BENEATH LOST GROUND

by G. D. Higgins

  “Did Maura drink any alcohol that evening?”

  “She may have had a glass of wine or two. Does that really matter?”

  “Probably not,” answered McCall.

  “Do you know if they were expecting anyone for dinner last night?” asked Brophy.

  He hesitated. “From what I understand, Ciara was supposed to be down early in the day and take Seán into town after camp to get a new pair of jeans for the concert. But apparently, she got held up at work.” He said the last line with a certain amount of scepticism in his voice, Brophy couldn’t help noticing.

  “Was it like her to cancel like that?” said Brophy.

  “I’m not sure. I don’t know her all that well. But Seán certainly thinks she’s his guardian angel or something.” His face twisted as though he was contemplating saying something else but held back. “I believe she intended on joining them for dinner and then planned to drive Seán up to Dublin straight after they’d eaten.”

  “She never made it, though,” said McCall. “Had to work late.”

  “So, I’ve been led to believe.”

  Brophy and McCall made brief eye contact.

  “Mr Donahue, one of the possibilities we have to consider is that Seán saw or heard what was happening in the house and ran off and hid somewhere.”

  “If that were the case, he would be smart enough to go to the local police station in the village. As he didn’t turn up there, I don’t believe for a second, that’s what happened.” He looked about ready to crack at this point. “Someone has taken him, for Christ’s sake,” he said with a raised voice. “Please, find him before it’s too late.”

  “Sir, we’re doing everything we can,” said McCall. “We’re sorry if this line of questioning is distressing.”

  “That’s quite all right,” he said and polished off the two fingers of Brandy left in his tumbler in one lip-curling gulp.

  “Just one more question before we leave,” said Brophy as he saw McCall ready to get up. “Did Maura ever mention anything about Jordan’s friendship with Bobby Quilty?”

  Donahue’s face dropped, truly caught off guard by the mention of the name. Bingo, thought Brophy. He knows something.

  There was a long pause followed by a stuttered, “Isn’t he that drug kingpin I hear mentioned on the news a lot?”

  “That’s correct. He’s currently living in exile in Bahrain. It’s come to our attention that he and Jordan go back a long way. There’s probably nothing there, but under the circumstances, we need to explore all avenues... So?”

  “So what?” asked Donahue, seemingly trying to hide his heavy breathing.

  “Has Maura ever mentioned their friendship?”

  “No. I don’t believe she has. That’s something I think I’d definitely remember.”

  “Okay, thank you for your time, Mr Donahue. And again, we’re really sorry for your loss,” said McCall rising to her feet.

  “Please, don’t get up,” said Brophy after Donahue began to follow him up. “We’ll let ourselves out.”

  Not so much as a step taken after gently closing the door behind them, and they heard Donahue break down in anguished sobs.

  Whilst Brophy and McCall retraced their steps out of the house and back along the garden path, they gave each other a look that signalled they needed to discuss Donahue’s strange behaviour as soon as they got away from that place.

  The potential complexity of the case, along with the increasing heat of the day, made Brophy’s head spin. He had no doubt that if any of Ireland’s major drug cartels had even the vaguest involvement, the NBCI would be down from Dublin to take over the case.

  He would never voice his welcoming of that possibility, as he knew every other detective, including Bennett and the Superintendent, would be dead set against any interference in what could be the biggest investigation in the region for many years. Bennett’s ambition was matched only by McCall’s, and he believed they were both beginning to sense his own growing discontent with being on the force.

  A bead of sweat trickled down Brophy’s forehead and his thoughts turned to how he should probably get a haircut that week. No sooner had an alternative idea entered his mind, that this case wouldn’t give him a minute to spare in the foreseeable future, than he and McCall were nearly blown off their feet by a sudden flash of black metal careening, at high speed, into the driveway.

  McCall, never one to hold back when she felt she was wronged, shouted, “Hey, watch it,” to the driver through the opened car window.

  Brophy’s initial observation: it was a C class black Mercedes.

  “Watch what? You’re the ones walking on my driveway,” answered the young man, after slamming on the brakes. His eyes were puffy and bloodshot. He’d been crying. “Who are you, anyway?”

  “We’re detectives assigned to your cousin and her husband’s case, Aidan.”

  The young man’s omission to correct Brophy about his name, let Brophy know he’d gotten it right.

  Aidan stared at Brophy and sighed, his knuckles white from how hard he clutched the steering wheel. “Have you had any luck finding who did this yet?”

  “We’re working on it, but maybe you could help us out,” said Brophy. McCall was still scowling at Aidan Donahue.

  He furrowed his eyebrows. “How can I possibly help?”

  “Were you aware Jordan Walters was friends with Bobby Quilty?”

  Aidan Donahue’s expression turned from one of belligerence and sadness to one of nervousness. He broke eye contact with Brophy, facing forward for a moment, thinking of what lies to tell, Brophy surmised.

  “I had no idea. And I’m shocked to hear it. Look, I must go and be with my family. This is a terribly difficult time. Please find these people.”

  With that, he eased the Mercedes slowly past the detectives, and they observed him pick up his phone and make a call before they continued out the gate.

  When they reached McCall’s car, after a few moments of silence, she said, “Something’s definitely going on with these people.”

  “I agree. Let’s give them a day; then we’ll attempt to get them into the station.”

  “Black Mercedes.”

  “And he didn’t even ask about Seán. We need to look into-” Brophy’s concentration was cut by his phone vibrating in his pocket. He took it out, immediately noticing it was Bennett. “What’s happening?” he said upon answering.

  A few seconds passed, and McCall looked on impatiently. Brophy felt the blood drain from his head and became dizzy at the news he’d heard. He pressed the phone off and eyed McCall. “They’ve found a boy’s hurling jersey with blood on it in the woods near the house. We need to get over there at once.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  The air circulated in a spiralling rush as he raced along the R711, all four windows down in the Saab, the strong breeze still doing very little to settle the mangle of thoughts going through Brophy’s mind. The prospect of another missing-young-person case had haunted him for over a decade, and now that nightmare had become a reality. The guilt he’d carried for his own perceived negligence in the investigation into the disappearance of Mel Fanning from Ballyhale village, had burdened him immensely.

  As he passed the train tracks on his approach to Waterford’s Plunkett Train Station, the words of one of the chief suspects in her disappearance, Maurice Scanlon, echoed in his ears, “Why don’t you try the old track? She loved to tease the lads down around there.”

  He considered calling one of his connections in the NBCI, there and then, to ask if they were already taking an interest in the case, but resisted, knowing there was no conceivable way they weren’t. They’d probably have a couple of detectives at the station by the time he’d get back that afternoon.

  The journey through the city was less restricted now. Most people had reached their workplaces and the peak shopping time still a couple of hours away. He was rolling down the wooded driveway to the Walters’ house within fifteen minutes, paying callous disregard for sp
eed limits.

  The area around the house was more crowded than the previous evening. Having passed a few news vans parked outside on the main road, he knew it was only a matter of time before they gained access, and photos of the crime scene made their way around the globe. Such a murder was rare in Ireland. Most murders those days were gangland killings, dealers and hitmen wiping out people with debts, or those who dared encroach on their turf. But this was different. A well-to-do family, gunned down in cold blood, their ten-year-old son nowhere to be found.

  He parked at the back of a row of about ten cars, marked and unmarked, and made his way towards Bennett and Halpin, the head of Tech, standing by the white van, talking to McCall. He wasn’t surprised she’d made it there before him. She was a rally driver in her free time and came from a family of mechanics. Driving fast for her was as trivial as having a smoke.

  “What have you found?” he asked Halpin on reaching the trio. Halpin was a short, thin man, shrewd, and born to do this job. Studied forensic criminology in Britain and worked for the Met in London for ten years before moving back to Ireland to take up a position in the Waterford headquarters.

  Halpin went to the back of the van where one of the two doors was opened and returned seconds later, holding a plastic evidence bag. What appeared to be a light blue with dark blue trim garment was folded inside it. A Dublin jersey. The family was originally from the capital, and they seemed to maintain strong connections from what he’d observed so far.

  “Is there much blood on it?” said Brophy.

  “More than a little dribble down the front centre,” answered Halpin. “Consistent with a head wound rather than from the body.” Brophy’s heart sank. “We’ll take it back to headquarters soon. Should have more on it by tonight.” Halpin had seen it all in his tenure in London but couldn’t disguise the disdain on his face.

  “Where was it found?” McCall this time.

  “Beside a tree, about a hundred and twenty metres west of the house.”

  “Any other blood sighted around?” Brophy asked.

  “None that we’ve been able to find. But we’ll be bringing in the dogs later and scanning the area more thoroughly during the day. Jesus, this heat is unreal,” said Halpin, pulling down his white hood and wiping his brow with the back of his hand.

  Bennett, who’d been quiet and pensive until then, spoke. “What have you two found out so far?” He eyed Brophy as he said it.

  “I talked to the hurling camp coach. Said Seán was there yesterday and nothing unusual about him. He left a little early. Left in a black Mercedes. We assume it was the father’s, but we’re not sure.”

  “What?” said Bennett aghast. “The coach didn’t see whose car he got into?”

  “He said he saw the kid laughing as he got into the car.”

  McCall said, “The uncle, Barry Donahue, also has a black Mercedes. We saw his son driving it a while ago. They all seemed to be very close to the kid.”

  “What’s the story with this Donahue?” Bennett asked, again looking at Brophy.

  “He was definitely distraught, but there was a glimmer of something when we mentioned Bobby Quilty.”

  “Ah, fuck! Please don’t tell me there’s a connection with that rat,” said Bennett with a slight hiss.

  “It’s something we can’t ignore,” said Brophy.

  “That’ll mean there’s no way Dublin won’t be involved. We need to crack this one ourselves, Brophy. The upgrade hangs in the balance, and if we want it to go through, we have to show them we don’t need their help with big cases. That’s imperative. Get to the bottom of this quickly.”

  Bennett gave Halpin a nod, and the two men turned on their heels and headed in the direction of the front door of the house.

  “Does that wanker even realise I’m a detective?” said McCall, gritting her teeth. “He doesn’t trust my judgement one little bit.”

  “Don’t mind him. He’s just used to deferring to me. We’ve been together a long time.”

  “And it should be you as DI anyway, and he bloody well knows it.”

  Brophy said nothing, just bit his lower lip.

  “Don’t let this one get to you, Brophy. It’s nothing personal. Keep a distance, and we’ll close it together. Find that poor kid. He has to be somewhere.” Brophy didn’t answer and stared into space. “What are you thinking on this one? I know you have a theory, and it would be good to hear it now before we move on.”

  Brophy focused on McCall, her blue eyes conveying an almost motherly affection. “I don’t have a theory yet. But one thing I’m sure of, and that’s the whole Quilty connection has something to do with it. Maybe Walters knew something he shouldn’t, or maybe he has some kind of debt he couldn’t pay. Can you give your connection in the Drug Squad a call and see if Walters’ name has ever come up?”

  “Sure. I’ll get right-”

  Before McCall had a chance to finish, a chorus of yells travelled over from the direction of the converted-barn garage at the opposite end of the house. Brophy and McCall gave each other a quick look then started jogging towards the sound. The garage was a large two-storey building; the walls painted the same magnolia as the main house. The entrance was two well-restored wooden doors that opened out onto a gravelly yard. McCall entered, followed by Brophy.

  Brophy immediately felt claustrophobic in the open dark space and had to focus on the light coming through an upstairs window to reorient himself. A mixture of smells struck him. Motor oil from the John Deer sit-down lawn-mower on the far side of the massive room. A faint smell of livestock, from a bygone era, the kind that always stayed in a building like that, no matter how much time has passed. And something more pungent, like raw chemicals mixed with methylated spirits. Trying to catch his breath in the baking heat and blinking rapidly to regain his vision through the raised dust, he attempted to locate where the shouts had come from. A uniformed guard burst in the door after them and almost stumbled to the ground with the sudden change in light from the outside.

  “The stairs by the back wall,” said McCall and quickly headed in that direction.

  Brophy followed, and soon they were scaling ancient rickety stairs that creaked under every footfall. Ascending the stairs, visions of a broken and bloodied body of a child sent a convulsive thud down his legs. His stomach clenched, his heart slowed to resemble the tick of a clock, counting down the horror that awaited them.

  McCall reached the top first. Brophy followed right behind, his eye-line revealing a dusty old attic space full of clutter. McCall approached the far corner of the space where the flashlight beam was visible behind a stack of sealed boxes.

  “What is it?” asked McCall, and Brophy felt the bile rising in his throat.

  “Take a look at this, Detective,” came the muffled reply of the white-suited, masked guard who was crouched down, looking into a bygone-era child’s pram.

  Brophy reached them at around the same time McCall was bending down to take a look at where the light was shining. “What is it?” he said. The question was accompanied by the realisation there was no way a ten-year-old boy could have fit in there.

  The white-suited guard pulled back a filthy old cotton blanket further to reveal what looked like a cellophane bag of damp brown sugar. The chemical smell wafted up and coursed through the dead air, making it bitter and strangely antiseptic. Brophy leaned in for a closer look. More footsteps emerged from the creaky stairs.

  “Looks like heroin,” said McCall.

  “Or methamphetamine,” replied Brophy. “One of the samples at the DS seminar in Templemore smelled identical to this.

  “Jesus Christ. Meth?” said McCall. “That’s a first. Are you sure?”

  “The stench would certainly point to it being some kind of amphetamine,” said the garda. He gently removed the blanket entirely from the pram, revealing four more bags of a similar size.

  “Must be about five or six kilos, by the looks of it,” said Brophy.

  The guard cut in. “More like ten
.”

  “What have we got here?” came Halpin’s familiar voice with the London twinge he never quite shook off, despite having left there eight years ago.

  “Possibly up to ten kilos of methamphetamine,” said McCall.

  Bennett appeared over Halpin’s shoulder, and now there were six of them huddled into the small corner of the garage attic, staring down at a discoloured pram. “What is it?”

  “Class A narcotics. Approximately ten kilos worth,” said Brophy.

  “Ah, fuck!”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Back at the incident room, urgent murmurs rose from the gathered group that had doubled in size since the previous night. DS Sally Reagan and Detective Garda Vincent Hogan from the drug squad were now present. They fervently discussed the contents of the bags found by Garda Walsh, the member of the Tech Bureau, who discovered the bags of drugs in the pram. Brophy stood by the filing cabinets watching Kenneally add more signs and photographs to the wall.

  “This is turning into a real shit show, is it not, Brophy?” said Kenneally.

  Brophy didn’t reply but instead focused on the picture of Seán Walters, in his school uniform, directly under snaps of his deceased parents.

  “Have they come back with any CCTV on who picked up the boy yesterday?” said Brophy as Kenneally tacked a picture of the bags of amphetamine to the wall.

  “I think they might have something, but I’m not sure what yet. If Bennett ever gets the finger out and arrives on time like the rest of us, we might get started and get all the information we need.”

  Kenneally had barely uttered his last word when Bennett came storming in through the back of the room, a raging ball of negative energy, wound-up for his usual outbursts of rebukes and rebuttals.

  “Okay, everybody, gather round quickly,” he said in a volume just shy of all-out shouting. “The NBCI are on their way, and I want to get things straight before they arrive.”