BENEATH LOST GROUND

by G. D. Higgins

  Despite Hughes’s questionable tan, he went truly pale. “I had nothing to do with it, I swear to God.”

  “But you knew it was going on?” asked McCall.

  “Not before I took the job. I always knew Jordan and Quilty had a very close relationship. But I never imagined he’d get involved with that business.”

  “How long has he been making meth in these labs?” said Brophy.

  “Meth? I don’t know anything about any meth. I always thought they were only involved in cocaine.”

  “We suspect he may have begun manufacturing methamphetamine in this lab,” said McCall. “What makes you think he was into coke?”

  Hughes’s head bobbed lightly over and back, and he loosened his tie and opened his top shirt button with shaky hands. He whipped out his handkerchief and wiped his dripping brow. “I think maybe I should see a solicitor.”

  “You have every right to do that, David, but you’re not under arrest or being charged with anything. Or we can end this interview, if that’s what you want and we’ll come back with an official order. But you should know, if a solicitor gets involved now and certain people find out, you might put yourself in danger,” said McCall.

  “We know how these people operate,” said Brophy, “And if you truly had no part in criminal activity, we can keep you out of it and protect you. But you have to tell us what we need to know.”

  Hughes twisted and squirmed in his seat. He crouched down all of a sudden and vomited into a bin under his desk. McCall grimaced, and Brophy went on. “How long has Jordan been working with Quilty?”

  “Years for all that I can tell,” he replied after wiping his mouth with tissues taken from a box on his desk. “Small amounts used to come in with lab supplies from overseas. At the same time, money was being pumped out through the company accounts. I didn’t know what was going on at first. I foolishly thought we were that profitable. Then I began to look into things more. I wanted to leave the company as soon as I discovered what they were up to. Jordan basically threatened me that if I left, Quilty might get nervous and do something. I’ve been living with this shit for eight years,” he said, close to blubbering. “But then it all but stopped a year ago when that police operation put a bunch of these guys away. I never knew anything about any meth, and that’s the truth.”

  “Can any of the paper-trail be traced back to Quilty?” asked Brophy.

  “Not a chance. He’s way too careful. My guess is most of the investors are false identities. I doubt the people exist, at all.”

  “Was Maura part of it?” asked McCall.

  His lips clenched, and his eyes gave McCall the impression of someone defending a loved one who’s been attacked. “Not a chance. Jesus, poor Maura was an angel. All she cared about was her fundraisers and making sure Seán had the right friends. There’s no way she would have tolerated any of this. That’s what makes it all the more difficult. She had to pay the ultimate sacrifice for that asshole.”

  “What do you know about her uncle, Barry Donahue?” asked Brophy.

  Hughes took a pause, his chest heaving with restrained rage. “He’s a fool. After Mr Walters passed away, he tried everything in his power to try to take over this company, buy Jordan out, and merge it with his. He always used Maura as leverage to get to Jordan.”

  Brophy cursed in his mind at his phone, vibrating in his pants pocket. He always told himself he’d turn it off when interviewing someone but mostly forgot to do so. He fished it out as McCall asked another question and jabbed his finger towards the red circle on the screen before seeing it was Felix White. Brophy excused himself and rushed out the door to answer.

  “What can I do for you?” he said abruptly.

  “Where are you, Brophy?” returned White’s voice with more than a hint of anger.

  “We’re at Bioford Laboratory interviewing some employees.”

  “Who are you with now?”

  “David Hughes. Why?”

  “I need you to cease your interview and get out of there at once, is that understood?”

  “What are you talking about? We have an investigation to carry out.”

  “My investigation, Brophy. And as your senior officer, I’m giving you a direct order to step down. We have a team on the way. I want you gone by the time they arrive.” With that, White rang off.

  A fury churned in Brophy’s head. The dark walls began to close in on his vision, and he felt faint for a few seconds. He took two deep breaths to compose himself and stepped back into the office. “McCall? We need to go.”

  She turned in her swivel chair to face him, confusion in her furled up forehead. “What do you mean? I still have a few more questions for Mr Hughes.” She screwed up her face to suggest she was getting somewhere with Hughes, and she needed to go on.

  “Thanks for your time, Mr Hughes. You’ll be hearing from us again soon.”

  Hughes also looked flummoxed at this point, his body language indicating he was ready to pour out his soul like the information had been held at ransom for years and was now offering him relief to be finally getting out.

  McCall turned back to Hughes and said, “Thanks for the information, David. And like my partner said, we’ll do everything we can to prot-”

  “Now, McCall.”

  She shot to her feet and walked out without looking at Brophy.

  At the security door, waiting to be buzzed out, she said, “What in the name of God was that all about? You’ve never done that before.”

  “That was White on the phone, ordering us to leave. Sounds like the place is going to be raided by his crew.”

  “For fuck sake, the media will be all over it.”

  The door buzzed, and Brophy said, “I know,” before stepping into the lobby and heading for the front door without a hint of acknowledgement to Clíodhna Devlin.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  McCall gunned the engine and shot out of the car park before Brophy even had time to ease his Saab out of its tight parking space. The Monday morning traffic was worse than its usual race to the next set of traffic lights. The sun still sweltering, many cars on the road had packed roof-racks, and he also passed an oversized caravan crawling along Cork Road. Luckily they could avoid the centre of the city to get to Donahue’s lab. In all, the industrial park was only two kilometres away from the station.

  When Brophy skidded onto the final stretch of road, he spotted McCall standing at her car, her arm resting on the open door, gazing at the commotion across the road. A crowd of workers from other businesses on the street were gathered in small groups observing the Special Branch executing their order to raid the premises. At least eight squad cars and three Tech Bureau vans sat facing inwards at the front of the building, an old grey-stone warehouse converted into a state of the art space, like several other premises in the area. McCall gave a nod of annoyed acceptance when she caught sight of him walking towards her.

  “Great to be in the know, isn’t it?” she said and took a box of cigarettes from the dashboard. She took one out and lit it, raising a mocking eyebrow to Brophy’s disapproval.

  “They made out yesterday they were going to protect him if he complies. What have they found out since?”

  “Maybe you can ask your new pal over there,” she said, blowing out a sharp spear of smoke in the direction of Leard, marching out the glass door entrance to the lab.

  “C’mon. Let’s see what he has to say for himself.”

  “Are you sure I’m welcome in your inner circle,” she said, cocking her head to the side.

  “I think Leard is the kind of man who’s severely weakened in front of a strong woman, so let’s go,” he said with a gotcha-grin.

  They walked across to where Leard was issuing instructions to a few plainclothes and uniformed guards. Within seconds, having received their directives, the officers scattered.

  “What’s going on here?” asked Brophy.

  “What does it look like? We’re searching a lab where methamphetamine is being produced,
” answered Leard. He looked at McCall with something bordering on disgust when she took a pull of her smoke and blew it in his general direction.

  “It would be useful for us to know these things are happening so we can plan accordingly,” said McCall. “How are we gonna find this boy if we don’t know how the investigation is being carried out?”

  “You’ll know what you need to know when you need to know it,” replied Leard. Sweat rolled down his forehead.

  “We’ve proved that it wasn’t Jordan Walters who picked up his son,” said Brophy, attempting to steer the exchange in another direction.

  “Proved? You haven’t proved a damn thing. All we have is the receptionist’s word. How do we know she wasn’t involved?”

  “This isn’t the way to find him. Making all this noise will only scare people away. How do you expect Doyle to come out of the woodwork if you’re raiding the lab where his stuff is being made?”

  As Leard was about to answer, White and two uniformed gardaí emerged from the building, escorting a tearful, distraught Donahue in handcuffs.

  “We took Doyle in this morning. Gave a knock on his Naas door just before six,” said Leard.

  “And?” said Brophy expectantly.

  Leard rounded pointedly on him. “And he’ll be questioned later. No sign of the kid, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  At that moment, Donahue passed them. He pleaded, “Why are you doing this to me? I thought you were going to help me.”

  “Get him out of here,” said White, stopping beside Leard.

  The two gardaí dragged him away. Brophy looked beyond the paddy-wagon and saw a couple of reporters had already arrived and were snapping shots of the arrest.

  “Detectives. From what I understand, you got information from the receptionist about the whereabouts of Walters last Thursday at lunchtime?”

  “We’re quite certain it wasn’t him,” said Brophy.

  “We have a team over at his house now, searching for the boy,” said White as though the information would appease Brophy’s dread.

  “What about Veale? Any sign of him?”

  White glanced at McCall as if he was offended she was in the know about Veale.

  “I’ve told her everything. She’s my partner,” said Brophy. He saw McCall tighten her lips to hold back a smile.

  “The details of Veale were supposed to be confidential,” said White.

  “They are confidential. That’s why I told her.”

  “We still have no idea where he is.”

  McCall received a call and broke away from the group.

  “Is that why Delaney was cut loose? To draw him out?” asked Brophy.

  “You could say that,” said White, lowering his head in a rare show of self-consciousness. “But unfortunately, that hasn’t worked out very well.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?

  “Delaney shook his escorts off in the middle of the wee hours. We have no idea where he is now. We’ve checked his home and the place in Tramore. He’s nowhere to be found.”

  McCall returned and grabbed Brophy by the elbow. “C’mon. We need to get going. Pleasure as always, Detectives.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The village of Portlaw was a twenty-kilometre drive from the city, half of the journey snaking along winding country roads. The district of Cuilbeag was easy to identify once reached on the outskirts of Portlaw. It had a narrow two-lane road, scattered with potholes and discarded pieces of fresh timber, canopied on either side by a dense forest of logging pine trees.

  Brophy’s heart raced, almost keeping pace with McCall’s erratic driving. The call she received had come from a local station sergeant she was friendly with, and due to the two sizable raids happening in the city at the time, no other units were available to intercept with them. The Tech team would be busy for hours to come.

  Sergeant Costigan informed her a logger had arrived to work an hour early, and when he got to the logging yard, he noticed a Ford Fiesta parked down along one of the numerous dirt tracks that spread in all directions from the central yard. The tracks had just enough room for the logging trucks to ease down, load up, and reverse back to the yard to treat the felled trees. The worker took a closer look and saw a tall man wearing a tracksuit, in the middle of the wood, digging a hole and burying a gym bag. Wary of the stranger’s intent, he decided to take refuge in the small prefab staffroom and call his friend, Costigan. Alarm bells went off in Costigan’s head, having been on alert the last few days for any sighting of a Ford Fiesta that may have been of interest to the investigation in the city. Before Costigan arrived at the logging yard, the culprit had already left in the Fiesta.

  When Brophy pulled into the yard, he saw McCall and a uniformed garda arguing with eight angry loggers. He parked beside a blue corrugated iron shed and walked over to the crowd.

  “What’s going on here,” he said loud and aggressive enough for everyone to instantly know he was in charge.

  A chorus of angry voices was directed his way, and he could make out the conflict was because they were not being allowed to start work until the area was properly searched.

  “Who’s the foreman here?” he shouted.

  The commotion settled to a murmur, and a short, stout man in his thirties, with a prematurely greying beard, stepped forward.

  “I am. And we’ve almost lost an hour and a half of work time because of this guard. Someone needs to tell me what in the name of Christ this is all about. This is private property, you know?”

  Brophy turned to Sergeant Costigan, a tall, broad-shouldered man in his early fifties. “Where was the person seen?”

  Costigan pointed straight past Brophy’s shoulder. “The car was parked down that trail and he was seen in the middle of that section of woodland, between the two tracks.” He said the last part after raising his other hand in the direction of another track.

  “Tell your man to grab a shovel, and let’s have a look,” said Brophy.

  The logger who called Costigan ran off to one of the sheds and quickly returned with a spade.

  “I’ll allow ye to go back to work after we check out the area, but stay back here until we’re done,” Brophy directed the remaining workers.

  His walking pace was almost a jog, and the three officers tailed the logger a hundred metres along the path. Then he took a sharp turn to his left, heading in through the trees. Shafts of sunlight squeezed around the trunks, leaving the forest floor looking like a melted chessboard dripping off the face of the earth. Brophy’s clothes were soaked with sweat and McCall was panting with the effort and the fast pace.

  “Those smokes are catching up with you,” he said to her.

  “Ah, shut up, will you? I could outrun you any day, former All-star or not.”

  “Touché.”

  The logger stopped just in front of a densely packed cluster of trees. He pointed into the relative darkness of the section. “Right over there,” he said. “See? You can see where the soil is unsettled.”

  Brophy squinted to locate the area he was pointing out. He quickly honed in on it, and the first thing he asked himself was whether a child could fit under a patch that size. He concluded that one could.

  He reached out without uttering a word, and the logger placed the shovel in his hand. Brophy trudged over the mostly dried pine needle foliage. On reaching the spot, he deduced whoever it was had made an effort to cover the area over with the detritus of the forest floor, and from this close-up position, probably believed he’d done a good enough job. Only from a distance was the patch so distinct.

  His throat tensed up as McCall reached his side. He placed the point of the arrow-shaped shovel at the edge of the area and pressed down on the upper rim with the sole of his brown shoe. He eased it down with his eyes half-closed, waiting to feel the sensation of coming into contact with soft flesh. A harrowing thought flickered in his mind; at least it would be better to find the boy dead than to never know, like the Fanning family in Kilkenn
y.

  The shovel went down unimpeded. Brophy flicked a lump of soil to his left and stuck it into the dry earth again. After a few more digs and nothing found, the ground started to feel looser. The hole now about two-feet squared around the perimeter and a foot deep, he struck something soft. He looked up at McCall and found she was entranced by what he was doing. He flicked away the topsoil and revealed part of a zip and strap of a sports bag. Lowering himself to one knee, he pulled gently at the strap. It was in tight at first, then gave way, raising the fresh soil as it emerged. Brophy pulled the bag fully out and laid it gingerly on the loose soil beside the hole. The contents of the bag clanked as it touched the ground.

  “What do you think it is?” asked McCall.

  Brophy shrugged but was unable to disguise the worry from his face. He eased the zip open slowly. Once fully across, he parted the sides. Several handguns looked up at him.

  “Guns!” said McCall.

  “Five or six and a bunch of cash.” He pushed the guns to the side to get a better look at the money. “Tens of thousands, I’d say.”

  “Step back from it. I’ll give Tech a call. But we might have to wait here quite a while and stand guard.”

  Shortly afterwards, after some heated debate, the logging crew went back to work at the opposite end of the forest. The noise of heavy machinery, along with the piping heat, drove Brophy half-insane in the three hours they had to wait for a small tech crew to arrive from the city.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The rest of the afternoon was spent in the incident room, writing up reports from the last few days and updating the PULSE system with any relevant information. Both Brophy and McCall were denied access to the interviews with Donahue and Hughes, it becoming increasingly clear White and Leard wanted to play the close game from there on out.

  The pulsating pain in Brophy’s ankle felt like a ticking clock, counting down the seconds the case painstakingly drifted away from them, counting down the minutes Seán Walters was still unaccounted for.