BENEATH LOST GROUND

by G. D. Higgins

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Donahue left the house with White and Leard, the NBCI men having told Brophy they’d inform him when he was needed again to assist with the sting operation. Brophy suspected they’d go it alone and not want any of the local officers to get too much information on how they dealt with the big hitters in the cartels. Knowledge is power, and they were notorious for keeping that knowledge to themselves and not sharing it with stations that might be affected by the drug wars. He didn’t much care. He only wanted to know if Doyle had anything to do with the kidnapping of the boy; how they got that information didn’t concern him.

  McCall, on the other hand, was eager to see how they operated and again expressed her displeasure in being left out with an expletive-laden rant. She barely let up on the ten-minute journey to the fishing village of Dunmore East.

  “Does it really not bother you?” she asked, after taking a respite from her tirade.

  “I’m over it, Christine. They’re gonna do what they’re gonna do. It’s always been the way. I just want to find out what happened to the boy.”

  “I know. That’s my priority, too,” she said unconvincingly.

  Brophy realised the thrill of the chase against the country’s biggest gangsters was a major enticement for many of the officers on the local force. It would unwittingly take precedence over finding the boy. That was only natural. It was why half of them joined up in the first place. The thrill, the hunt, the confrontation.

  “Where’s the house?” he asked as he turned onto Curraghmore Terrace after circling a round-a-bout.

  “I think it’s the third house on the right, just up ahead.”

  Brophy pulled up beside a row of newly built terraced houses, uniformly painted yellow, a different colour front door the only thing telling them apart. Despite their small size, Brophy guessed they must cost at least half a million, being only a stone’s throw from Lawlor’s Beach and the centre of the tourist village, with its popular pubs and cafes.

  They got out, and McCall led the way into the third house and knocked. Within seconds, the door swung open. Brophy was taken aback by her beauty and soon became self-conscious that he was staring as McCall shook hands with Ciara Walters. She was dressed in blue jeans and a white blouse, her blonde hair hanging loose.

  “Thanks for making the journey, Detectives,” she said. Her eyes were bloodshot but not as much as the night in the station. “I couldn’t face driving to the city right now.”

  “We’re happy to come,” said McCall.

  “I don’t suppose there’s anything new on my Seány?”

  “I’m afraid not at this time,” said McCall.

  Her chest heaved to hold back the crying. “Please, come in. I’ve just brewed some coffee.”

  The inside of the house was much more modern than the fake fishing village chic of the exterior. They sat at a tiled island counter in the kitchen. The smell of baking and freshly brewed coffee made Brophy want to curl up on the sofa and sleep. She poured them a cup and put milk and sugar on the counter in front of them.

  “What are you baking?” asked McCall.

  “Oh, they’re chocolate chip cookies for some of the neighbour kids. They’ve all been so wonderful the last couple of days. Some of them go to school with Seán. I wanted to give them a little something. Anything to keep myself occupied.” She brought her own coffee to the island and sat on a stool adjacent to Brophy.

  “This house is beautiful,” said McCall. “Is it yours?”

  “It’s the family’s. Dad bought it before it was built. Unfortunately, he never got to see it finished.”

  “The other night, you mentioned to us about your brother’s friendship with Bobby Quilty?” said Brophy. Her eyes showed resignation, if not surprise. “Do you know if they’ve remained friends over the years?”

  The bell of the oven timer gonged. “I’ve always suspected that, yes, they remained close, but never wanted to ask. I know my father would have huge blowouts with him over it. Especially around the time the murder of Quilty’s enemies started. It seemed like there was a new one on the news every day. My father was afraid Jordan might somehow get targeted, seeing how Quilty’s gang did the same to friends of his rivals who had nothing to do with criminal activities. I don’t think my dad ever believed him that they weren’t friends anymore.”

  “Have you ever met him?” asked McCall.

  “Quilty? Of course. He used to come and stay with us the odd time when they were at school. I don’t think he was involved in the drugs trade then, but who knows?” she said with a deep sigh.

  “Would you be surprised if we told you there was a large amount of drugs found in your brother’s garage?”

  She looked surprised yet ready to hear it at the same time. “Not terribly. And it would make more sense out of what’s happened to know he had finally entered that world. Truth be told, I think he always wanted to be part of Quilty’s empire. My brother loved the feeling of power over people. He used to go into the lab with my father as a teenager and boss people around. He bothered Dad endlessly about wanting to tell someone they were fired. I think Dad felt a bit ashamed of him at times.”

  “Yet he left him the family business?” said McCall.

  “He left it to both of us. I’m a biomedical engineer too. But I chose not to work there, after Dad passed away.”

  “Why is that?” asked Brophy.

  “I won’t lie to you, Detective Brophy,” she said, gazing through troubled eyes at him. “We didn’t have the best relationship in recent years. I didn’t agree with how he runs the company. He takes far too many big risks with finance. Always trying to outbid rivals. Sourcing less than high-quality materials from China. Let’s just say, we get along better when we’re not working together.”

  “What happens with regards ownership of the business now?” asked Brophy.

  “I guess it goes to me, but there’s also a small board of investors, so we’ll have to sort out a way forward when this has been dealt with.” A tear escaped her right eye and rolled down her cheek. “Oh, but I don’t care about any of that, Detectives. I just want Seán back. Then I’ll happily give up the business to whoever wants it. You have to understand, he’s like a son to me. I come down from Dublin as much as I can to see him, and he often comes to stay with me, either here or in Dublin. The thought of him out there somewhere, afraid and alone, destroys me.”

  “You mentioned that you were supposed to have dinner with them on Thursday evening but you couldn’t make it?” asked Brophy.

  “That’s right. I had to work a little later than expected at the lab.”

  “What time did you contact your brother about not coming?”

  “I sent him a few messages during the day telling him I wasn’t sure if I was going to make it or not. I was meant to get down early and take Seán to buy some clothes for the concert.”

  “Did your brother mention who would pick him up from hurling camp?” asked McCall.

  “I don’t think so. I assumed he would do it. I think he usually does, then takes him back to the lab and waits for Maura to come a take him home. She has Pilates class in the city until two.”

  “Would Jordan have brought him home and left him by himself until she got back?” Brophy again.

  “Of course, not. He’s ten years old. Why do you ask?”

  Ordinarily, Brophy would have deflected the question with one of his own, but on this occasion, he felt compelled by reasons of compassion to answer. “We’re not sure who collected Seán from camp. We don’t have CCTV of Jordan on his way home at that time, so we don’t know if Seán was with him or not.” He sensed a dagger stare from McCall, shocked at his submissiveness.

  “How was your relationship with your sister-in-law?” asked McCall, Brophy thought, trying to avert him from giving away any more evidence.

  “We get along well. I’ve always liked her, even when we were in school together. But I wouldn’t say we were close friends. She was a great mother to Seán.
She’d never let anything happen to him if she could avoid it. If Jordan was involved with Quilty, I seriously doubt she knew about it. She’d flip out if he brought that kind of danger around Seán.”

  “Thank you, Ms Walters,” said McCall. “You’ve been very helpful. As soon as we know any more, we’ll let you know.”

  “Thank you, Detectives. I trust you’ll do everything you can to find Seán, but please do more than that. Whatever you need from me, I’m here.” She wiped tears from each cheek with the butt of her wrists.

  Brophy and McCall got up to leave.

  “Thanks for the coffee,” said Brophy and gave her a half-smile.

  “You’re welcome. Let me see you out.”

  They walked across the narrow hall to the front door. McCall went out first, followed by Brophy. Just as Ciara Walters was about to close the door behind them, Brophy called out. “One more question, if you don’t mind?”

  “Not at all. What is it?”

  “Do you know if anyone else was supposed to have dinner at your brother’s house that evening?”

  “Well, yes. I thought you would have known that already. Barry Donahue and his son, Aidan, were due to join us but apparently, they also had to cancel.”

  “Okay,” said Brophy. “I just wanted to double-check. Thanks for your time.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  “Do you think we should tell them?” asked McCall when they got back into Brophy’s car.

  He pulled away from the curb and drove towards the beach and the village. “Tell who, what?”

  “That clown White and his lapdog, Leard. Should we tell them that Donahue is still not being straight with us?”

  “Why wouldn’t we tell them, Christine? It’s their investigation. If we don’t tell them, it could obstruct them finding the boy.”

  “I think their not sharing all the intelligence they have is already compromising finding the boy. Why don’t we have a shot at Donahue first?”

  “I don’t know. I think it’s better to be transparent.”

  She gave him a look she only pulled out in desperate times, usually when she wanted him to cover for her if she wanted to head off early; sometimes to allow her lead on a case in which she has a particular disliking for the one under investigation. Her head slightly tilted, one eyebrow raised, and her lips almost at a pout.

  We’ll see if we can set up an interview with Donahue when we get back. But they’ll definitely be listening in, so you better make it good.”

  The car rolled by the pier, and Brophy looked out at all the fishing boats of various shapes and colours. A mixture of fishermen and tourists jostled for space along the wooden jetties.

  “You fancy her, don’t you?”

  “What are you on about now? She’s a bereaved aunt of a missing child with a murdered brother.”

  “Quite the beauty, though, don’t you think?”

  “I’m not gonna do this with you now. This case is serious. I don’t need any distractions.”

  The chat was lighter than it had been the last few days on the journey back to the city. McCall was excited about the Munster rally championship coming up in three weeks. She qualified easily in the heats and was dead set on winning the race outright and become the first female to do so. She begged Brophy to come and see her. He never had before, and he promised her he’d think about it, which in Brophy talk was a ‘definitely not.’

  As they were cutting through the city, making the final approach to headquarters, Brophy’s phone lit up in its holder on the dashboard. Detective Dunford’s name flashed up. He pressed the green button then a button with the Bluetooth symbol.

  “Dunford. What’s the craic?” said Brophy.

  “Not much. We followed up on a few pointless leads this morning. I’m hoping to interview a couple of the board members later if they don’t object to having their Sunday afternoon disturbed by lowly police business.”

  McCall sniggered at Dunford’s remark.

  “Good work,” said Brophy. “How is Garda Mallon getting along with you?”

  “She’s great, Sergeant. A real natural if ever I met one.”

  “Good to hear. Was there something else you couldn’t wait to discuss? We’ll be at HQ in five.”

  “Actually, there is, yeah.” He paused for a few beats. “My buddy in the Kilkenny station gave me a call a while ago.”

  Brophy instantly tensed up. McCall cleared her throat so Dunford would know Brophy had company.

  “He said that Maurice Scully was taken into Kilkenny General early this morning after taking an overdose. He’s in an induced coma. They’re not sure if he’s going to make it. Just thought you should know.”

  Brophy didn’t say anything for a few long seconds and stared intently at the city street in front of him. “Thanks, Detective.” He pressed the button to ring off.

  “Red light, Brophy,” shouted McCall.

  He slammed on the brakes, sending the two of them jerking forward.

  “Jesus, man. Take it easy.” He didn’t reply. “Look, forget about him. He’s stonewalled you for years. I don’t think he’s the type to suddenly become remorseful on his deathbed.”

  “You don’t know that,” he said quietly.

  They were at the station within a couple of minutes. Brophy pulled up to the front door and gazed straight ahead, an obvious signal for McCall to get out of the car.

  “I know I can’t stop you from going there, Conal, but please don’t get your hopes up again.” She laid her right hand over his on the steering wheel. “I know what that case has done to you. Don’t-”

  “Thanks, Detective. I’ll see you later.”

  She got out, and Brophy sped away.

  On the forty-minute drive, a million thoughts went through his mind. He’d always blamed himself for the failure to close the case and find Mel Fanning’s body. To him, and many others, it was evident her boyfriend and two of his friends were responsible and hid the body, sworn to each other to take their secret to their graves. One of the three, Rob Dalton, died by suicide six years earlier, and Scully’s drug addiction had gone from bad to worse in the proceeding years. Dalton had called to arrange a meeting with Brophy two days before his death but never showed up. This time he was prepared to try anything to get a confession out of Scully, even though he’d been the most belligerent of the three during the initial investigation.

  After crawling along the heavy traffic on the outskirts of Kilkenny City, he reached the hospital. He assumed the fullness of the sprawling car park was due to it being Sunday afternoon, peak visiting hours. Either that or people were still refusing to accept expert advice and stay out of the sun’s direct heat as much as possible. Judging by what he’d seen at beaches the last few days, it was probably a mix of both.

  A brief exchange ensued with the nurse at reception about whether a non-family member should be allowed to visit Scully at that critical time, but an astute flash of his warrant card gave rise to second thoughts. She didn’t page her superior and directed Brophy to the ICU on the third floor.

  On reaching the third floor, he found the calmness, compared to the hectic to-ing and fro-ing of the ground floor, to be slightly eerie. Only a few nurses were to be seen in the ward-rooms, wearing protective gear and leaning over still patients. A woman in her sixties was the lone visitor, sitting on a blue plastic chair at the opposite end to the lift. She had a tissue in her hand, bringing it to her nose and sniffling on a couple of occasions. She wore grey sweat pants and a green cardigan that hung on her skeletal frame, only the points of her shoulder making it look like it’s not laying flat on itself. Recognising her immediately, Brophy braced himself for an awkward encounter.

  “Mrs Scully, how is he?” he said, portraying as much remorse as he could rouse in himself.

  “Oh, there’s no change, Doctor.” She said, looking up through heavily bloodshot eyes. He suddenly remembered that she’d had her son when she was a teenager, so couldn’t be more than in her late forties. “Shouldn’t
I be the one asking you that, anyway, Doctor?”

  “I’m terribly sorry for all your trouble, Mrs Scully, but do you think it would be okay if I try to ask Maurice a few questions?”

  Her wavering presence became stunted by a flash of recognition in her eyes, but it seemed as though she couldn’t quite make out who he was. “What a strange request?”

  “I know it couldn’t possibly come at a worse time, but-”

  “Wait a second. It’s you,” she said, a flash of hatred making her more alert now. “That Waterford hurler cop that tormented those boys over that slag, Mel Fanning. You have a nerve showing up here.” She was breathing heavily now and looked down the corridor to see if anyone was there to back her up. “Get out of here, or I’ll call the guards.”

  “I am the guards, Mrs Scully.”

  “Don’t you ‘Mrs Scully’ me. My marriage broke down after your investigation. We couldn’t find jobs. My husband was attacked in pubs. We couldn’t go outside the door without being reminded about the tramp. He took off to England, and we’ve barely heard from him. And my boy, Maurice, hardly sober a day since.”

  “I’m sorry for how things have worked out for you and your family but think of Mel Fanning’s family. They’ve been suffering every day since, too. Through no fault of their own, and they still have to live with the heartbreak of not knowing what happened. Now, I know those boys knew something. I’m not saying they’re responsible, but I know they have information that can help us find her.”

  “Get the fuck out of here, you pig,” she shouted shakily at the top of her voice.

  A nurse came running out of one of the rooms and made his way to where she sat. Brophy glanced in the glass partition to Scully’s room. He saw him lying there unconscious, various tubes leading out of his hands and nose. Before the nurse reached them, Brophy took out his warrant card and stepped towards the young man in scrubs.