BENEATH LOST GROUND

by G. D. Higgins

  “I can’t wait to see Bennett play second fiddle to the Dubs. That prick has it in for every woman in this place.”

  “Don’t let him get to you,” said Brophy, then rubbed a bead of sweat from his forehead.

  “I’ll try my best, but it’s hard with some of the shit that creep gets up to.”

  “What do you mean? What has he done?”

  “Nothing. Forget about it.”

  Brophy knew better than to press her any further.

  “Drink after talking the Gough?”

  Brophy’s stomach tensed, and he broke eye contact with McCall.

  “Sorry, can’t tonight. Having dinner with the folks.”

  “Oh. That’s nice. Tell them I said ‘hello.’” She looked over his shoulder, and the smile that had crept across her face talking about Brophy’s parents dropped to a tight-lipped scowl. “Speaking of the arsehole himself, here comes trouble.”

  Brophy looked back and saw Bennett coming out the rear door of the station and heading in their direction. By the time he looked back, McCall was already on her way to her car.

  “See you at Woodstown Station in twenty,” she said, then threw Bennett brief dagger eyes.

  “Conal, wait up a moment,” called Bennett from twenty feet back, stopping Brophy’s attempted dash for his car.

  He turned slowly, not sure if the sigh was audible or not. “What is it, Inspector? We’re just about to head out and talk to Sergeant Gough.”

  “Gough? Why would you bother with that? We’ve gotten all we can out of him.”

  “You never know. There’s often a detail, no matter how small, that we can miss. I want to have another look around the house too. It’s been swarming with people every time I’ve been there so far.”

  “Fair enough. Whatever you think will help close this thing.” Bennett looked around awkwardly. “Look, I wanted to have a word about these Big City Coppers on their way down.”

  Brophy was momentarily distracted by the raucous revving of McCall’s Audi, and her erratic screeching of tyres, pulling out of the car park. “Don’t worry about them. They’re not going to push us aside just like that.”

  “That’s not what I wanted to talk about.” He clenched his mouth shut and took a deep breath. “I heard they’ll be keeping a close eye on you during this investigation.”

  “On me? Why, what have I done?” Brophy asked aghast, and nervous at hearing the news.

  “You haven’t done anything. That’s not why they’re interested in you.”

  “What’s up with them, then?”

  “From what I understand, the assistant commissioner has had an eye on you for a while, and he’s considering making you an offer.”

  “An offer?”

  “To join some new squad, they’re putting together in the capital. Little is known about it yet. Top secret kind of stuff. Bloody wankers, think they’re the FBI or something. So, what do you think?”

  “I don’t know. It’s a bit of a shock to hear this now. No. I’m not up for it.”

  “That’s what I like to hear. We can’t lose our best investigator when this upgrade hangs in the balance. The inspector position has your name on it as soon as I’m made superintendent. You know that, right?”

  “About that, I’m not sure I’ll still be here by then.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? Did you get another offer?”

  “No. I’m thinking of getting out. Leaving the force. I have enough of all the bullshit.”

  “I can’t believe what I’m hearing. What would you possibly do? You were made for this job. All you need is a drinking problem and a scar across your face, and you’ll be the complete copper.”

  Brophy let out a dry laugh, and for a fleeting moment, remembered why they had been good friends way back when they first joined.

  “Really though? Are you honestly thinking of quitting?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “I don’t know what to think right now.” Bennett suddenly became serious and authoritarian. “Well, you can’t leave. Not until this upgrade is done. You’ll be letting every young officer in this place down if you hightail. For some reason, they all seem to look up to you. Maybe because of your Munster final medals. But don’t bottle on us before things are settled here.”

  Brophy gritted his teeth and had to fight off the urge to chin him there and then. He couldn’t believe Bennett used that word against him. He knew it was calculated and intentional like most things Bennett did and said those days.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll work night and day assisting the NBCI with you on this one.”

  Bennett took a step closer to him, now face to face, and looked down his nose with utter contempt at the shorter man. “You be very fucking careful what you say to me.”

  Brophy clenched his fists, ready to engage with his physically more imposing superior officer. “This is exactly why I want out, you see? Out there, we have to deal with all kinds of scum, and in here, it’s not much different.”

  Bennett rotated his body slightly to the side as if lining up to take a swing. As his shoulder budged to raise his arm, a familiar voice shouted down from the third-floor window behind them.

  “Detective Inspector Bennett. Get in here now. Our guests arrive in ten minutes,” blared the superintendent, the fury in his voice echoing around the yard.

  Bennett took a step back, but Brophy didn’t budge. “I’ll be right there, Sir.”

  He turned, keeping a stinging glare at Brophy for a few seconds, then headed back the way he came.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Woodstown Garda station was a small two-storey house, painted pale yellow, and set back from a narrow country road, in a small garden. It could have been mistaken for just another house, were it not for the blue and gold insignia of An Garda Síochána, nailed to the wall beside the blue door. The white squad car was parked in the single space next to the building, so Brophy pulled up behind McCall, who was parked on a grassy patch across the road, smoke billowing out her window.

  “I’ve been sitting here for almost ten minutes. What kept you?” she asked as he approached the open window.

  “Speed limits and civic responsibility.”

  “Speed limits don’t count in urgent police matters.”

  “What’s your excuse the rest of the time?”

  “What did Inspector Tool want, anyway?”

  “Not much. Just asked me to keep an eye on you.”

  “Yeah, that wouldn’t surprise me in the least. Probably thinks I might break a nail and get all emotional.”

  Brophy opened the driver’s door. “Shall we?”

  She chucked the lit cigarette down near his feet, slid out her seat in a swift movement, and began crossing the road. Brophy slammed her door shut and stubbed the cigarette. “You’ll start a forest fire in this damn heat. Put out your smokes properly.”

  “Is that an order, Boss?” she said without a hint of irony.

  On reaching the door, they found it locked, not unusual for such a station in the sticks that likely also had rudimentary living quarters. Brophy rapped the heavy brass knocker against it. Almost twenty seconds had passed before they heard footsteps shuffling towards them.

  “Detectives,” said Gough on opening the door, “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

  “No problem, Sergeant Gough. I hope it’s not a bad time,” said Brophy.

  “It’s a terrible time, Detective Brophy. Two people have been murdered on my watch, and an innocent young boy is missing.”

  Gough bowed, clearly dejected by the events of the last twenty-four hours. He was a large man with just a few tufts of black hair rounding the back and sides of his block head. He looked as though he might have been an athletic specimen in his day, but the years were catching up on him fast. He wore his uniform, but the shirt was untucked, and Brophy guessed he’d just been having a nap.

  “Please come in, Detectives. I’m glad you’re here. I’ve been kept pretty much in the dark today, which hasn
’t helped matters in the least.”

  They entered a tiny reception area with a small counter and a narrow hall flanked by a narrower staircase. It felt crowded with the three of them standing there.

  “Come in here to the meeting room,” said Gough and ushered them down the hall.

  They entered what felt more like the living room of a shut-in. A bare, polished teak table sat in the middle with four fold-out chairs surrounding it. Little light penetrated the small sole window, but the one-foot squared window opened at the top, whipped up a surprisingly pleasant draft, all the same. Brophy could easily imagine the appeal of working in such a station.

  As if reading Brophy’s mind, Gough said, “There used to be three full-time guards here back in the day. Someone at the station twenty-four hours. They’d have known the names of every man, woman, and child in a five-mile radius. They’d take calls any time of night, whether it was to break up a fight between quarrelling brothers or assist the local vet delivering a foal. Now?” he scoffed, “Lucky if we know half the people who live a five-minute walk from here. Come next or near their houses, and they get all defensive. No sense of community in this country anymore.”

  “Were the Walters like that?” asked McCall, the abruptness of the question snapping Gough out of his pining.

  He looked at her, his eyes full of sorrow. “No, actually. They weren’t. They were some of the most decent folks around here. Always salute you with a smile coming down the road. The few times I had to call into their place, they were very welcoming, always offering tea and biscuits. And the lad-” He folded in on himself and seemed half his formidable stature. “A grand little fella, he is.”

  “Sergeant, have you ever spotted Michael Delaney out here before?” asked Brophy.

  “Can’t say I have. We get that type out here from the city, the odd time. They head into the woods or down to one of the beaches to smoke their reefer. I’ve busted a couple of them over the years, but they generally park in a way that they can see me a mile off and get rid of the stuff. But this Delaney fella, I haven’t seen.”

  “How about any ‘D’ reg cars? In particular, high-end vehicles.”

  “We tend to get quite a lot of them passing through, alright. Especially in this weather we’re having. A lot of wealthy folk from Dublin have summer houses around here. Others come down for the weekends and stay in Dunmore or Tramore. Why do you ask, Detective? Is it something to do with the hubbub around the house today?”

  “Have they not told you what they found, Sergeant?” asked McCall.

  “No, they haven’t. What did ye find?”

  McCall glanced at Brophy, and his expression gave the go-ahead to explain.

  “In the Walters’ garage, in an old pram, a few kilos of amphetamine was found. Nothing is certain yet, but it’s suspected that Jordan Walters may have been manufacturing it in his laboratory in the city.”

  Disbelief and dismay sagged Gough’s already drooping features. He slumped into one of the chairs. “Well, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I suppose it should be no great surprise at this stage, but God Almighty, why would a family who has it all get involved in something like that?”

  “That’s what we’re hoping to find out,” said Brophy. “Did you know Jordan’s father?”

  “I didn’t. I only took up this role a while after he passed.”

  “Where were you before that?” asked McCall.

  “Drogheda. Almost twenty years after doing my first few years in Dublin. Just like yourself, Detective Brophy. I knew your Sergeant Cusack in Store Street. Spoke very highly of you, he did.”

  Brophy hoped the cringing sensation he felt inside wasn’t projected to physical manifestation. “We were told the Walters reported some burglaries a while back. Can you shed any light on what happened?”

  Gough’s eyes shot up, deep in thought. “Not much, Detective. They called me around last September, I believe it was. Said the door had been left open and some things were clearly out of place, but nothing was missing. A similar thing happened about three weeks later, but this time a laptop and some jewellery were pinched. I advised them to install a camera system. Heaven knows they could afford it. They said they would, but it seems they never got around to it. Pity really.”

  “Don’t suppose there were any clues as to who it might have been?”

  “Unfortunately not. But it wouldn’t surprise me if it was some of the aforementioned city druggies. There’s easy access to the property from the beach.”

  “What’s the closest car park to that beach?” said McCall.

  “It’s a long beach, about a quarter of a mile. The car park is on the far end.”

  “And you say the neighbour was out walking his dog at the time?”

  “That’s right, but I doubt he would have driven to the car park to go for a walk. He only lives down the road and usually cuts through the woods to get onto the beach.”

  “His name, again?” asked Brophy.

  “Sam Harrington. Old gentry, gone poor since the family’s money ran out a few decades ago. Decent sort of chap, though.”

  “I think we should have a chat with him soon,” said McCall. “Can you tell us what he said when he called, Sergeant Gough?”

  “His tone was very casual. I don’t think he suspected anything untoward, but he knew the Walters weren’t gun people at the same time. Told me he heard four or five shots and a scream. Expected it was someone in the wood, arsing around. But my internal sensors buzzed the moment I heard it. No one had ever gone into those woods shooting, as far as I know. I bolted outside into the car and was there in a few minutes, and, well, you know what I found.”

  “Thanks, Sergeant Gough,” said Brophy. I hope we can work closely together on this.”

  “Absolutely, Detective. I’m going back out on the door to door interviews in a moment. I was out earlier but had to come back for a quick rest. Didn’t get much sleep last night, you see.”

  “That’s understandable,” said McCall. “We’ll let ourselves out.”

  Gough sprung to his feet and shook hands with the two detectives before they headed out.‘

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Brophy’s childhood home was in a housing estate, built in the seventies, on the outskirts of Dunabbey, the county’s largest town besides Waterford City. He sat at the dining table, as he had as a child, and his mother served him a lukewarm dinner from the oven — beef stew with carrots and potatoes, his favourite of his mother’s many dishes growing up. Having promised his parents he’d be there by seven o’clock, he arrived just after eight-thirty. His mother was glued to the latest reality dance contest on TV when he finally turned up but was delighted with his appearance, giving no sign of annoyance at his lateness.

  “Where’s Dad?” he asked after devouring the first half of his generous helping of stew, without a word spoken.

  “Where do you think he is? Out in that shed of his, pottering about. I’ll call him in after you’ve finished.”

  “No need. I’ll go out to him. How are the rest of them?”

  “Molly’s doing great in Sydney. I don’t think she’ll ever want to come home. Why would she want to come back to this place anyway? Nurses are treated a lot better out there.”

  “And the lads?”

  “They’re all doing great. Busy out with the kids and work and all the rest of it. But they still have time to call us at least once a week,” said his mother, tongue in cheek. “The only one of our four kids around, and we speak to you the least often.”

  “Sorry, Mam. They have me working crazy hours these days.”

  “That’s what you always say. Laura was here all afternoon.”

  Brophy shut his eyes tight and cursed under his breath, having just been reminded his seventeen-year-old daughter was also due to have dinner with them.

  “When was the last time you spoke to her, Conal? Poor girl’s heart is broken.”

  “A few days ago, I think. I’ll give her a call tomorrow. I promise.”

 
; “Why wait until tomorrow?”

  He started spooning more of the stew into his mouth to avoid answering.

  “I saw Bennett and Russell give a press conference on the six o’clock news. Terrible what’s happened to those people. I suppose they have you working on it?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it right now. It’s a bloody mess, and there’s a child missing.”

  “You never know when they’ll go,” she said, looking down and wringing her hands.

  A surge of unspeakable feelings caused tension throughout Brophy’s jaded body, and how much he wanted to comfort his mother, he couldn’t tell. He rose warily to his feet. “I’ll go out and have a chat with Dad. Thanks for dinner, Mam. It was lovely.”

  “Oh, just leave it there,” she said as he attempted to take the plate from the table and set it in the kitchen. “Go out to your father. He’ll be glad to see you.”

  Brophy went out the back door to the small yard that was half taken up by a low-ceilinged shed his father built by himself in the eighties. He opened the grey plywood door and entered the dimly lit workspace. His father was bent down over a wooden work desk, made out of discarded pallets and offcuts of wood he used to build cabinets in all the three bedrooms of the house.

  “Hey, Dad.”

  “How’s it going, Conal? Did you have a bite to eat?” he said without looking up from what he was pinpoint focused on.

  “I did, yeah. What are you working on there?”

  “Laura was here earlier.”

  “I know. Mam told me.”

  “She has her driving test in a couple of weeks.”

  That was news to Brophy. “Yeah? I think she mentioned something about that.”

  “She said you were supposed to take her out for a few lessons.”

  “You know how it is? I’m mad busy with work at the moment. I’ll give her a call tomorrow and arrange something.”

  “That’d be nice. Pass me that half-inch chisel there?”