BENEATH LOST GROUND

by G. D. Higgins

  “Did you, by any chance, have an encounter with a rough-looking character from the city in the car park on Thursday evening?” said Brophy.

  Harrington’s brow folded in towards his eyes. He seemed surprised that Brophy knew about this detail. “As it happens, I did. Ruffian in a Ford Fiesta, smoking a joint. Not an uncommon incident in these parts, but annoyed me deeply, his guile doing it in the presence of so many kids who were only feet away on the beach. Who is he?”

  “Is that the same time you were out walking and heard the gunshots?” asked McCall.

  “Yes, it is. I took my usual route around the rocks and across the Gallopers’ Spit.”

  McCall gave him an inquisitive look.

  “That’s what we called the stretch of beach when we were young. We used to race the horses up and down it. I reached the vicinity of the house about fifteen minutes after my encounter with the pothead, then heard the gunshots.”

  “We’re a little unclear as to how many shots you heard, Mr Harrington,” said Brophy. “Gough said you told him four or five. Can you remember which it was?”

  “At the time, I was quite certain it was five, two of which were in such close proximity, they almost sounded like one shot to the untrained ear. But I’ve been second-guessing that in the last couple of days. Now, I’m thinking the first shot was so loud it may have caused a minor case of diplacusis.”

  “Diplacusis? What’s that?” asked McCall. Brophy already knew the answer.

  “You see, Detective McCall,” he said, staring straight at her, a hint of a smile never too far from growing to a full-on grin, “I’ve been shooting guns from a very young age and in days gone by, health and safety wasn’t what it is today. I’ve fired off thousands of shotgun cartridges without wearing ear protection. And now, at the tender age of fifty-seven, my hearing isn’t what it could be. And several times in the last few years, I’ve heard double sounds that seemed quite unlikely or downright impossible. Like the local church bell gonging twice within a fraction of a second. This is what’s known as diplacusis.”

  “What did you do immediately after hearing the shots?” asked Brophy.

  “My initial reaction was to head towards the house and see if everything was all right. Then I stopped and thought about the sound of the shots. Initially, I thought maybe some hunters got too close to the house, but then it dawned on me that they were not the sounds of air rifle rounds or shotgun blasts. My heart sank, and I feared something untoward may be afoot.

  “I took out my phone and called Sergeant Gough and told him what I’d heard. He told me to stay put and not to go near the house. If it were an intruder, they would likely be still in the house. He said I should head back the way I’d come and wait for him to call back with news.”

  “And he was at the station when you called him?”

  “I’m not sure, but I presume so. As I understand, it took him less than ten minutes to arrive on the scene. That would certainly be conducive with him being in the station at the time.”

  “What did you do next?” Brophy asked.

  “I did as he said. I doubled back down the beach at a much faster pace than at first and reached here about twenty-five minutes later. By then, I could already hear the sirens, and I knew something awful must have happened.” He took a long sip of his drink. “Sergeant Gough never called back, understandably so, and I heard a report on the news later that a family had been murdered in Woodstown, County Waterford. It’s unbelievable, really.”

  Harrington looked on the verge of tears, but Brophy wasn’t buying the pained sincerity. He pegged Harrington as an emotionless relic of the landed gentry, bitter and likely hiding from something.

  McCall took the bait. She spoke in a commiserate tone. “I’m very sorry, Mr Harrington, we just have a couple of more questions for you.”

  Brophy drank from his glass and tried to hide that he could see the twinkle reappear in Harrington’s eyes as McCall spoke.

  She went on, “Do you think the man in the Fiesta could have made it to the Walters’ house in the time after you saw him and before you heard the gunshots?”

  Harrington looked aghast. Fake. “Are you saying..? Yes, I’m sure he could have made it in that time. It’s a five-minute drive, and I heard the shots about fifteen minutes after our altercation. So, yes.”

  “Have you ever seen any other suspicious characters in the area that you think weren’t going to the beach?” asked McCall.

  “Not that I can think of. I’ve been wracking my brain the last couple of days to try to remember any such a thing, but I’m afraid there’s nothing unusual I can recollect.”

  “How about Dublin reg black Mercedes or BMWs?

  “Certainly none that I can recall. Sorry.”

  “That’s fine then,” said McCall. “Thanks for your time Mr-”

  “It’s my understanding that the Walters applied for planning permission to build a small jetty on the beach in front of their property.” Harrington’s eyes turned a beady black, darting right at Brophy. “A local property owner objected both times they made the application, and they’ve been waiting a couple of years to reapply. Do you know anything about that?”

  Harrington’s chest heaved forth, shoulders drew back, and a blast of air expelled from his flaring nostrils. “I’m not quite sure I like what I’m inferring from that line of questioning, Detective Brophy.”

  Brophy quickly gave the impression of apologising, offering just enough regret in his tone to do so. “I don’t mean to come across as accusing anyone unduly, Mr Harrington, but we need to rule everything out. Part of that is ensuring they have no enemies in the area.”

  Harrington forced a smile that was far too broad for the agitation his body language exuded. “I could never allow them to go through with that project, Detective. And I told them so, face to face on both occasions, even though I was under no obligation to do so, that it was I who formally objected to their application. Building a jetty as they’d proposed would completely destroy the environment on the beach. And god knows what kind of jet skis and motorboats they’d have sailed from there. I believe they realised this after the second application and gave up on the idea. That’s why such a long period has elapsed since their previous attempt.”

  “Of course,” said Brophy. “Thanks for clearing that up.” He rose from his seat, as did McCall. Her displeasure at his typically maverick approach was like a dagger in his side. He knew he’d get a rollicking in the car. Harrington stood and shook Brophy’s hand, the grip much tighter than in front of the house.

  “Thank you, Detectives,” he said whilst shaking hands with McCall. “And like I said, anything I can do to help, you know where to find me.” He sat back down and picked up his glass, a move that suggested they show themselves out.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “Do you want to tell me what the hell that was about yesterday evening, steamrolling Harrington like that, not making me aware of the situation first?” said McCall, slamming the door shut behind her after getting into Brophy’s car at the station car park the next morning.

  She said nothing in the car on the way back to the station the previous night, instead biting her lower lip, a habit she had when she was holding back saying something that revealed her sensitivity. Brophy had observed it every time in his presence for weeks after their one night together. On that occasion, she eventually stopped doing it, leaving her lip chapped and raw in places and said nothing more about it. This time was different.

  “I’m sorry. I wasn’t planning to come out with it, I promise. I came across the failed application bid in the file Kenneally posted the other night,” said Brophy.

  “So did I? That doesn’t mean I was going to accuse one of our only witnesses in the case.”

  “I wasn’t accusing him.”

  “Then why did you say it?”

  “I get a bad feeling about him, is all?”

  Her sigh bordered on an angry grunt. “How do you mean, ‘a bad feeling’? Harringto
n was nothing but polite and forthcoming.”

  “I know that, but I just had to see for myself.”

  “See what?”

  “His reaction when I said it.”

  “What did your instincts tell you then? Do we have our killer?”

  “No. I don’t think he cared a toss about Jordan Walters, but his fondness for the wife and son seemed apparent.”

  “Jesus, Brophy, I don’t know what goes through your mind sometimes. Keep me informed next time, all right?”

  “All right. I’m sorry.”

  He put the car into gear and headed out of the station car park. The instruction had come from Bennett, early that morning to go to Barry Donahue’s house again and try to get information regarding a possible connection to Veale, Delaney, or Doyle. From the way he’d asked Brophy, Brophy deduced that Bennett wanted it done without the foreknowledge of the two NBCI officers.

  They made the journey across the deserted Sunday morning city centre, a word hardly exchanged between them. The heat and sheen from the sun only served to worsen Brophy’s sleep-deprived headache.

  They arrived outside Donahue’s house just after nine-thirty. The Mercedes wasn’t parked in the driveway. In its place was a blue Peugeot SUV. As McCall reached out to press the intercom button on the front gate pillar, she was interrupted by the sound of screeching tyres coming around the corner at the end of the leafy road. A black ‘D’ registration Volkswagen sped towards them and stopped just shy of Brophy’s position a few feet back from McCall. Leard and White sprung out of the car. Leard’s demeanour was instantly recognisable; grouchy that they’d attempted to leave him out of the interview.

  White played a cooler hand. “Morning, Detectives. Thanks for waiting for us before you went in,” he said.

  There was little Brophy, and McCall could do but follow White’s lead. He was the senior officer on the case after all.

  “Sergeant McCall, you can wait outside. Make sure no suspicious characters are hanging about,” said White.

  She squinted in suppressing the rage she must have felt at yet another dismissive exclusion by a superior.

  Leard brushed past and pressed the buzzer. Within seconds, the reply came. “Please come in, Officers.” Brophy recognised the voice as Donahue’s. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

  The gate began opening with a judder as the motor kicked in, then smoothly opened inward on both sides. Leard and White led the way, leaving Brophy behind, giving an apologetic look to his partner. She irritably signalled him on with a curt nod.

  He reached the front door just as Barry Donahue opened it. Donahue looked as though he’d aged in the two days since they left him crying hysterically in his study.

  “I’m Detective Inspector Felix White. And I believe you’ve already met Detective Brophy,” he said, ignoring the presence of the third detective.

  “Yes, welcome back, Sergeant Brophy. Thank you for your patience the other day. Everything is still very raw, as you can imagine.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Brophy. “You were very helpful.”

  “Has there been any word on Seán?” he managed through a cracked voice.

  “We’re working on some very credible leads,” said White, cutting off Brophy’s chance to answer the question directed at him. “May we come in, Mr Donahue? There’s a few things we’d like to go over with you.”

  Donahue didn’t say anything but opened the door widely and started across the hallway, slouch-shouldered. A few moments later, the four men were sitting at the kitchen table, positioned next to a full-length corner window. The heat was almost unbearable for Brophy, but none of the others seemed to mind, as far as he could tell. Donahue didn’t offer them a drink.

  “Your family not in?” asked Brophy.

  “No. My wife has gone to Dublin with the children for a few days, until the funeral.” It looked as though fresh but well-worn lines appeared on his ashen face by the second. His hair looked greyer than a few days before.

  “Mr Donahue,” said White, “My colleague and I are from the organised crime division of the National Bureau of Criminal Investigations.” Donahue didn’t seem in any way perturbed by the fact that detectives of that importance were on the case. “We’d like to be transparent with you in as much as we are permitted at this time. So, I’d like to inform you that a substantial amount of narcotics were found in your niece’s house, with a probable street value of a few hundred thousand.”

  Donahue brought his forehead to meet the palm of his hand and rubbed it several times.

  “Is there anything you can tell us about that?” White said in a monotone.

  Donahue looked up at him like he’d seen the deaths of all his family flash before him.

  “Were you ever suspicious that Jordan might have been manufacturing drugs in his lab?” asked Brophy.

  “Oh, dear God, how could this have happened?” said Donahue. “We were all supposed to go on a family holiday in September, and now she’s dead, and Seán is nowhere to be found.” He broke down in sobs but tried his best to fight them back with his fist clenched over his mouth.

  With an air of aggression in his tone, Leard said, “Was Jordan going on the holiday with you?”

  Donahue’s expression changed to one of utter hatred. “That prick has never been welcome here or anywhere near my family. It destroyed me that Maura wanted to marry him. Arrogant shit, always thought he was untouchable.”

  “So, I’m taking it you knew about his indiscretions?” said Leard.

  “What if I did? Would it have saved them?” he answered with a snarl.

  “Probably not,” said Leard coldly. “We also believe you’ve had some contact with Frankie Doyle?”

  A minute but furtive flicker of the eyes, and Donahue said, “He was in touch. But I refused. There’s no way I’d ever get involved in that racket. I have my principles.”

  “What about your son, Aidan?” The guilt was writ large on him now, and he bowed his head. “It’s my understanding he has some sizable gambling debts to some dangerous people.”

  “I guess there’s nothing you people don’t know, is there?”

  “And, we also know you agreed to make him two kilos of methamphetamine,” said Leard.

  “Mr Donahue, we need you to set up a meeting with Doyle to deliver the drugs,” said White.

  “I don’t know the first thing about making that stuff.”

  “But your niece did,” said Leard. “And she was willing to help to keep your son, and you, out of trouble.”

  “You don’t think Doyle was involved with what happened, do you?” said Donahue, the realisation pouring over him. “Why would he want to hurt them? They had nothing to do with our arrangement.”

  “But if they were working for Bobby Quilty, then he had every reason in his fucked up world to do what happened,” said Leard. “These people don’t mess around. They’ve more blood on their hands than you can possibly imagine, and if you think you and your family are going to be square with Doyle after you produce the two kilos, you’ve another thing coming.”

  “I didn’t want any of this,” said Donahue, panting heavily, as though he was about to lose it.

  “Look, Mr Donahue, we can help get you out of this and keep the rest of your family safe if you go along with us. But you need to trust us,” said Brophy with as much compassion as he could muster. “Whether Doyle is directly responsible for the murders or not, what is for certain is that he needs to be stopped before more innocent people are destroyed by this whole thing.”

  “Who’s innocent?” said Leard.

  Brophy felt like punching him straight in the mouth for that remark. “Seán Walters is innocent. As are Mr Donahue’s wife and children.”

  White interjected, “We really need you to cooperate on this, Mr Donahue. If you do everything right, I think we can manage to keep you out of prison.”

  “Prison? But I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  If we brought a team in here to search yo
ur house from top to bottom, would we find anything to prove otherwise?” said White.

  Donahue perked up and confidently said, “Go right ahead. You won’t find a thing.”

  “How about if we search your lab?” said Leard.

  Try as he may, Donahue was unable to hide the answer from his face.

  “Thought as much,” said Leard. “We can do this one of two ways; we search the lab and find the drugs, and you do at least ten years for your involvement, or you help us rein in Doyle, and you get to keep your freedom, for what that’ll be worth.”

  Donahue went a paler shade of white and looked to Brophy for reassurance.

  “It’s best to go along with this,” said Brophy. “If we bring Doyle in, and he has something to do with what happened in Woodstown, we can possibly find Seán faster, hopefully, safe and sound.” Donahue nodded. “But we need to move quickly. Every hour Seán is held captive, he’s in far more danger. If he’s being held by some of Doyle’s associates, they might see the net is closing in on them and do something drastic if they feel nervous.”

  “Okay, Detective Brophy. I’ll do whatever you say. I trust you’ll do the right thing by Seán.”

  “What about us?” said Leard. “Don’t you trust we’ll do the right thing about Seán?”

  Donahue straightened up and assumed a modicum of the high society gentleman he was before all this started, and said, “One look at you and your partner, and I can see you don’t give a damn about my nephew or his parents.”

  “Oh, that hurts,” said Leard in a mocking tone. “We value the lives of every citizen-”

  “That’s enough,” said White briskly. “I’m only going to ask you once; are you with us on this, Donahue?”

  “I’ll do whatever it takes to get Seán back.”

  At that moment, Brophy knew for certain Barry Donahue wasn’t involved in his nephew’s disappearance.

  “But do you think he’ll agree to meet me with all of this going on? Surely he knows the place is crawling with detectives.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” said White. “This is the only world he knows. If he thinks he can get the edge over his rivals with this, he’ll come out like a rat sniffing a pound of cheddar.”