In This Bright Future: A DC Smith Investigation

by Peter Grainger

  It was that, the playing with the name, that materialised the question that had been troubling him since he had walked into the house in Glencolin. As it formed, he held onto it with care, because it was important. It would need to be asked at the right moment, and that wasn’t now.

  ‘Diarmuid – don’t hold back. Tell me what you really think of the situation.’

  Another smile at that – the outlook was getting positively sunny.

  ‘Sorry if I raised my voice. When I went back in to see my ma, after you, she looked – a bit different. A bit brighter than she has for a while, even though she was tired. That’s something. I know you can’t find Brann, I’m not stupid. But if it helps her to deal with it in some strange way… Even if you’re only here to make a decent apology for the part you played in it, that’ll be something, too.’

  ‘A decent apology? If only it were that simple.’

  ‘Go on.’

  They were in the city now and Smith would soon need to find a place to get out of the car.

  ‘It was very complicated – and we were very young. Younger than you are, hard as that may be to believe.’

  Kelly was pulling into a taxi rank, as if he had read Smith’s earlier thoughts.

  ‘I can do complicated. I’m looking forward to hearing the whole story but not now. Now, if I stay parked here for more than two minutes, we’re likely to find ourselves in a spot of bother from the cabbies. So what’s your plan? Are you going to do some detecting now?’

  This was her thirty years ago – holding on like an Irish terrier in any argument, any debate, for the sheer satisfaction of the thing itself. The whole family were the same, all the brothers and sisters, and as soon as you went there it was plain that it came from the old man, Brannan O’Neill. They had grown up with that, being told that they could hold and express any opinion they liked but woe betide them if they had not thought it through and were not prepared to defend it. Smith could remember arguments about politics and history going on long into the night. He could remember that it was one of the reasons he had liked them so much.

  ‘Yes, I thought I might, just as a bit of light relief. The Independent Inquiry – presumably it has an office here in Belfast?’

  Kelly nodded the answer.

  ‘As they have looked at his disappearance in recent times, I thought I would begin there.’

  ‘Makes sense – except that you’re not a relative. If you were, they’d treat you kindly enough, once they’d seen some proof. If you mention that you’re a policeman, they’ll show you the door. It’s a part of their remit that nothing they discover can be used in any legal proceedings; that was how they got some people to talk. As it stands, you’ll get nowhere with the Inquiry.’

  ‘Right. Thanks. Is there a shop in the city that sells public address equipment or even one of the old loudhailers?’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘My plan B, if the Inquiry won’t help, is to stand outside the Grand Opera House and make public appeals for anyone with information to come forward. If I get shot at, I’ll have the satisfaction of knowing that someone knows something…’

  A black taxi was reversing into the rank ahead of them – it came to within a foot of the Impreza, making a point.

  Kelly said, ‘We don’t want to get boxed in here. I wasn’t joking about these guys.’

  Smith reached for the door as he spoke.

  ‘OK, let me jump out here. I’ll think of something. We’ve got each other’s numbers now.’

  ‘No, hold on, for heaven’s sake. This is all I was saying earlier – that you’ll need some help even if you just want to make a gesture. I dealt with the Inquiry here last year. They know me. I’m on their records in Brann’s case. They’ll talk to me again – just don’t tell them who you are, or what you are.’

  Smith thought it over. Was Kelly humouring him, or doing this only for his mother’s sake? Maybe.

  ‘Well, I’ll have to be someone, I’ll have to be something, or it will look slightly odd.’

  ‘How’s your American accent? Could you do a long-lost relative, researching the family tree? They’re not unusual in Belfast.’

  ‘Maybe not, but my accent would be. I can do a bit of Geordie, as long as it’s mainly talking about ship-building.’

  Kelly looked across and raised his eyebrows. The man looked thoughtful and perfectly serious.

  ‘Alright, then,’ Smith said, ‘the Inquiry it is. I’ll think of something on the way.’

  Chapter Seven

  They were present in the offices of the Inquiry for almost an hour and a half. Helen Reece, the woman in charge, remembered Diarmuid and shook his hand – then she shook Smith’s hand when he introduced himself as an old friend of Brann O’Neill’s from those days, shocked to hear what had seemingly happened and anxious to see how the search for him was going. It is always best to tell as much of the truth as possible – and if possible one should tell the whole truth, as he just had. In these situations it is also best not to look or sound like a policeman, something with which Smith had never had too many problems.

  The woman agreed in principle to give Diarmuid another copy of their file though it would be little different to the one that the family had already received, and she would also need time to review what she was handing over; all copies had to be signed for and documented, she explained. She disappeared then for five minutes or so, and came back with a frown – there were problems with the printer. Could they call back tomorrow?

  ‘Hardware or software?’ Diarmuid had said.

  She didn’t seem sure but everything was plugged in and connected, she was sure of that… Diarmuid stood up and offered to take a look, and because she knew him and because she knew from experience that the delay could be much longer than a day, she said yes, thank you.

  Smith looked around. The Independent Inquiry for the Location of Victims’ Remains was not so grand as its name and the brass plaque on the wall outside the building suggested – not these days, anyway. From where he sat, he could see empty desks – in fact he could only see two people at work now that the lady and Diarmuid Kelly had gone into what must be some sort of reprographics room at the back. He knew what the running down of an investigation felt like, and he could feel it now. It spreads like a quiet contagion, a wordless diminishing of hope as resources and then people drift away before someone in a meeting somewhere makes the whole thing the last item on an agenda. There would be no fanfare at the end, no announcement that all the missing had been accounted for, because they would never find them all, and surely, even at the start of it, they had known that.

  Smith thought again about the things he would have to say that evening. He must offer them his help but it would be cruel to offer them any hope. There would be no forensics – not a single thing that could be examined as evidence even if he had the means to do so. If any of Brann’s clothes or possessions remained – and they might, he never ceased to be surprised at what people kept – they would be so contaminated they would be worthless. There would be no mobile phone records and no CCTV, no Facebook, no social media of any description. No vehicle to trace because Brann had not owned a car nor a licence to drive one. All that was left behind was memories.

  These also would be contaminated. We remember to some extent what we want to remember – we certainly remember people the way we wish to remember them. The ones at the centre of this story would retain the key details, of course, but those on the periphery would not. They would have no idea that thinking about it, yes, they had caught a glimpse of Brann O’Neill walking down Westhill that afternoon, and that that might have been the detail that unlocked the case for some detective long ago, and so it had all been forgotten now; even had Smith the manpower to knock on every door in the west of the city, those memories could not be retrieved. He smiled to himself at the idea of ‘resources’ in a case like this, and briefly closed his eyes. A case like this? A case like this? There had never been such a case, surely, in which the past be
haviour of the investigating detective was probably the motive for whatever had been done to the victim. And he also had to consider how much he could tell them, even now. It wasn’t inconceivable that there might still be security implications if the whole truth was told. As a young soldier, he had signed the Act, and, ludicrous as it seemed, he felt bound by it still.

  Fortunately he had opened his eyes by the time Diarmuid returned. They sat side by for a moment or two before Smith asked whether everything was sorted now, and apparently it was.

  ‘Drivers out of date,’ Kelly said, ‘so I just downloaded some new ones.’

  ‘Oh, that, yes… At my place it’s the cars that are out of date. It would be handy if we could download some new drivers as well, though. Maybe it will happen with this three-D printing lark.’

  Kelly said, ‘I can see you like to keep up to date.’

  ‘Yes, absolutely. I never cease to amaze my colleagues with my technical know-how.’

  ‘Right.’

  A landline rang beyond the table that served as a counter, and one of the two women in the office picked it up and began a conversation. Smith listened in, force of habit, and realised that it was about another case, another missing person, and not a gossiping friend or someone selling stationery; it brought something home to him, that there were others out there still searching.

  Smith said, ‘There’s something I have to ask you. Something that I need to know before tonight.’

  Kelly turned to watch him, sensing the change in tone.

  ‘Go on, then.’

  ‘Neither your aunt nor your mother were quite sure what to call me. ‘David Smith’ was too new. I was still Stuart Reilly to both of them. I’m guessing that they heard my name from you for the first time this morning.’

  ‘Yes. So?’

  ‘So where did you get it from?’

  Kelly did not answer immediately. He looked away from the intense blue eyes and nodded, as much to himself as to the man who had asked the question, acknowledging that it was a good one.

  ‘You might say I was lucky. In a roundabout way I knew the right man to ask.’

  ‘With respect, that’s telling me how you got it. It’s not an answer to the question.’

  Now Kelly looked back.

  ‘The girl you spoke to on the phone?’

  ‘The one whose boss you are not – and never will be if I’m any judge. I just thought you should know that. Mairead. What about her?’

  ‘Her full name is Mairead McCain.’

  Now it was Kelly’s turn to watch closely for the effect of his words. About two seconds it took for the connection to be made, and then, unexpectedly, a smile.

  ‘Tell me she isn’t Martin McCain’s daughter.’

  ‘His niece.’

  ‘What is it they say about six degrees of separation? We only needed one. So he is still alive, still around?’

  ‘Very much so – about a mile from where we’re sitting now.’

  A shake of the head from Smith. What were the odds, that Diarmuid Kelly was living with the niece of one of the five names that Smith had written down in that new Alwych notebook? And then, on reflection, he realised that the odds were not so great after all; only someone with such a connection in the first place could have found him, and such connections were bound to exist in a city like this and a country like this. The buildings might have changed in some parts of it but one could not redevelop feelings, attitudes and values – no amount of investment initiatives and tax breaks could do that. He thought about the Protestant woman in the café, still on her guard, and about the O’Neills, still staunch Republicans. At least, as far as he could tell, they were still staunch Republicans who abhorred the violence that had marred their cause.

  Kelly said, ‘I expect your next question is, has she told him you’re here.’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘The answer would be “Probably not”.’

  ‘That’s probably good, then.’

  ‘I told her everything this morning, had to after you turned up like that. It’s why I was a few minutes late.’

  ‘I imagine it took a few minutes for her to express how she felt about your mid-week break in England – and the non-existent business trip…’

  ‘Aye – something like that.’

  They shared a moment of silent commiseration before Smith continued the conversation.

  ‘So then, when I do speak to him, I should have the advantage of surprise. I expect it will be the only one I do have, though your asking about me will have got him thinking, no doubt. Do you know him yourself or will we need to through Mairead?’

  ‘Yes, I know him, but…’

  Kelly’s voice tailed away, and Smith saw on his face for the first time a look of uncertainty.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘You actually want to meet him? Martin McCain?’

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far. But I don’t really see an alternative if I’m going to do what I promised.’

  The younger man was still struggling with it. He moved in his seat so that he was facing Smith more directly – as if he was concerned that Smith himself had not quite understood what it was he was saying and as if more eye contact might help him to do so.

  ‘Martin’s always been OK with me, as Mairead’s uncle, y’understand? But something like this? I don’t know how he’s going to react if he sees you walking into the room.’

  Smith said, ‘I’m assuming he doesn’t keep an old Kalashnikov propped up in the corner for just such eventualities. And I’d prefer our first meeting not to be after dark in an alleyway behind the Republican Working Men’s Social Club, if there is such a place.’

  Diarmuid Kelly’s continuing uncertainty had brought him to silence. After another pause, Smith spoke again.

  ‘When I said I would come and talk to people here, whom did you think I meant? Just your family? The people who lost Brann? What would be the point? They have been over it alone and together a thousand times. If there was anything to be found in their memories of that day, they would have found it by now. To me, it would make no sense to come this far and not try to speak to the people who might actually have information.’

  ‘I can see that, but – can you see the risk in it? Some of these people haven’t exactly mellowed. They’re not all playing bowls and looking after their allotments yet.’

  ‘You have allotments in Northern Ireland? Funny, you don’t think of things like that.’

  ‘Oh aye, it’s hilarious.’

  Smith straightened and flexed his knee, which had been inactive for too long.

  ‘You’re right, obviously. There is some risk in it, which is why I asked whether you have a direct line to Martin McCain. If I were you, I’d keep Mairead out of it, as far as that’s possible.’

  ‘When? When d’you want to see him?’

  Smith shrugged and watched as the lady reappeared with folders in her hand.

  ‘As soon as. Later tonight? Tomorrow morning?’

  ‘Jesus…’

  ‘Obviously I’d like a bit of time to read through what these good people found first. How are they funded? Should we pay for the copies?’

  Kelly was on his feet but still staring at Smith.

  ‘There are no charges, not for this. People don’t have to pay to…’

  ‘No. Quite right, too.’

  The lady reached them but held onto the wallet file – Smith told himself that she had had a little too much time to think about it. She said to him, with a glance at Kelly, ‘So you were a friend of Brann O’Neill’s, Mr er…?’

  Kelly had told her his name when they first met; either she was forgetful or she was checking the story.

  ‘Smith.’

  It never sounded convincing in these situations, and so he added, ‘David Smith,’ as if that might make a difference, and then, ‘Yes. We were good friends when I lived here in the city. I left just before Brann disappeared. I looked up an old friend and found this had happened. It’s very sad
.’

  He felt Diarmuid’s eyes upon him then, and wondered whether that might concern the woman, too.

  ‘OK, then,’ she said. ‘You understand that everything we do is based on trust. It’s vital that the information we gather does not get into the public domain, if you see what I mean?’

  ‘I do. I’m happy to return this copy to you personally. If it helps, I will sit here now and read it through – it doesn’t even need to leave the building.’

  That was enough for her, though Smith suspected that she still could not quite believe the story, true though it happened to be. She gave him the folder, with another meaningful glance at Kelly. Leaving the room and its curious atmosphere of a quiet, final but never-ending exhalation, he squeezed the folder between thumb and forefinger, thinking to himself, and after all that, this won’t take long. There’s not much here.

  ‘Oh, it’s yourself, Mr Colgate. I’ve just come down from finishing your room. I’m hours behind, I’ve never known such a day for interruptions.’

  She had heard him trying first one key and then the other in the front door, and now she explained that the lock was upside down and you have to twist it to the left. She took the key and showed him herself, just to be sure. Then, although he had not asked about her day, she told him anyway.

  ‘First a man came to do the safety check on the boiler, for the insurance. They’re very hot on that here…’

  Smith resisted the temptation, and confined himself to a smile and a nod; thin though it might be, he wanted to get to the privacy of the room and read the folder.

  ‘Then I’ve had at least three of those nuisance phone calls. What would a woman in my situation be wanting with a PPI? I don’t mind telling you, on the last one I was rude with the man. There should be laws against that, the harassing of people in their own home. And when that was done, there’s people knocking on the door about the census. How a person is supposed to find the time to earn an honest living I do not know.’