‘It really is important, Orna. You know I wouldn’t ask . . .’
She nodded, glanced over her shoulder again. ‘I do. Look, I won’t make any promises. But I’ll keep an eye out for the request. If I get the chance to run a copy, I will. But no guarantees, and you have to promise me that you tell no one you got it from me, all right?’
After he left Orna, Cormac made his way back into the city centre. He’d made arrangements to meet his homeless connection from the day before at the same location, in the hopes that he’d manage to pick up a few hints of Niall Collins’ location during the day. He got lucky. In exchange for a hundred euro he was pointed towards a dosshouse in Clontarf. Clontarf was one of Dublin’s up-market suburbs, but Cormac’s new friend explained that the place in question had been boarded up, maybe for a renovation, and for reasons unknown the work never happened. Eventually someone in need of a place to sleep found their way in, presumably with the help of a crowbar.
‘Those places get completely disgusting after a while, you know? People come in to shoot up or sleep for a few days and they leave their shit everywhere and then the rats come and it’s just manky. I’d rather be on the streets.’ He was only in his early twenties, this young fella bundled in a sleeping bag and sitting on the steps of the Central Bank, but he had sunken cheeks and the eyes of a much older man. ‘But I’ve heard this one is all right. There’s a woman there – Bess or Beth or something. She lays down the law.’
Cormac thanked him, paid up and set out. He didn’t have a lot of hope that the information would lead to anything but it was worth a shot. He stopped just long enough to buy a torch, then drove out of the city. He tried Emma’s phone on the way. She didn’t answer.
The house was on Victoria Road, right in the heart of Clontarf and less than twenty minutes’ drive from the city centre, even in heavy traffic. Two streets back from the seafront. A prime location. The house itself was impressive at first glance. It was a period red brick, the front garden neatly kept with a box hedge and lawn, both recently trimmed. If it wasn’t for the boarded-up front windows, you would assume that the house was occupied by some upper-middle-class family or professional couple, just like every other house on the street. Cormac opened the front gate and followed the side path down and around to the back of the house. It was a dark night and overcast, but there was enough ambient light from neighbouring houses to see that the back garden was very overgrown. He switched on his torch as he approached the back door, tried the handle and it opened. Cormac made his way inside, into a kitchen that had seen better days. Some of the terracotta tiles remained but most of them were gone, leaving bare and battered concrete in their place. There was an old stove, but it was clear it wasn’t working – any parts that could be removed had been. The walls showed rising damp. There was no sign of any occupants. Cormac made his way further into the house and up a staircase.
He passed a bedroom on the first floor. The door was open, and he shone the torch inside. There was a woman sleeping there, curled up on a mattress in a sleeping bag. She didn’t react to the light, seemed deeply asleep. He moved on.
The next bedroom was also occupied, this time by a man. Another mattress, another sleeping bag. Cormac approached, floorboards creaking under his feet, scanning the room as he went. It was reasonably clean, just a couple of fast-food wrappings in the corner, a few water bottles. There was no sign of any drug paraphernalia, but unless this man, who he hoped to god was Niall Collins, was the world’s deepest sleeper, he was on something. Cormac checked for any hidden weapons, then shook the man awake. It took a minute.
‘Niall? Niall, wake up. I need to have a chat with you.’
Eventually the man came around enough to sit up a little, blinking his eyes slowly. He was having trouble focusing on Cormac and looked like he might drop off again at any minute.
‘You’re Niall, aren’t you? Niall Collins? I just need to have a bit of a chat with you, Niall, and then I’ll leave you to go back to sleep.’
The other man looked at him blankly. Cormac was aiming the beam of the torch off to the side so that he could see Collins’ face but avoid blinding him with the direct glare of the beam. There was a camping lantern sitting to the left of Collins’ mattress. ‘Can you turn on your light there, Niall, so we can see each other a bit better?’
It took Collins a long moment to process what Cormac wanted, another to fumble with the lantern and turn it on, but the action seemed to bring him back to himself a little bit more.
‘What the fuck?’ he asked. ‘What are you . . . why are you in my room? I don’t want you here.’
‘You are Niall, aren’t you? I was at your old flat today. Your sister’s old place in The Liberties.’
Cormac was just making conversation, trying to lead off with something innocuous, but Collins’ reaction was immediate and entirely unexpected. He shuffled backwards in his sleeping bag until he was up against the wall. ‘I didn’t do anything,’ he said.
Cormac kept his tone relaxed and neutral. ‘No one’s suggesting you have, Niall. I just wanted to have a chat with you because I’m told you’ve been very helpful to the police in the past. I have a little problem with a drug dealer – nothing major, nothing very high level – but I thought you might be able to confirm a bit of information for me.’
‘I’m not a dealer,’ Niall said, shaking his head. ‘I’m just the fucking eejit who buys from them. I can’t help you.’
‘Ah Niall, there’s no need to run yourself down. I know you’ve been a big help to us in the past. You’ve come very highly recommended. And I’m just looking for anything you can give me about James Arnott,’ Cormac said, naming a man who he knew to be a minor dealer in the Killeen network. ‘I want to have a chat with him. It would be very helpful if you could let me know where I might find him. If there’s a pub he likes in particular, or a girlfriend you know of.’
Niall shook his head. ‘I don’t know anything. I don’t know him. I can’t help you.’
Cormac gave him a hard look and Collins flinched as if Cormac had threatened him. It was very difficult to believe that the man in front of him was some kind of super-informant. Maybe he was just that good at playing a part, but he seemed like a man near the end of his road.
‘All right, Niall,’ Cormac said softly. ‘Maybe there’s been some kind of mix-up. Maybe you can’t help me. But just so I know I’m speaking to the right man, you did live in the apartment in The Liberties? That was your sister’s place before she moved out?’
Collins’s eyes flicked from Cormac to the door and back and his hands clutched at his sleeping bag. Cormac felt a sudden concern for the missing sister.
‘That’s a very simple question, Niall,’ Cormac said. ‘I know you can answer this one. Did you live with your sister at the flat?’
He got a single stiff nod in return.
‘Grand,’ Cormac said. ‘And where is she now?’
Collins shook his head. ‘I don’t know. She went away. She just . . . I was asleep, and when I woke up, she was gone.’
‘And you haven’t seen her since?’
Another head shake.
‘You haven’t called her? Heard from her at all?’ Cormac asked. He could see the answer in Collins’ wretched expression. ‘Why haven’t you reported her missing? Aren’t you worried about her?’
‘Nothing happened to Anna,’ Niall said. ‘She’d just had enough. All her stuff was gone. I told you, when I woke up she’d packed everything up and just left. I think she found somewhere better. That’s Anna. She’s a survivor.’ He said it with admiration, not bitterness.
‘Right,’ Cormac said. There was a ring of truth to Collins’ words. But the man was clearly hiding something. Cormac bit back his irritation. He didn’t have time to get sucked into any side alleys. And he was tired now, and bloody cold.
‘All right,’ Cormac said. He’d been leaning against the wall opposite Collins. Now he stood up. ‘Thanks for your time.’ He looked around the room. There wa
s a fireplace, but it was black and empty, and the room was freezing cold. ‘Will you be all right here?’ he asked. ‘You know the forecast is bad for the weekend. It’s going down another five degrees at least. You’re going to have to get somewhere a bit warmer than here.’
Collins shrugged. ‘It’s not my first winter sleeping rough,’ he said.
‘It’s going to be too cold, Niall,’ Cormac said. ‘You should find a hostel tomorrow.’ His words were met with another shrug. Collins wasn’t interested in a lecture. He was waiting for Cormac to go. Cormac pulled out his wallet. He only had a tenner. He handed it over. ‘Get something to eat, will you?’ he said.
Collins looked at the money, then he reached out and took it without a word or a look in Cormac’s direction. That was okay.
Back in his car, heater on, Cormac looked up at the dark house, and phoned the drop-in centre. It was well after midnight, but the phone was answered almost immediately.
‘Karen Allen.’ The Director of Services he’d met earlier that day.
Cormac looked at his watch. It was coming up on one a.m. ‘You don’t sleep, Ms Allen?’ he said.
She gave a polite laugh. ‘I work night shift, from time to time.’
Cormac explained the problem, the set-up in the house, the fact that he was worried about the cold.
Karen Allen sighed. ‘We have so many people on the streets, and they’ll all be trying to get a place in the next twenty-four hours. It won’t be easy.’
‘If there’s anything you can do,’ Cormac said.
‘We have an outreach team,’ she said. ‘This wouldn’t be strictly kosher, given that they are squatting, as you say. But we might be able to arrange for a fuel delivery, if there are working fireplaces in the house. And bring a bit of food and keep in touch with whoever’s there.’
‘That would be great. Thank you,’ Cormac said. He started the car.
‘No. Thank you,’ she said, and it sounded like she meant it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Peter went to the pub after the Madden house, ordered dinner and a pint, enjoyed his second decent meal in as many days. Afterwards he walked up the hill to Maggie’s to check in on her. Barrett had already been and gone. Anna told him Maggie had rallied briefly in the earlier part of the day, but she was sleeping by the time he got there. He sat with her for a few minutes, talked briefly with Anna and Tilly, then set off. He walked back down to the village, picked up his car and drove back to the flat. The roads outside the village limits were much worse now and he nearly ended up in the ditch twice.
Peter was exhausted when he finally reached the flat. He laid the fire automatically, lit it and ate a couple of slices of toast standing up. Then he took off his boots, lay down on the couch fully clothed, pulled the covers over himself and fell into a deep and dreamless sleep. He was woken by a hammering on the door. Disoriented, and only half awake, Peter stumbled to the door and opened it to a blast of freezing air and his father.
‘I need you,’ said Des. ‘Right now.’
‘What?’
‘Now,’ Des insisted. ‘Get your shoes. For Christ’s sake, hurry up.’
Peter shoved his feet into his boots, grabbed his jacket and followed Des out the door. Instead of a squad car, there was a battered-looking Outlander parked outside, engine still running, snow chains on the tyres. Des took the driver’s side, and then they were off, careening down the drive at a pace that struck Peter as lethal, snow chains or no snow chains. He braced himself against the side of the car and leaned down to tie his bootlaces.
‘Where are we going?’ he asked.
‘Jim needs us,’ Des said tersely.
‘Where? For what?’
Visibility was horrendous. Des cursed and leaned forward, trying to see where he was going through the heavy snow.
‘Let me concentrate on what I’m doing,’ he said.
Peter shut up, kept his eyes on the road. Des was driving far too fast for the conditions. His hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, and he changed gear like a rally driver. Ten minutes later he turned off the road, pulling into the driveway of a small, unremarkable-looking bungalow. There were two cars already in the driveway, a squad car and a standard saloon. The door to the house was wide open. Des jerked on the handbrake, then was out of the car and running for the house. The adrenaline was catching, and Peter was right on his heels.
Then they were in the house, and Jim Brennan was there. He was standing over the body of a man who was lying face down and there was blood on his clenched fists. Jim looked up as they entered, and smiled his friendly, wide-open smile.
‘You started without us, I see,’ said Des.
‘You know me, Des. I don’t like to dillydally,’ Jim said. And he drew back one booted foot and kicked the unconscious man in the head as hard as he could. The head snapped back from the force of the kick and Peter heard something crack, but there was no voluntary movement from the body, no signs of life.
‘Jesus,’ Peter said. Instinctively, he moved forward, putting a hand to Jim’s chest and pushing him away from the body. Jim allowed himself to be moved.
‘Careful, Jim,’ Des said. He leaned down towards the body, listened for a moment, then made a regretful sound. ‘We’ll have to leave it at that, I think,’ he said. ‘He’s breathing, but just about.’
Jim shook his head. ‘It’s a hard line to draw,’ he said.
‘I did tell you to wait,’ Des said.
Jim shrugged eloquently, as if to say that Des should have known better.
Peter was freaked out, speechless. It was like he had stumbled onto the set of a bad gangster movie, and all the while Jim Brennan was smiling away at him as if they were having a nice chat over a cup of tea.
Des nudged the unconscious man with his foot. ‘Peter, meet Séan Cummins.’
‘For Christ’s sake, leave him alone,’ Peter said. He pushed Des back from the body, leaned down and, bracing his neck as best he could, turned the man over. His nose was obviously broken, his lip split. Blood was seeping from his nostrils and the corner of his mouth. Peter had a flashback to that cold lakeside and another body covered in blood.
‘I wouldn’t have rolled him over, if I were you, Peter. He might choke on the blood,’ Des said, conversationally.
‘Fuck.’ Peter rolled Cummins into the recovery position, still supporting his neck. He felt for a pulse, found it. ‘What have you done?’
Des snorted, as if to say that the answer to that question was self-evident.
Peter had his hand on Cummins’s shoulder. It was freezing in the house.
‘We need to get him to a doctor,’ Peter said.
‘That man you’re caring for so thoughtfully is a child molester. A rapist. You haven’t forgotten that, have you?’
‘I haven’t forgotten anything,’ Peter said. He stood up, suddenly feeling vulnerable crouching on the floor with Des and Jim looking down at him. ‘But what are you going to do, kill him?’
Des smiled. ‘Not this time,’ he said. ‘You needn’t worry, Peter. You’re not going to end up in prison.’
Jim laughed, like it was all a very good joke. ‘No, but when Cummins here wakes up in the morning, he’s going to get in his car and drive a very long way from here. And he’s never going to come back.’
‘And then what?’ Peter said, very quietly. He felt like all the breath had been sucked out of his lungs. ‘What happens after that?’
‘He’ll never touch Jane or any other little girl in this village again,’ Des said. ‘That’s the point.’
‘And what about all the other little girls?’ Peter said. ‘All you’ll have done is moved him on to the next place. It’s our job to put him in prison. To get him on the register. To stop him forever, not just for now.’
Jim’s smile finally dropped away. He shook his head, as if Peter’s naivety had disappointed him.
‘This is the world we live in, Peter,’ Des said. ‘If we could have put Cummins away, we would have, you know th
at. But Jane’s family wanted the charges dropped and Cummins was just going about his business. I wasn’t going to tolerate that. Not in my village.’
It sounded so reasonable. Understandable.
‘And what happens when he reports this?’ Peter said. ‘He knows who you are, Jim.’
‘He’s not going to report anything,’ Jim said.
‘Cummins knows how this works,’ Des said. ‘It would be his word against ours, and there isn’t a garda in the country who would take him seriously.’
Peter stood there in silence. There was a ringing in his ears. All he could hear was his own breathing. Des and Jim were waiting expectantly, as if they wanted something from him.
‘This is bullshit,’ Peter said. ‘This isn’t policing.’
Des and Jim exchanged a glance, and both men turned to go.
‘You’re just going to leave him here?’ Peter said. They were at the door. ‘We can’t just leave him here, Des. He could die.’
‘Give him the keys, Jim,’ Des said. Jim took the keys to the squad car from his pocket, threw them to Peter. ‘Look after him so, if you’re so keen. And grow the fuck up.’
They left. Drove away in the Outlander and left him there with the unconscious body of a paedophile. Fuck. Fuck. He paced the room. What the hell was he going to do now? He wanted to call Aoife, went so far as to take out his phone and find her number, then stopped himself. If this all came out – and surely to god it would – then he didn’t want Aoife tangled up in it. He crouched down, checked Cummins’s pulse again, examined him. He was still shallow breathing, didn’t seem any worse, and the flow of blood was slowing, but he was still unconscious. He could have a bleed on the brain. He could be dying right there on the floor, while Peter did nothing. The fucking bravado and bullshit of Des and Jim, to walk away as if they were in control of everything, as if they knew for sure what was going to happen. They weren’t doctors. But maybe they weren’t worried about Cummins dying. Maybe if he did, they’d find a nice convenient bog hole to dispose of the body, and then they’d run a tidy little investigation into his disappearance and that would be that. Jesus. Maybe they’d done it before.
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