BENEATH LOST GROUND

by G. D. Higgins

  Brophy was perplexed at the revelation. He looked at White who remained expressionless at hearing the news.

  “We have two squad cars on him, who’ll keep tabs on him at all times until we gather enough evidence to bring him back in. Also, the boy Seán Walters still remains missing and is our number one priority at this point. His image has been well circulated around the country by now, and stations in every town and city are doing spot checks on the usual suspects in child cases. As of now, however, we have nothing to tell us where the boy is or if he was even taken. We’re working on a few theories. One, that the shooter didn’t know he was there until the parents were slain and panicked and took the boy, later killing him and disposing of the body elsewhere.”

  A chill passed down Brophy’s body. His fingers trembled.

  “This is unlikely, though, as the family were just finished dinner when the shooting happened, which would suggest the boy should have been present. It’s understood the last sighting of him in public was at hurling camp at Saint Xavier’s field. The head coach claimed he left early and got into a black Mercedes. The nearest CCTV, which is at the Waterford Crystal Leisure Centre, didn’t pick up any black Mercedes at the time, unfortunately, so we haven’t been able to confirm this. We’re still working under the assumption that it was his father who picked him up but must consider the possibility that it was someone else. A jersey belonging to the boy was found in the wood near the house, which Sergeant Halpin will discuss with you shortly. We also have DI Felix White with us today, who’ll brief you on his side of things after we hear from Halpin.” He said the last part with disdain in his voice.

  White stared straight at him, smirking.

  Halpin shot to his feet and pushed in his chair. He had a no-nonsense get-to-the-point reputation, and if he had a problem with you, he’d never skirt around letting you know.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a few new findings that might assist in your enquiries moving forward. First, we can confirm that the jersey found was certainly belong to Seán Walters and had a significant amount of his blood across the front. Further tests found there to be no traces of gunshot residue, so if he was shot, it would have been from a distance.”

  Brophy held onto the irregularity of this possibility. If he was shot whilst running away from someone in the woods, the witness would have heard a separate gunshot, which was not reported, and either way, why would the killer discard evidence in the wood then take the boy anyway? It didn’t make sense and made this whole thing that bit more baffling. Could Delaney have pulled the trigger on the parents, then got cold feet when he saw the boy and decided to hide him somewhere? It was possible. Or did Veale, with his record of abuse, have something much more sinister in mind for Seán Walters? There and then, he decided to visit the witness later that day and get a statement first-hand.

  “The house has been searched, and there’s no sign of the rest of the boy’s kit from hurling camp that day. No boots, no bag, and no hurley. At that age, it’s not unusual to wear the same clothes for the rest of the day, but that doesn’t account for the lack of the gear bag and hurley.”

  Brophy gave McCall a look and thought, Whoever picked up the boy must be looked into more.

  “We’ve also examined phone records from Mr and Mrs Walters mobiles, focusing on Thursday, but also looking back for any unusual activity over the last few weeks,” said Halpin. “Jordan Walters made and received quite a few calls that day. Many were to and from board members and a couple of suppliers during working hours. Detectives will be given a copy of the log for further questioning of the higher-ups at Bioford Lab.

  “He was also sent three text messages by his sister, all of which he replied to. One was early afternoon, saying she might be late for dinner because things were busy at work; another was to say she wouldn’t make dinner, and to go ahead without her, she’d arrive a little later. One came shortly after that one saying she’d still take Seán shopping in Dublin on Friday morning for clothes for the concert. Then we have a couple of calls that we haven’t yet been able to trace.”

  “And why is that, Sergeant Halpin?” asked White.

  “They’re coming up as unknown numbers, and even the phone company has been unable to get an accurate reading and location on them.”

  “Scramblers,” said White, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Many of those involved in the drugs trade use them. They download an app on their phones, and the signal bounces all over the place with high frequency. It’s a waste of time spending any more man-hours on it, Sergeant. They’re untraceable.” White faced the crowd and raised his voice a decibel. “But I think it’s safe to assume those calls had something to do with the murders and what was found in the garage.”

  “Shall I go on?” asked Halpin, his forehead creased, obviously perturbed by the interruption. White gave him a slight nod. “Mrs Walters’ phone was far less active on Thursday. There were three calls to her uncle, Barry Donahue.”

  This information raised an eyebrow with Brophy, and McCall’s expression showed a similar confusion. Donahue claimed not to have spoken to his niece since she had dinner at his home, two nights before the shooting.

  “The unusual thing about her calls is that there was a series of messages from another unknown person that were all deleted. We’re having difficulty tracing those too but hope to get a clearer picture on them in the next couple of days.” Halpin gave Bennett a look to say that was all he had for now and sat back down.

  “Thanks for that, Sergeant Halpin. That gives the team a lot to look into over the next couple of days.”

  White tutted audibly, with a slight shake of his head. Bennett cut him a look that didn’t take an expert in body language to read. He’d have liked to lay him flat with a punch there and then.

  “We’ll try not to keep you too much longer, ladies and gentlemen,” said Bennett, not taking his eyes off White. “But before you go, Mr White here would like to bestow some pearls of wisdom on you all. So please bear with him a moment.”

  “Thank you, DI Bennett,” said White with a smugness that made him appear beady-eyed and sinister.

  Brophy was beginning to wonder if something in the men’s past had created such searing loathing between them. Both had certainly made their share of enemies in the force over the years.

  “I’ll try not to keep your team too long,” said White. “As you’re all aware, Michael Delaney is our chief suspect at this time, and as far as I’m concerned, the bulk of our efforts should be put into gathering evidence to prove this. Delaney was supplying meth to local dealers, and we fully expect the sample taken from one of his dealers to match what was found in the Walters’ garage. This naturally leads us to believe Jordan Walters was manufacturing the drug in his laboratory and providing it to Delaney in large quantities. We’re currently working under the assumption that Walters was in some way working with Bobby Quilty. As you know, the two have been friends for years, and I’d bet my house that the unknown numbers on his phone would, if possible, be traced back to Bahrain, where Quilty is known to be hiding out. This particular line of inquiry has thus far been kept from the public.” He gazed slowly across the assembled officers and took on a more serious note. “We’re sincerely hoping it will be kept that way, at least until we find the boy and bring in the killer if it is Delaney or somebody else.”

  Brophy wondered if there’d be any mention of Veale, then chastised himself for even considering it an option. If Veale was involved in the murders, it would be up to the NBCI or him and McCall to bring him in. No one else would get a look in.

  “The clock is ticking, everyone. I suggest we round up anyone who has even heard about meth being on the streets of Waterford and find out what they know. If this stuff gets a foothold, it’ll make the cocaine problem look like a trip to Disneyland. I’ve been to several cities in America to see how they deal with the epidemic over there, and I can assure you all, it’s not a pretty sight. People strung out on this stuff are liable
to do anything, and they leave a path of destruction in their wake. Let’s put a lid on this, everyone, and fast.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  On the way out to Woodstown in McCall’s Audi, Brophy filled her in on everything he’d learnt about Veale and Doyle. She didn’t seem too surprised by any of it but was her usual sullen self for being left out of the loop. As always, she blamed Bennett.

  “What do you think is going on between Bennett and White?” asked Brophy.

  “Who knows? Probably your typical case of mono e mono. Two massive egos who can’t accept that someone else might be able to do as good a job as them.”

  “I don’t know,” said Brophy, clutching the side of the passenger seat as she raced around a bend on the N25 leading to Woodstown. “I think there’s more to it than that. Something happened in the past that made them despise each other.”

  “Maybe Bennett is worried that if he doesn’t get to lead on this case and bring down the killer, his promotion when Russell retires will be under threat.”

  “Could be.”

  “Do you think it was Delaney?”

  “I don’t know. I would have never thought he was capable of such brutality, but the longer you’re on this job, the less I put anything past anyone. I mean, he was in the area at the time, he deals in meth, and he got a house visit from Harry Doyle. The makings of a motive are there, but I still need to know more.”

  “The kid?”

  “It doesn’t make sense. Why would they take him? What could the endgame possibly be? Leard alluded to something in the interview that we need to find out more about. He said they knew all about Donahue and Doyle. Maybe they were planning to go into competition with Quilty and Walters and needed to win Delaney over to get a foothold in the local market.”

  “Seems plausible. You think Donahue’s capable of murder? Of his own niece?”

  “He doesn’t seem the type, but when people are up against it, you never know what they’ll do to save themselves.”

  “If he was involved, he might have arranged to have the child taken and has him safe somewhere.”

  “Let’s hope so,” said Brophy after a pained sigh. “The alternative is that this is all Veale, and he had his way with the child before disposing of him somewhere he’ll never be found.”

  Brophy had a brief flash of the missing person picture of Mel Fanning that went up around the country. A slightly blurry image of a young girl, seventeen years old, with a big smile, half-obscured by her wavy brown hair. The photo was taken the last night she was seen alive, on a digital camera found in her then boyfriend’s house and taken as evidence that they were together on that fateful night. A fact he and his friends initially denied, but later admitted, never giving a clear explanation for their false accounts or change of story.

  “We need to stay focused, though, Brophy,” said McCall, bringing him back out of his trance. “I know this is a tough one, but we still have a chance to find him, so let’s keep our eye on the ball.”

  A few minutes later, after a period of reflective silence, they passed the pub-cum-shop where the CCTV of Delaney’s car was captured.

  “Slow down a bit so I can see how long an average journey of a non-rally-driving person would take to the beach.”

  McCall eased off the accelerator, and Brophy kept a close eye on his phone’s stopwatch. They arrived at the beach about four minutes later, having decided to have a look before calling to the witness’s house.

  The car park, as expected, was full, and the beach was packed with people, mostly families, enjoying the last couple of hours of sunshine on a Saturday evening. Brophy asked McCall to double-park near the far end. He got out of the car and walked towards the white sand, taking in as much of his surroundings as he could. The tide was almost fully in, inhibiting the space people had on the thin stretch of a strand. He looked down towards the end of the beach and saw an outcropping of rocks that had to be scrambled across to continue on down the shore in the direction of the Walters’ house. About five hundred metres away, the land came out to a crook, and he guessed after a sharp bend, the next length of beach would lead to the back of their property. The distance and the bend might account for why no one else on the beach that day heard the gunshots. Now he had a better bearing of the layout he was ready to talk to the witness about his movements that day.

  Five minutes later, after taking a couple of wrong turns, they finally arrived at a small cottage nestled in a grove of native trees that should have stood out in the middle of all the Sitka spruce trees but was well hidden down an obscure grass-covered boreen. They got out of the car and had a quick look around, taking in the unkempt garden Brophy imagined was probably pristine in its day. The kind of garden and cottage country-style magazines came to photograph and feature in their publications.

  As soon as they started walking towards the blue front door of the house, a low-pitched barking emerged from around the side. Brophy braced himself for confrontation but was soon greeted by an amorous collie who jumped all over him and McCall. It finally rested on McCall, who was much more experienced with dogs than Brophy. It immediately clicked with him, and no doubt McCall, that the witness was also the Liam Neason lookalike Delaney claimed had given him grief for smoking cannabis on a crowded beach.

  “Just our luck, eh?” said McCall at the realisation.

  Brophy didn’t reply and proceeded to the front door, wincing in pain, having momentarily forgotten about his sore ankle. He gave a solid knock and took a step back. McCall was still petting the dog a few metres behind. He waited a good fifteen seconds before giving another knock and calling out for anyone to answer.

  Suddenly, the collie scampered back around the side of the house. The two detectives stood at alert and waited for someone to appear at any moment. The house owner emerged, and the first thing Brophy noticed was how tall he was. At least six-six, slim and, despite the untended state of the house, clearly took good care of himself. He wore a brown peaked cap, red and grey checkered shirt, and had an air rifle slung over his shoulder. The resemblance to Liam Neason was all too apparent.

  “Detectives. I’ve been expecting you,” he said in a clipped accent that almost made him sound upper-class English.

  “Mr Harrington,” said Brophy, extending his hand. Sam Harrington gave it a firm shake. “Thanks for taking the time to see us. I know you’ve been through this several times already.”

  “Don’t mention it, Detective...?”

  “Conal Brophy.”

  “Well, well. The hurling star. I’m honoured,” he said but already had his eyes on Brophy’s blonde partner by the time he finished the compliment. “And this is?”

  McCall had gone back to petting the collie who’d swung around the house, tail wagging fervently, after its owner. She approached Harrington. “I’m Detective Sergeant McCall,” she said, attempting but failing to hide the charming effect Harrington seemed to have on her.

  “What do you shoot out here?” asked Brophy.

  “Oh, nothing much. Mostly just target practice. Keep the eyes sharp for hunting season. We get the occasional pheasant, but mostly they keep away from these horrid spruce trees.”

  “Can you get to the Walters’ house through the trees walking from here?” asked McCall, raising an eyebrow of Harrington.

  “Yes, you could. There’s a stream and a rather brambly ditch, but you can make it there in about ten minutes,” he said, never moving his eyes from McCall. Brophy was shocked to see her almost blush. “If you were in a rush, I’m sure you could do it in less. Young Seán cut through the odd time, to come and play with Meave here,” he said, looking down at the collie, the sullenness causing a momentary tremble in his otherwise astute charm. “I do hope you’re making good headway in finding him. What an ordeal; to lose one’s parents in such a violent manner.”

  “We’re working on a few promising leads,” said Brophy, surprised at his own candour. “But we’d like to get a few things straight before we proceed.”

&
nbsp; “Of course, Detective. Anything I can do to help. Shall we go inside and take a weight off?”

  Harrington led them in through the hall, and Brophy was confronted with what he’d expected, judging from the state of the outside. Things were scattered all around the place, but it wasn’t the kind of mess that had rubbish and mouldy food containers lying around. Old books, half-made models of sailboats, and various ornaments and wooden boxes gave a view into Harrington’s varied interests. Several guns hung on the walls of the cosy cluttered living room he ushered them into.

  “This is a nice place you’ve got here,” said McCall. “How old is it?”

  “Oh, let me see. Over a hundred and twenty years, at this point.”

  “Did you grow up here?” asked Brophy.

  “No, no. I spent most of my early years in England. My mother grew up here, and we spent many a fine summer holiday with my grandparents. This whole area was my back garden, the beach included. I used to ride horses all over the place on days like these. But now it gets a little crowded for that. Please, sit,” he said, gesturing to the maroon Chesterfield sofa.

  They sat down, and Harrington went to a drinks cabinet in the corner of the room and pulled out a bottle and three glasses. He then sat in an armchair across from the detectives and proceeded to pour three hefty measures of brandy. “I’m sure you’ve had a very trying few days,” he said. “No harm in having a little soother to take the edge off.”

  Both Brophy and McCall picked up their tumblers and took a sip.

  “Did you know the Walters well?” asked Brophy after placing his glass back on the table.

  “Well enough as neighbours, I suppose. We didn’t socialise or anything like that. Mrs Walters was extremely friendly and would always stop for a chat if we met in the village. Jordan was pleasant enough too. Always seemed rather preoccupied, though. Like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.”