‘I don’t know where to start.’
Matt shrugged. ‘The beginning. Where else?’
Cormac took a second before he began. He wanted to do this the right way.
‘Two years ago, I asked you if you had heard any scuttlebutt about Anthony Healy, and you sent me a video of Healy standing beside an incinerator, bales and bales of plastic-wrapped drugs around him, about to be destroyed,’ Cormac said.
‘I remember,’ Matt said.
‘I figured you were trying to tell me something.’
‘I was.’
‘I asked you about Healy because his drug task force was in Galway at the time. I thought there might be a link between Healy and drugs and a case I was working. But that case . . . resolved itself, the drug task force went back to Dublin, and I got busy with other things.’
‘So you let it go.’
‘I was distracted,’ Cormac said. ‘I had other things on my plate last year. But in June, Anthony Healy came back to Galway, and I got an up close and personal view of the task force’s operations. I saw a force that was over-resourced with virtually no supervision. A raid here or there with occasional big scores, but the seizures never seemed to impact on the price of drugs on the street. Healy’s second-in-command is Trevor Murphy. He’s a recent sergeant and his father is—’
‘Superintendent Brian Murphy?’ Matt interrupted. He was lounging back on his side of the booth, outwardly relaxed, but his eyes were very sharp.
Cormac nodded. ‘The task force started to suck up more and more resources, to the point where we were trying to run general operations on a skeleton crew. I objected, pushed back, but got nowhere. Then things started to get . . . difficult.’
‘You think you were targeted?’ Matt asked.
Cormac shook his head. ‘It didn’t seem targeted. I lost staff, resources to the task force, but so did a lot of other operations. Murphy – Brian Murphy, I mean – seemed to have blinkers on about that. His decision to pour everything we had into one drug task force seemed crazy to me, but I put it down to nepotism. Trevor Murphy is his son. I thought he was trying to get Trevor a big win, something that would get him more visibility. Promotion. You know the drill.’
‘But then?’
They’d been speaking quietly, but Cormac lowered his voice further. ‘Then, on Saturday, a little girl was abducted, bundled into the boot of a car.’
‘I read about it,’ Matt said. ‘She was found, right?’
Cormac nodded. ‘But before she was found, I went to Brian Murphy looking for resources – and I mean I had no one, Matt. A handful of inexperienced officers, no support staff, nothing. Murphy blew me off. He made a token call to Salthill to pull in a couple of bodies, but he wasn’t willing to borrow any of our own officers back in from the task force, even for a few hours.’
‘You think he was setting you up to fail?’ Matt asked.
‘I wondered about that,’ Cormac said slowly. ‘But no, I think that would have been too big a risk. He couldn’t have known that the girl would be found. What if she’d been killed or just disappeared forever? Murphy would have been very vulnerable. Hard to cover up a fuck-up of that magnitude. No, I think he didn’t give me resources because he couldn’t. Hours after the conversation I had with him, the task force scored a major win. They raided a boat off the coast and came home with thirty-two kilos of heroin.’
Matt’s brow furrowed. ‘I’m not following you. You think his decision was legitimate? He knew things were about to go down and he didn’t want to risk blowing the operation?’
‘It’s possible,’ Cormac said. ‘But that’s a pretty delicate balancing exercise, don’t you think? The life of a young girl, which was absolutely, for sure, at risk, versus the chance of a successful drugs raid? Would you make that call? Would you say, Screw the kid, let’s go after the drugs?’
Matt shook his head. ‘But I’m not Brian Murphy. He’s always been a politician, like you said.’
‘Right. So why didn’t he make more than a token effort?’
‘I don’t know,’ Matt said. ‘But I have a feeling you’re about to tell me.’
The waitress arrived with their food, took away the empty pint glasses and brought back, at Matt’s request, a bottle of red wine. She offered to pour for them. Matt smiled a thank you at her but took the bottle. They waited for her to leave.
Cormac cut into his steak, took a bite, chewed and swallowed. ‘How much information crosses your desk about drug flows into Ireland?’
Matt shrugged. ‘A bit,’ he said. ‘A fair bit.’
‘I’m told we seized about seven hundred million euro worth of drugs last year, mostly cannabis, heroin and cocaine.’
‘Sounds about right.’
‘That’s up ten per cent on the previous year. All right, drug seizures fluctuate, no big deal. But the big difference this y
ear is what’s driving the raids. Last year less than thirty per cent of seizures came about because of internal garda operations. All the other seizures resulted from international cooperation. Interpol or FBI tip-offs, in other words.’
‘Right,’ Matt nodded.
‘This year, as I understand it, it looks like internal garda operations are over fifty per cent of total seizures.’
Matt’s eyes narrowed. ‘That’s a big change.’
‘It is,’ Cormac said. ‘You’ll be aware that most of the drug activity in Ireland is driven by two gangs, the Killeens and the McGraths. And interestingly, we’ve been very successful at raiding the Killeen drug gang, in particular. Raids against the Killeens are way up. Seizures based on Interpol tips have decreased. And seizures against the McGraths have decreased.’
Matt was silent for a few minutes. They ate, drank, considered.
‘Any evidence of any money changing hands?’ Matt said finally.
‘Anthony Healy,’ Cormac said. ‘He lives in a four-bedroom house in Howth, overlooking the water. His wife doesn’t work. She’s living in a villa in Alicante. Sea views there too, I’m told. I’ve wondered how he’s paying for all of it.’
‘You’re suggesting that the McGraths are paying Anthony Healy and his friends to look the other way.’
Cormac leaned forward. ‘I’m saying more than that, Matt, as I think you very well know. I think that Healy and Trevor Murphy are actively working with the McGraths. I think they are seizing drugs from the McGraths’ rivals, and then diverting those drugs from evidence storage to the McGraths for resale. It would explain why seizures are up but the price of drugs on the street is dropping. It might explain that photograph you sent me. You know about it, don’t you? You’ve known about it for a long time.’
Matt didn’t reply. He cut his steak, ate with his eyes on his plate. He was thinking, maybe deciding what he could share.
‘I reported it,’ Cormac said.
Matt’s eyes flew to his. ‘You did what?’
Cormac looked back at him steadily. ‘I gathered together what I knew, and I made a protected disclosure. I passed the information up the line.’
Matt was looking at him in disbelief. ‘I can’t believe you did that. You can’t be that bloody naive, Cormac. Who did you report it to? Internal Affairs?’
‘IA is useless,’ Cormac said. ‘Worse than useless. They leak like a sieve at the best of times and the rest of the time they’re ineffectual.’
‘Who? Who did you report to?’
‘The Assistant Commissioner for the Western Region.’
‘How long ago?’
‘Early September. Almost two months ago.’
‘And nothing’s happened since? No action’s been taken?’
‘They would have to investigate before taking steps,’ Cormac said. ‘That could take time.’
Matt snorted. ‘You seriously think that’s the problem? That they’ve done nothing because they’re diligently investigating the situation?’
There was a long silence.
‘No,’ Cormac said.
‘This diversion of your resources to the task force, did that get worse after you made the disclosure?’
‘Yes,’ Cormac said.
‘And now you’re suspended.’
‘Yes.’
‘Jesus.’ Matt leaned forward. ‘You had to have known that it was a crazy move, making that disclosure. What the hell were you thinking?’
‘It’s supposed to be confidential. That’s the whole point of a protected disclosure. And look, I had no idea . . . it didn’t occur to me that this thing might be that widely spread. It still doesn’t seem possible. The Assistant Commissioner? Come on, Matt.’
Matt fell silent.
‘Talk to me,’ Cormac urged.
Matt said nothing.
‘You’ve known, haven’t you? You’ve known for a long time.’
‘We don’t know anything. Or not much, anyway.’
‘Come on. You sent me that photograph of Healy at the incinerator. You sent me down this path because you knew there was something to find.’
‘We’ve been asking questions for a while,’ Matt said. ‘We’ve heard rumours.’
‘Who’s we?’
‘Interpol. And we’ve been talking to someone in Internal Affairs. Someone we trust. Trying to build the picture. But you can’t imagine how hard it is to make progress on this. We’re an outside agency. You know that. We advise. We coordinate. We can’t just jump in and run an operation on Irish soil. We need the police force on the ground to do the grunt work, and how the hell do you do that if it’s the police force that needs investigating? We’ve had to go step by step, testing the ground.’
‘You talk as if the entire force is under suspicion.’
Matt shook his head. ‘It’s hard to know where it starts and finishes. Who’s in it up to their necks, and who’s just doing a favour for a friend.’
Cormac sat back. ‘The longer we sit back and do nothing, the wider that corruption will spread. It’s time to take action, Matt. It’s long past time.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
On Thursday morning Peter dragged himself back into Roundstone Station, and was pleasantly surprised to find the fingerprint report he’d requested for the Lynch case waiting for him in his inbox. Peter got to work. The search had generated a match. The fingerprints that had been found sprinkled liberally throughout the Lynch kitchen belonged to a man named Stephen Kielty. Kielty had a record – a single prior arrest for drug possession and disorderly conduct. Peter took down the record number, ran a search on PULSE. The record was ten years old and Kielty had been nineteen at the time. According to the file, he’d been seen taking a leak down a side alley late at night by two gardaí. He would probably have gotten off with a warning, but when challenged he’d been drunk and belligerent. He’d been arrested and when they searched him, they found a gram of cocaine in his pocket. That little find had resulted in a conviction and a suspended sentence but, at least as far as the PULSE system was concerned, Kielty had stayed out of trouble since. It wasn’t a lot, but it still needed to be checked out, a reason found for Kielty’s presence in the Lynch household. Peter turned the pages of the file again. There was nothing on it to suggest that Kielty had already been interviewed. Peter was noting down Kielty’s old address and telephone number when Jim Brennan arrived, greeting him with a cheerful nod.
‘Hard at work, I see,’ Jim said. ‘Take after your dad.’
‘Hmm.’ Peter kept his head down. ‘Do you know if this is all of it?’ Peter asked, indicating the slim folders on the desk in front of him. ‘For the Lynch file, I mean.’
Jim nodded. ‘That’s the lot,’ he said. ‘At least the bit of work we dealt with. Once the SDU took over they started their own file. That would be in Dublin, of course.’
‘Right,’ Peter said. He looked down at his notes. Maybe he should just call Dublin, find out if he was going over old ground.
‘You haven’t seen Des yet today?’ Jim asked.
Peter shook his head. ‘Should I take it personally, do you think?’
‘What’s that now?’ Jim was hanging his coat at the door. His cheeks were red from the cold. He reached into his pocket for a tissue and blew his nose loudly.
‘The fact that he’s not here much. Is that a recent thing?’
Jim looked mystified. ‘You mean Des? He’ll be out meeting people. I think he’s at the primary school today. Community policing. That’s what it’s all about in a small town like this.’
Brennan seemed entirely sincere. There was nothing in his expression to suggest sarcasm. Which meant he was either an accomplished actor, or Des Fisher was a far more dedicated cop than Peter had ever known him to be. Jim hummed to himself as he made his way over to the coffee machine, started a hunt for biscuits.
‘Will you have a cup yourself?’ Jim asked.
They had coffee at their desks, made small talk for a few minutes.
‘Des
mentioned you’ve an interview this evening?’ Peter said.
Jim’s face darkened. ‘You mean Cummins.’
‘Séan Cummins, I think he said.’
‘I’d like to string him up,’ Jim said. ‘Jane Cummins plays camogie with my daughter. Fourteen years old.’
‘You’re fairly convinced, then. That he did it?’
‘Not a doubt in my mind. Jane and her mother came to talk to me about it the other night, at the house. Jane couldn’t stop crying, couldn’t look at her mother, or me. He used to pick her up from training every week as a favour for her parents. Took her the long way home.’
‘Jesus.’ Peter shook his head. They were silent for a moment. Peter felt for the other man. ‘What time are you bringing him in?’
‘Five o’clock.’
Conversation died then, and they both got on with their work. It was after lunch before Des finally showed up. He didn’t come in, just opened the door, leaned into reception and crooked his finger at Peter.
‘You’re with me,’ he said. ‘Come on.’ He disappeared.
Peter looked at Brennan, who shrugged. ‘He’s the boss,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t hang about, if I were you.’
Peter got his coat and went outside. Des was already sitting in the driver’s seat of the station’s sole marked car. Peter opened the passenger door, climbed in. Des turned the key in the ignition, pulled out of the station.
‘You’re going to Galway this weekend, I take it?’ he said.
‘Yes.’
‘Make sure you bring your blues back with you next week.’
Peter turned to look at his father. ‘I’m a detective,’ he said. ‘Detectives wear plain clothes.’
‘Not in Roundstone, they don’t,’ Des said. ‘If you’re going to be any use to me as anything more than a glorified paper shuffler, you need a uniform. I’ll bring you out today, show you the ropes, but next week you and Jim will be doing the speed traps.’
‘Fine,’ Peter said. This was one of the reasons why being with his father had always been so bloody infuriating. He was good at putting you in situations you hated, but that you couldn’t legitimately object to. A station the size of Roundstone didn’t need a full-time detective. Peter would have to pull his weight with whatever work was going, and that included speed detection. He’d like to point out that he could do speed detection in plain clothes just as well, but it seemed a petty argument. Peter looked out of the window, swallowed his frustration.
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