Brophy handed his father the chisel from its place hanging on the wall. “A bishop?”
“That it is.” His father held the light-brown stone up to the light and examined it with one eye closed. “Nearly have a full set complete.”
“What will you do with it?”
“I don’t know.” He lowered his head and started shaving fine layers off the stone once more. “I can’t play chess and I have no intention of learning. Maybe I’ll donate it to the Lyons Club charity raffle in September. Stuff like this sells for a high price.”
“Why not sell it yourself and keep the money. Take Mam over to see Ger in England.”
His father stopped in the middle of what he was doing and looked at his son like he had lost the plot. “But sure, I can take your mother to England any time.” He turned back to what he was doing.
“I wanted to ask you something.”
“Ask away.”
“Remember that time I went missing when I was eight?”
“You were nine. And yes. Of course, I remember it. You were gone for over twenty-four hours. A parent doesn’t forget something like that.”
“Did you ever talk to Tim Phelan about what happened?”
“We asked him at the time how a child could have gotten locked in his coal bunker in the middle of winter without him noticing. He said he didn’t light the fire that day and never heard a single thing coming from the bunker.”
“Did you believe him?”
His father looked up at him and creased his brow in a look of confusion. “Why wouldn’t I believe him?”
“I don’t know.”
“You kids were always messing around on their property in those days. Taking a shortcut down to the beach or playing hide and seek in the trees. You must have taken a look in the bunker, and the door slammed shut and locked you in for the day. Why are you asking me about this now, anyway?”
“It’s just I have dreams about it sometimes.”
“Since when?”
“Recently enough. In the dream, Mr Phelan pushes me into the bunker and shouts down that he’s going to teach me a lesson, then slams the metal door shut. It’s made me question what exactly happened that day.”
His father stood up straight and turned to fully face him for the first time. Shorter in stature than his son, he was an imposing figure when serious. “Listen Conal. If I ever thought for a second Tim Phelan did something like that to you, or any of my kids, he wouldn’t still be in the land of the living.” His nostrils flared as he said it. Then he took a deep breath to. “Is this about that young boy who’s gone missing? Or maybe that girl who was never found? These things can come back and play tricks on a person’s mind, you know? You need to take care of your mental health, son. That’s what everyone says these days, isn’t it? Be compassionate to yourself and all that bollocks.”
“I suppose so.”
“Any idea who might have killed those people and taken the kid, then? Your pal, Bennett, didn’t seem so sure of himself on the news this evening. Probably expects you and the public to do all his dirty work for him again.”
“He’s not so bad. He’s got a lot of pressure on his shoulders.”
“Yeah. Pressure doing the job that should have been yours. I’ll never understand why you signed up with that shower of maggots, anyway. You could have made a fine solicitor.”
“It wasn’t for me, Dad. I didn’t want to talk about the law for a living.”
“I know that. Pass me the polishing rag there.”
Brophy handed him a small black square of sponge-like material, and his father began delicately rubbing it against the handcrafted bishop piece in his hand. “Did you see the Sunday Game on telly the other day?”
“No. I never watch it.”
“They had a small feature about the Munster final in ‘03. Showed you making the block and scoring the point, twice.”
“Jesus, will they ever get sick of showing that? It’s done a hundred times a week on fields up and down the country.”
“Not in Munster finals, though.” He looked up at his son from his crouched position, the uplight reflecting off his glasses. “That’s your problem, Conal. You don’t know how to see any of the good in what you do. I can only hope I didn’t make you like that.”
“I best be going, Dad. I have a busy weekend ahead of me. They have us working overtime until we catch whoever murdered those people.”
“Well, off you go then. See you next Friday, yeah?”
“Yeah, I’ll be here.”
Brophy headed out of the shed without another word.
As he circled the housing estate, he thought about the events of the day; all the people he’d interviewed, the briefing back at the station, and for a brief moment, felt overwhelmed by the complexity of the case. The heat had somewhat subsided, but the blazing redness of the sky beyond the stretches of fields leading out to sea before him predicted yet another scorcher the next day.
He turned the corner onto Strand Road, and before he could register what had happened, the brakes of his car screeched, and a thud from the front of it striking something reverberated in the warm air.
“Slow down there, young Brophy,” came a familiar yet increasingly croaky voice. “You’re not on the playing pitch now, charging down some Corkonian wild-man,” he said and chuckled at his cleverness, his clipped accent doing nothing to help the irritation Brophy was feeling at not having looked at the road ahead of him.
Come to think of it — he always drifted to another place whilst driving on the road where the Phelan’s estate loomed on the horizon. The hundred-metre long, high stone wall flanked by age-old conifer and sycamore trees was the scene of his most troubling childhood memory.
Brophy pushed the button to open his window further. His hand trembled. “Mr Phelan, I’m sorry about that. I don’t know where I was just then.”
“I know where you were. You were behind the wheel of this automobile, driving like a madman.” Phelan leaned his six-foot-four broad body down towards the open window. His eyes were a piercing cold blue, and his wild curly hair shot out at all angles from underneath his peaked cap. “I should probably call the police and tell them there’s a joyrider in the neighbourhood, causing havoc.” The power of his laugh automatically straightened his body, and then he came back down for more. “Although I guess you’d have the connections to get yourself out of that one. How are you keeping anyhow, young Conal? We don’t see you around these parts much anymore.”
“I keep myself busy. You know how it is.” Brophy wanted nothing more but to get out of there.
“Terrible business, what’s going on down near the City, isn’t it? It’s all over the news. Even saw it on Sky News before I came out for my evening stroll. Any idea who did it? Or wait, actually. Don’t tell me. That’ll ruin the surprise, won’t it? I love a good mystery,” he said, looking more and more menacing by the second. “It’s not the same around here these days, you know, Brophy? No kids running around like they used to. You and your posse used to be a right bunch, I tell ye. Racing around my place, tormenting the life out of me.”
“We were only children, Mr Phelan. I’m sure we couldn’t have been that bad,” Brophy said and instantly regretted engaging in the kind of double-talk exchange Phelan thrived on.
“Oh, you think so, do you? My elderly mother probably wouldn’t have agreed that you weren’t too bad. Scared the life right out of her half the time.”
“I have to be getting on anyway, Mr Phelan. Busy weekend ahead of me.”
Phelan leaned down more and rested his arm on the window frame. His large head seemed to take up the entire opening. “You were always the ring leader, Brophy. Always the popular one everyone wanted to follow around. The hurling star who couldn’t do a thing wrong. Little fuckers like you got away with everything,” he hissed, his jagged yellow teeth now showing, “just because you could hit a ball with a stick whilst a bunch of like-minded Neanderthals chased after you. Well, I taught you a lesson goo
d and proper, didn’t I?”
“And what lesson was that?” Brophy said, a surge of reptilian fight or flight bracing his body for action.
A broad smile lit up Phelan’s face like a demented clown who was never out of character. “I told your mother and father, and they gave you a right talking to, I’m sure.”
“Always nice bumping into you, Mr Phelan. I hope you have a nice summer.”
“You too, young Conal,” he said, then stood up straight and backed away from the car. “Now go and find that boy. You never know where someone might have hidden him. Sometimes it’s in the most obvious place.”
Brophy released the clutch and pulled away from Phelan, slowly at first, cruising past the play place of so many happy memories of his youth, and one that spoiled them all.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The first light of morning delivered a shock of searing heat, a cold realisation the young boy was still missing and likely terrified, and an acute pulsating headache. Brophy’s car journey along the coast road, towards the city, was like driving through a pitch-black tunnel, with images of faceless victims rushing at him from a distant pinhole of light. The beaches and coves along the route were already beginning to receive their first weekend guests, basking in the heatwave sweeping the country. His phone started to vibrate in its dashboard holder. He was glad for the distraction.
“Morning, Sergeant Brophy,” said the recognisable voice of Garda Mallon. “There’s just been a sighting of Packo Lenihan by a guard coming off night duty. He tailed him for a while but didn’t want to scare him off. He last saw him heading into People’s Park. He’s known to kip-out there, near the playground or the skating ramps. Thought maybe he might know the whereabouts of Michael Delaney.”
“Good thinking, Garda Mallon. I’ll head over there first thing.”
After ending the call with Mallon, he pressed McCall’s number and told her of the change of plan. They agreed they’d both reach there in about fifteen minutes. Brophy would enter from the Park Road entrance, McCall from the opposite side via the People’s Park Bridge, in an attempt to cut Packo off if he caught sight of them and tried to escape.
Brophy parked by the cover of the stone wall perimeter and couldn’t help glancing back at De La Salle College. Built on an incline, soaring above the city, the century-old five-storey building was the largest all-boys secondary school in the county, and the grounds on which many of his best youth games were played, on its pristine hurling field.
Brophy decided on a thin, light blue cotton polo neck that morning, hoping to avoid the drenching of wearing a heavy button-down shirt as the previous day, but already it was sticking to his back and upper chest. He pulled it in and out several times to ventilate inside, to little avail.
He turned to face the park and made a quick scan of the expanse of the area. He only spotted a few people out walking their dogs, three individuals stretched out on the lawn sunbathing, and two Spanish-looking students firing a Frisbee to each other at a great distance with impressive accuracy. The skatepark was in full view. No sign of Packo.
Trying his best to sight McCall on the far side of the park near the bridge, he entered without locating her position as arranged. He headed down a tarmacked path with flowerbeds running along the sides, and after turning a corner around some densely leafed trees, the playground came into view. Conscious that his position was visible from most of the surrounding area, he sidled up against a tree trunk and took stock of the vicinity around the playground.
His phone buzzed. McCall asking where he was, an expletive, the only word fully spelled in the text. He called her back and told her to head around the back of the playground, near the water fountain, and he’d wait until she was in sight before he’d make a move.
Brophy was startled by two eight-year-olds darting past him on bikes, cackling in high pitches at the sight of an old man hiding against a tree, staring at the playground. Worried his cover was blown, he strolled towards the playground as casually as possible. Finally, Brophy saw McCall turn a corner and emerge in the distance behind the fountain. She had a much better view of the area from her angle, and he noticed her stake it out with the precision she was known for. He soon made eye-contact, and she gave a non-discerning nod. Brophy felt the tension flow out of him. Half disappointment, half relief.
McCall reached the swings before him and sat on one and started swinging gently, all the time examining her surroundings. Brophy reached her and leaned against the yellow frame of the swing-set. They almost looked like a couple out for an early morning romantic walk. Only their glum expressions gave the game away.
“No sign of the little fucker,” said McCall. “He must have gotten away just before we arrived. I’ll radio in to keep all eyes out for him today. Someone will surely spot him at some stage.”
“We need to find him fast. If anyone can lead us to Delaney, it’s him. As much as he’s out of it all the time, he always knows where lowlifes are in this city.”
“Wait a sec. What’s that over at the skatepark?”
Brophy followed her eye-line, and at first, couldn’t make out what she was talking about. He squinted through the brightness of the sun-drenched morning and focused on an area just above what looked like a section of level ground on the concrete course. Circling and curling up from the depths was what appeared to be a plume of smoke.
“Gotya, ye little rat,” said Brophy. “You come in from this end, and I’ll circle around and head him off at the far side.”
McCall was up and moving by the time he finished speaking. The skatepark was a hundred metres away, and from the playground, the ramps and inclines were visible. They had just realised, however, there were also a series of hollowed-out sections for the skaters to dip into and do their tricks. Packo must have been lying in one of them, out of sight of anyone in the park.
McCall reached the edge of the skatepark first but waited for Brophy to arrive at the back side before stepping onto the hard ground. Brophy guessed this was so as not to alert Packo to their presence. Nodding, he signalled for her to approach as he did from his side. Brophy glanced around to make sure Packo didn’t have an ally who’d alert him. Then he recalled Packo usually travelled alone and got most of his information through gossip and eavesdropping when he was out of it in the company of other junkies.
They tiptoed to the circular edge of the one-metre deep pit and stretched their heads over just as he was putting the glass pipe to his lips.
“Lovely morning for a stroll in the park, isn’t it, Packo?” said Brophy
“Ah, fuck. Not you again, Bottler.”
In a sudden movement, not without a vent of frustration, Brophy jumped into the pit, just missing Packo when his feet stamped down with a thud on the graffitied concrete. He pulled Packo up by the scruff effortlessly with one hand and frisked him with the other. He patted him down on the outside first to make sure there were no sharp objects, then put his hands inside his jeans pockets. Just then, the stench registered in Brophy’s mind, and he had to fight back retching on the spot. Packo was in the same filthy clothes as two days ago and had probably worn them a lot longer than that. Within seconds he felt a small plastic package in Packo’s left pocket.
“What have we got here?”
He held it up before Packo’s eyes. The baggie was all but empty but covered in slightly off-white powder.
“It’s just a bit of baking soda I borrowed from a friend,” he slurred, eyes foggy and face drooping. “Me mam’s making a loaf of brown bread later. She asked me to sort her out with some,” he said and sniggered at his stupidity.
“Is that right? So when we analyse it in the lab, we won’t find it’s the same methamphetamine as was found in a murdered couple’s house, will we?”
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, murdered couple.”
“But I thought you were an avid follower of current affairs. Surely you’re aware there was a double murder in the city two days ago.” Brophy glanced back at McCall and
said, “And now I think we might have our first suspect.”
“What are ye talking about, man? I’m no suspect. Wasn’t I in the station getting a teardown from you when them murders happened?”
“So, you do know about it,” said McCall.
“And those people were slain a couple of hours before we had our little chat. And as I recall, you were well out of it at the time. Makes me think, you could have paid a visit to that family, pulled the trigger a few times, then searched around and found what you went there for.”
“Ah, here now. That’s a load of bollocks.”
“Sounds plausible enough, doesn’t it, Sergeant McCall?”
“More than plausible,” she replied, moving in closer to crowd the now terrified Packo.
“But your boys in blue found me digging for treasure in Saint John’s Park. I wasn’t anywhere near that house in Woodstown.”
“And now he admits to knowing the address,” said Brophy.
“Everyone knows the address. It’s all over the news.”
“You wanna know what I think, Packo? I think you had an accomplice who was the driver for the operation. And do you want to know why I think that?”
“Why?” he said, shaking, his pale podgy skin turned a sickly shade of grey.
“Because your best pal, Budgie Delaney, was caught on CCTV several times driving around the area that day. And it looks like he’s done a runner and left you to take all the flack for the double murder.”
“You’re out of your friggin’ mind, Brophy. I had nothing to do with it. I was off me trolley in the city that day, ye know well.”
“We’re gonna take you in for questioning, anyway,” said McCall. “If your story checks out, which I doubt it will, we’ll set you loose. But I wouldn’t like to be you when the big boys get wind of the fact that you’ve been questioned in connection with this murder.”
Packo squirmed in Brophy’s grip, and it took him a few seconds to realise why. “Ah, for fuck sake, man. You just pissed on my shoe. That’s another thing I’ll have to book you with.”
BENEATH LOST GROUND Page 8