Hidden ( CSI Reilly Steel #3)

by Hill, Casey

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You imply that the boy must have really loved it there, so ipso facto, the place must be really delightful.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘But you ignore the role of persuasion, of manipulating the mind to create that feeling,’ Reuben pointed out.

  ‘Enlighten me.’

  ‘Of course.’ He gave a little cough, preparing to go into lecturer mode. ‘I’m not suggesting that you can make something out of nothing,’ he began. ‘As the alchemists finally discovered, gold cannot be created from base metals. However, what you can do is build on something that already exists, make it so large in the mind that it excludes all other things.’

  ‘And in this case?’

  ‘So in this case, Detective Delaney, our man has obviously created an environment that is safe and nurturing for these children, one that allows him to play out his fantasy of the family he lost – or maybe never had which is another option. But he has not actually created paradise. The only place you can create paradise is in the mind.’

  ‘Cut the mumbo jumbo,’ growled Kennedy. ‘What are you actually saying here?’

  ‘Ah, Detective Dinosaur has once again awakened from his slumber. What I’m saying, my dear man, is that while these children may indeed live somewhere that is peaceful, delightful, idyllic even, to create somewhere that looms so large in the mind of a child that two years later he still wants to go back there comes not just from the physical surroundings, but from the mental real estate his captor has created.

  ‘Your man has clearly spent a considerable effort persuading these children that they live in an earthly paradise, that it is the most wonderful place they could possibly be, and that the outside world is a dangerous and dissolute place.

  ‘He has taken what is already there – the place they are living – and blown it up so large in their minds that they struggle, conceptually, to look beyond its walls.’

  Kennedy thought about this for a moment. ‘All right, clever clogs. So if this place is so wonderful, why did the girls leave – or escape or otherwise?’

  ‘Why indeed?’ replied Reuben. ‘That is the mystery at the heart of this particular enigma, isn’t it?’

  ‘One of them was pregnant,’ Reilly reminded him. ‘So she had presumably found forbidden fruit that tasted sweet.’

  ‘What a perfect metaphor. Forbidden fruit indeed.’

  Chris reached for his coffee and swirled the dregs around in the bottom of the cup. ‘But what about the cold case? She wasn’t pregnant. She froze to death on a lonely hillside…’

  ‘Any type of brainwashing of this sort is going to be an uneven process,’ Reuben pointed out. ‘And it may well be that she was the first … the experiment even.’

  ‘I worked on a case in North Carolina. We found the same thing there,’ said Reilly. ‘The level of acceptance was uneven, even among devotees who believed in the basic dogma.’

  ‘But,’ Reuben added, ‘the fact that you’ve only discovered two potential runaways in over ten years, and that the boy, Conn, would go back now if he were permitted to do so, suggests that our unsub is something of a master manipulator.’

  ‘Which brings us back to one of the unanswered questions,’ Reilly reminded him. ‘Why was Conn expelled from paradise?’

  ‘One could speculate endlessly…’

  ‘Isn’t that your job?’ Kennedy said.

  Reuben ignored him. ‘However, it is my experience,’ he emphasized the word strongly, ‘that in cases like this, boys are much less pliable than girls. My guess is that the young boy was too rebellious, that he rocked the boat. And when you are creating a powerful fantasy, something that you have to sustain amongst several people across many years, you cannot afford a disruptive influence. If you pushed me,’ he concluded, ‘I would have to guess that Conn was expelled solely for being male…’

  They were all silent for a moment.

  ‘What about the pregnant girl, Sarah?’ said Kennedy belligerently. ‘You make this sound like a paradise, but if she was pregnant, maybe he’s responsible for it? Maybe he is abusing them ....’

  Reuben tutted. ‘What a sordid mind you have, Detective Dinosaur.’

  ‘You work as many of these cases as we have, you assume the worst, you know that,’ Kennedy replied quickly.

  Reuben’s loud sigh came down the line. ‘I’m afraid I can’t deny the truth in what you say. I’ve learned to expect the worst, and still not be surprised when it’s even worse than I imagined.’

  ‘I’ve never suspected that,’ Reilly added quickly. ‘If these are replacements for his family – his children – then maybe there’s nothing sexual in this.’

  ‘I concur,’ said Reuben firmly. ‘While I could be wrong – I seem to recall being so once before, in the eighties I think,’ he added devilishly, ‘I would be very surprised if there were any sexual element, any abuse at all in this scenario. I think he loves these kids like his own children.’

  There was a long silence.

  ‘So how do we move forward?’ asked Chris finally.

  ‘Like I said, I would begin by looking for men who have lost a large family, in a car crash, something similar. And I would also be on the lookout for new abductions or missing children. I think he will want to replace the latest escapee, Sarah.’

  ‘We actually had another attempt a day ago,’ Chris informed him. ‘Unsuccessful.’

  ‘Oh, I do love it when I’m proved right!’ Reuben crowed.

  ‘Still, it’s only a matter of time before he tries again. How do we get to him first?’ Chris demanded impatiently.

  ‘Go back to the boy, see if you can get more details from him, and think carefully about how you might locate where he’s hiding them. After all, there can’t be too many places in the area that could double for an earthly paradise.’

  ‘Anything else?’ Reilly asked.

  ‘Well for starters, my dear, don’t forget this place isn’t actually mythical. Do what you do best … follow the breadcrumbs. Allow them to lead you right along the path to Tir Na Nog.’

  It had not escaped Jack Gorman’s notice what his daughter was working on. When Reilly returned to the GFU after the conference call with Reuben he collared her in the hallway, a scowl knotting his bushy dark eyebrows together.

  ‘You’re not helping, you know,’ he said by way of introduction.

  His comment caught her by surprise – Gorman rarely said anything to her unless they were directly consulting on a case. ‘Not helping?’

  ‘Lucy,’ he barked. ‘This case you’ve got her working on. It’s not helping her.

  She still thinks she’s going to find her sister, after all these years…’ His voice trailed away. ‘But she’s gone. There’s no way around that, and raking over old coals won’t bring her back.’

  Reilly looked at his dark eyes, half hidden behind his thick glasses. Were his eyes moist, tears lurking at the corners? ‘Jack, I’m no psychologist—’

  ‘No, you’re not.’

  ‘But I know this is important to Lucy,’ continued Reilly. ‘Grace disappeared when she was just a child. Lucy feels helpless about what happened. I think she’s trying to understand it better, come to terms with it in her own way. And perhaps by helping others who have gone through a similar experience …’

  Gorman stared down at his feet, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped fiercely at his nose. ‘No good will come of it,’ he croaked. ‘Grace is gone, and that’s all there is to it. Do you not think I’ve used all the tools at my disposal over the years to try and find her?’

  Reilly watched him as he shuffled away, his head bowed. Oddly she felt that the conversation hadn’t been about Lucy but about himself, the demons playing inside his head, and the thoughts that tortured him in the small hours of the night.

  Chapter 23

  Conn was sitting in the lobby of the children’s home when Chris and Kennedy returned the following day.

  ‘He’s been waiting out here sin
ce I told him you were calling. He said something about a music player?’ Maggie said as she ushered them inside. Chris told her about the player and the disks and checked that it was OK for Conn to have them.

  ‘Of course. That’s very decent of you, Detective.’

  ‘You came back!’ Much to Chris surprise, Conn immediately walked up to him, his eyes scanning for the promised CD player.

  ‘Here you go – just like I told you.’

  The boy’s face broke into a rare smile and he uttered a shy thank you. ‘I know you want to ask me some more questions,’ he said in Irish, ‘but can we play together a bit first – you know, like last time? Nobody else here can play.’

  ‘Of course. I’ve been practising a bit myself too, want to make sure I can keep up with you.’

  Conn glanced back over his shoulder at Kennedy, who was walking behind them with Maggie. ‘Where’s your girlfriend today?’

  Chris laughed. ‘She’s not my girlfriend. And she’s busy with other stuff.’

  They turned into the music room, and Conn led Chris straight to the piano. ‘Listen. I made this one up.’ He laid his hands on the keyboard, almost reverentially. ‘It’s about Tír na nÓg.’

  Kennedy hung back and pretended to be busy on his phone.

  Chris was heartened by the boy’s obvious delight at seeing him again, the rapport now established between them. Hard fought but worth it. He tried to imagine what it must be like to be trapped inside yourself for this long, not connecting with anyone, not trusting anyone, wondering why the world would play such a cruel trick on you.

  Conn began to play the piano. It was a haunting melody, half developed, but almost the better for that. He wandered around it, leaving then returning, drifting at times, but always coming back to the same core.

  Following their discovery and the consultation with Rueben, the team had heavily researched both Tír na nÓg and the Children of Lir. It was Reilly who’d pointed out that both stories shared a theme of immortality – or eternal youth at least.

  The Swans of Lir were innocents who had been punished for no good reason – evil had been committed against them. The tale of Tír na nÓg, on the other hand, was a story of sanctuary from the evils of the world, a place where music and beauty were celebrated and happiness lasted for ever.

  Chris had enjoyed discussing the stories and their potential bearing on the current case with Reilly. Since the discovery of his circumstances and his determination to keep things hidden, it had felt as though she’d thrown up a wall around her, no longer willing to be open with him. If he was going to hide things, then so was she.

  But the two had spent the previous evening pouring over texts to try and figure out how best to approach the investigation from hereon. It had been a rare opportunity to try and rebuild bridges, little by little, and regain some of the closeness they’d once shared.

  Conn was lost in his music, his eyes sometimes closed, sometimes gazing out of the window, occasionally turning to Chris. Finally he slowed and the notes gradually faded away. He was almost breathless. He turned and gazed at Chris, the unasked question in his eyes – did you like it?

  Chris nodded slowly, then began to play. A smile engulfed Conn’s face – Chris was playing his melody. Not quite the same – his own variation, his own interpretation – but unmistakably the same tune.

  Even though he didn’t have kids of his own Chris liked to think that he had a way of connecting with them that came naturally. He was using every ounce of that here with Conn.

  As his hands caressed the keyboard he looked at Conn. ‘This is what Tír na nÓg is all about?’

  Conn nodded.

  ‘I don’t think I’d want to leave either.’

  Chris played for a moment more, then gently rested his hands on the keys. ‘Can I ask you a few questions now, then we’ll play some more?’

  Conn said nothing and gazed out the window. Chris looked at the side of his face, wondering what passed through his mind when he played the piano – was it conscious thought, or was it simply emotions racing around, forcing their way out through the music?

  He caressed the keys, not really playing, just letting Conn’s melody guide him, slowly, gently circling it, creating the mood, the feeling that Conn’s playing had evoked. Without stopping playing, Chris began to question him.

  ‘When we talked the other day, you told me about the man who brought you to Tir Na Nog. Did he have any other name?’

  ‘Athair,’ said Conn.

  Chris’s pulse quickened. ‘Anything else? The girls …did they ever call him anything else?’

  Conn shook his head. ‘Athair mostly, and sometimes Setanta. He was our father, but he was sort of our mother too – he did everything, like real parents should.’

  Real parents …Chris touched the keys and repeated Conn’s melody again. ‘What kind of things did he do?’

  ‘I don’t know – all the things your mum and dad would do, I suppose – he fed us, looked after us, tucked us in at night, read us stories about the bad places beyond Tír na nÓg. Places like this,’ he added sadly.

  Chris thought about his next question. He found his hands guiding him, and changed from Conn’s tune to an old Irish folk song. Conn looked at him sharply.

  ‘You know that one?’ said Chris.

  ‘Sarah used to play it.’

  Sarah … Chris tried not to look too excited. Repeating the melody, he kept his voice light. ‘Do you remember anything before Tír na nÓg?’

  Conn furrowed his brow. ‘Little bits of stuff come into my head sometimes, you know, like when you’re not sure if it’s real or from a dream?’

  Chris smiled. ‘I get that a lot. Is it something I remember, or a story I heard, or did I dream it?’

  ‘Yes. Father said we were special, that we were chosen but that our dreams would try to trick us sometimes, and we should ignore them.’

  ‘Can you tell me about any of them? The dreams?’

  Conn looked thoughtful. ‘I kind of remember my minnie, she shouted a lot when I did things she didn’t like.’ He gazed up at the ceiling. ‘But I remember a really old lady mostly. She played the piano, old songs like you just did, I remember her face had so many cracks and lines on it.’

  ‘Who was Minnie, was she your sister or something?’ Chris asked.

  Conn smiled. ‘No, stupid, my minnie was my mother. Before I was chosen.’

  Chosen…

  Chris changed to another old song, one he himself had learned from his grandmother.

  Conn smiled. ‘That’s another one.’

  ‘Did you have a piano at home? In your first home I mean, not Tir Na Nog.’

  ‘I don’t think so – I can’t remember…’

  ‘But you remember this old lady, maybe your gran, playing the piano. Anyone else you remember?’

  Conn sighed. ‘Father told me to forget them. Said I was better off away from them.’

  That makes sense, thought Chris. Focus them on the here and now and forget what they might have left behind.

  ‘There’s a man I see sometimes in my dreams. He always makes me wake up, he isn’t very nice. Father said that he took me away from there because of him, and that I’d always be safe with him and the others in Tír na nÓg…’

  He went quiet.

  Move on, thought Chris, move on before you lose him. He quickly changed his playing back to Conn’s melody, bringing him back to Tír na nÓg. ‘So what else can you tell me about Tír na nÓg? It sounds like a very special place.’

  Chris could almost feel Conn’s mood lift as he brought him back from the dark place. ‘It was lovely,’ he began. ‘But I never realized how lovely it was till I got stuck here.’

  ‘Did you ever go anywhere else away from there, to school or anything like that?’

  Conn shook his head. ‘Father said the land would be our teacher. We would often walk through the woods or play down by the beach in summer, but he also made us do some stuff inside the house – times tables and reading
. We did lots of reading.’

  A house … beach … the woods Chris looked at him with interest. ‘Did you have a lot of books there in the house?’

  ‘In the kitchen there was a whole wall that was just books, and we were allowed to read any one we wanted.’ He looked at Chris. ‘Sarah used to read to me a lot.’

  ‘Was she the oldest?’

  ‘I guess so,’ said Conn with a shrug. ‘She must have been, she was kind of like a mum. Used to look out for the younger ones, help us with our chores and stuff.’

  ‘You had chores to do?’ laughed Chris. ‘I thought you said it was paradise.’

  ‘It was fun, though, the stuff we had to do.’

  ‘Like what?’ Now that Conn was talking about Tír na nÓg, his words were coming quicker, and Chris desperately wanted to keep him talking, keep the flow going.

  ‘Cooking, washing up, and looking after the animals – that was my favorite.’

  ‘You had animals there?’

  Conn smiled. ‘A few.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Sheep, goats and chickens. The chickens were funny; they were my job mostly, wandering around everywhere. They used to come into the kitchen looking for scraps and Sarah would chase them out. But they weren’t scared, they used to chase the dogs too.’

  ‘It sounds fun.’

  Conn smiled, the happy memories flooding back to him. ‘It was brilliant. I used to get the eggs every morning, still warm they were.’

  ‘So did you get most of your food from the land?’

  Conn thought for a minute. ‘Most of it, I think. We had a big vegetable garden – that was hard work – and lots of fruit in the summer and autumn. Father would be busy working on his crois, I would help him sometimes but it was very noisy and the dust used to make me cough.’

  Chris was puzzled. ‘What’s a crois?’

  ‘Oh they were beautiful, he made them from the giant rocks he’d bring home in the van. Sometimes he’d get even bigger ones – a big truck would deliver them or we’d get smaller ones from the mountain or woods. He shaped them in the barn,’ Conn said, pride in his voice.

  Chris thought about the trace evidence, Sarah’s silicosis ... Rock dust?