BENEATH LOST GROUND

by G. D. Higgins

  “Stop tapping your foot,” he said to McCall seated at another desk across from him. A habit of hers he thought had gotten worse over the years they’d worked together, an involuntary reaction to frustration when something wasn’t going her way.

  She doubled down and tapped even harder whilst giving him a death stare.

  “What did I do?” said Brophy.

  “Why is it we have all this setup?” she said, waving her arm around to take in the packed incident room full of files and officers. “Yet we’re blocked from doing our jobs the way we were trained to.”

  “It’s a travesty. Anyway, don’t worry. Halpin is on our side. He’ll make sure we get files on whatever they come up with. But I don’t like how they’re going for Hughes and Donahue. It sounds like they were both coerced into doing what they did. Let’s just hope their names don’t get splashed all over the papers.”

  “If they find Delaney’s prints on one of the guns that’s found to be the murder weapon, this could all be over very soon.”

  “Not until the boy is found.”

  “What do you really think of the aunt? Do you suspect she has anything to do with all of this?”

  “It’s hard to tell. God, some of these upper-class folk can be hard to read. So cold and calculated, if you know what I mean?”

  “I know. I got a feeling she was holding something back from us, though. You might have missed it; you were so smitten with her.”

  “I wasn’t smitten with her.”

  “I don’t know about that,” she said mockingly. “I know you have a thing for blondes.”

  “You’re a blonde, aren’t you?” He realised his mistake half-way through what he said, feeling the complexity and awkwardness of it trail up from his stomach to his chest. He thought he could register a slight quiver of the lip and a reddening of the cheeks on McCall, something he knew drove her demented, allowing others to see such vulnerability in her.

  “I wasn’t aware you noticed,” she said by way of a comeback that fell somewhat flat.

  “Sometimes my detective skills come to the fore at the worst of times,” he said as a roundabout way of saying ‘sorry, I fucked up.’

  Before she had a chance to come up with an equally dismissive retort, Brophy’s mobile started to slide across his desk with the vibrations of an incoming call. He saw Garda Desmond’s name pop up on the lighted screen and picked it up and answered.

  “Noreen? What can I do for you?”

  “I’m on the road today, and Bennett asked me to drive by Barry Donahue’s house every so often to see if any of the family show up.”

  “And?”

  “Passed there a while ago and saw a black Mercedes in the driveway that wasn’t there an hour ago. Bennett told me to let you know.”

  “Okay. Thanks for that, Noreen. I owe you a pint.”

  “You owe me more than that,” she said with a husky laugh and rang off.

  Brophy edged in over his desk to get closer to McCall. “Looks like someone from the Donahue household has come back from Dublin.”

  “Could be the son, Aidan,” said McCall.

  “How about we go check it out? I’m sick of sitting around doing nothing.”

  Within a couple of minutes, they were in McCall’s car, heading across the city. A small argument ensued about turning on the air conditioner and closing the windows, but McCall was having none of it.

  “How can you not love this weather we’re having?”

  “I don’t like the heat.”

  “You’re a strange sort, Brophy.” There was a pause for a few seconds, then McCall said, “Do you have your heart set on becoming DI if we get the upgrade?”

  He sneered in disbelief at the question. “Where are you getting that out of?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just that you don’t talk about it like you used to. I thought maybe you were a bit anxious about it or something.”

  “Jeez, you’re way off. Look, I probably shouldn’t say anything until after this case, but I’ve made up my mind to pack it in after this one.”

  In a most uncharacteristic stroke, McCall lost control for a brief moment and swerved across the white lines on the road. She quickly regained control. “What the hell are you talking about, pack it in? You’re not seriously thinking of leaving me alone with Bennett and his band of sycophants?”

  “You’ll be fine. I think you’d make a much better DI than I would anyway. My heart hasn’t been in this for a long time.”

  “No shit, Sherlock. Everyone knows your heart hasn’t been in it for a long time, but you’ve still got the best head for it I’ve ever seen. I hope you’ll reconsider.”

  They pulled up outside the house in silence, not having said a word for the last ten minutes of the journey. Sure enough, the car Aidan drove on their first visit there was parked in the driveway. They got out of the car and briskly walked over to the gate and pressed the intercom. A full minute passed with no reply.

  “Jesus, I hope he’s not after doing anything to himself,” said McCall. “Do you think we should climb over?”

  Brophy took a few steps back to get a better look into the house but the large wooden gate and high walls impeded much of the view, including all of the downstairs.

  “If he’s heard about his father, he’ll surely be wracked with guilt,” said Brophy. “Here, my ankle is shagged. I’ll give you a boost over the wall.”

  “What makes you think I need a boost,” she said defensively.

  “The ten-foot-high wall makes me think it.”

  McCall walked back to halfway across the road and eyed up the wall, ready to have a run and jump at it. Just as she leaned onto her front foot to accelerate ahead, the intercom buzzed to life.

  “What the fuck do you two want? Haven’t you caused enough damage to our family?”

  McCall rushed back to the gate. “Aidan, I don’t think it’s very fair to blame us,” she said in a calm tone. “We’re trying our best to find out who killed your cousin and kidnapped Seán, but we need to be clear on all the facts first. Can you let us in to have a chat, please?” She glanced at Brophy, a wishful look in her eyes.

  Brophy was about to say something. She shook her head to ward him off. Then the gate clicked and began to roll back. When they reached the front door, it was left half-open. They entered, and Brophy called out to Aidan. His voice came from the direction of the living room, so he opened the white French doors and went in. The room was large and had expensive-looking plush furniture. The heavy curtains were drawn, blocking out the light. Aidan sat on an armchair facing the fireplace, a glass of whiskey in one hand, a glass pipe in the other. McCall goose-stepped past Brophy and snatched the pipe from Aidan’s hand and examined it closely.

  “I see you’ve already helped yourself.”

  Aidan turned his head in a slow laboured movement. “What difference does it make at this stage? Everything is fucked, and it’s my fault.”

  Brophy sat in an armchair across from him, and McCall sat on the sofa on his other side.

  “What makes you think it’s your fault?” asked Brophy.

  Aidan tried to direct his gaze towards where the question came from but struggled to focus on Brophy.

  “Is it because of the gambling debt?” said McCall.

  “You’re very pretty,” said Aidan, a half-smile tightening across his gaunt features. “Is he your boyfriend?”

  Brophy thought he looked like yet another young man who was probably very sporty in his youth but threw it all away on unbidden temptations and chasing the next buzz. He had an athletic frame that appeared to be in the early stages of hunching over into a crooked junkie posture. His Brown eyes were sunk deep, his skin pallid and sickly.

  “Aidan, we really want to help you and your family, but you need to be honest with us,” said Brophy. “How much did you owe, and who was it to?”

  “Those scumbags set me up. They knew what they were doing all along.”

  “What scumbags?” said McCall.
/>   “These little scangers from Coolock. They befriended me on my first week of uni. I thought they were genuine, you know? Like they really wanted to hang around with me. They took me to cool parties, loads of hot girls. Lines of coke covering every surface in the house. It was great for a while.” He blasted out a shrieking pained laugh. “Then, the gambling started. They hooked me right in. Gave me credit any time I wanted it. I started dealing to pay off my debts.” Another laugh. “But I smoked half the gear and gave the rest to mates at uni. Thought I was the right ‘ol gangster around the place. Till they turned on me and started demanding I pay all the money back in one go.” He took a long pull from the whiskey, grimacing at the harsh aftertaste.

  “How much did you owe at that stage?” said Brophy.

  “Nearly a hundred grand.”

  “Did they ask you to approach your father for the money?” Brophy again.

  “No. That came later. They cut off the drug supply but not the gambling. I made a few more high stakes bets, and that was it. Over a quarter of a million.” He looked at McCall, tears streaming down his face. “Where was I going to get that kind of dosh?”

  “It’s a horrible situation to find yourself in,” said McCall. “When did they make contact with your father?”

  “I tried to kill myself, you know? Went back to my student digs one night, put a gym bag strap around my neck, and tied it to the top of a wardrobe. Piece of shit cheap Ikea crap fell to pieces and came crashing down on me.” He laughed again. “Couldn’t even get that right.”

  “Did you ever meet Frankie Doyle?” asked Brophy.

  “Not directly. Talked on the phone once. That was about it.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “He told me I was cut off and that I’d have to settle my debts soon. He knew I couldn’t, so he said he would have to pay a visit to my father’s place of work.”

  “That must have come as quite a shock,” said McCall. “What happened then?”

  “Dad called me the next day, in a right state. He almost disowned me then and there. He broke down in tears on the phone. That was the worst part. I only ever saw him cry once. At my uncle’s funeral.”

  “Maura’s father?” asked McCall.

  Aidan nodded. “But he got it together and told me he’d fix it. He’d just have to do one job for Doyle, and that would be it.”

  “But Doyle had other ideas?” said Brophy.

  Aidan fumbled in his shirt pocket for a lighter, then brought his empty hand to his mouth before realising the glass pipe was no longer there. “Hey! Where’s my...? Shit. You two are cops, aren’t you? Are you gonna bust me?”

  “Not if we can help it,” said McCall. “You’re not the first young man with useful family connections, these gangs sucked in like that, and you won’t be the last.”

  “Did you know Jordan was associated with people like this?” asked Brophy.

  “We had no idea. But later, we found out that Doyle used us to get at Quilty’s business. He could have done what he did to me to any number of gullible suckers. No. It was all planned from the very beginning. Some big-shot Jordan knew caught wind of what was happening with us and said he’d help us out. All we had to do was deliver Doyle to him. He’d take care of the rest.”

  “How did your father react when he found out about Jordan’s little sideline?” asked McCall.

  Aidan scoffed. “I don’t think he was too surprised. We all know he and Quilty went back a ways. Maura even mentioned him in passing a few times like it was nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “Did Maura know about Jordan?” asked Brophy.

  Aidan’s expression became stony and resolute. “Are you serious? Man, at times, it seemed like she was running the whole thing. Sometimes I wondered if it was her pushing him into it.”

  “Do you know the name of the big-shot who was going to help you?” asked McCall.

  “I can’t remember. Something unusual like Croyden or Clarence or something.”

  “And what was the plan?” said Brophy.

  “We didn’t get that far.”

  “Dinner on Thursday evening? You were supposed to discuss it then?” asked McCall.

  “Yeah. But Maura cancelled last minute. Told us she’d catch up with us at the weekend. That obviously never happened.”

  Brophy asked, “Was this Clarence guy supposed to be at the dinner?”

  “Yes. We were all going to sit down and talk it out. Dad was dead set against the idea. He wanted Maura to bring the guy here, but Jordan wanted us all together. Fucking prick that he was. He loved having this over Dad.”

  “Aidan, we think it’s not safe for you to stay here. We’d like to take you in with us,” said McCall. “We can keep you safe.”

  “Do I have to?”

  “Well, no. But technically, we could do you for possession, but that wouldn’t help anything. Please come in with us and give an official statement. It could really help your father. I assume you heard he was taken in this morning?”

  “What? No, I didn’t hear that. Why?”

  “His lab was raided this morning looking for the meth. He’s at the station now.”

  “C’mon. Come with us,” said Brophy.

  Aidan stood and walked to the French doors. “Are you coming or not?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Brophy and McCall dropped Aidan off at an emergency outreach centre for displaced and troubled youths in the city. Peter Ducey, the man who ran the centre, was a friend of Brophy’s, and he had great trust in Ducey to talk to Aidan and calm him down. He was to keep him safe until they had time to go back to the station and get to grips with how things had progressed with the raids and the arrests of Hughes and Donahue.

  Aidan seemed to like the idea and was fast asleep in a shared room by the time they left. The station was only a five-minute drive from the centre. When they rounded the corner, they were confronted with a scene of mayhem. News vans and reporters took up every inch of space of the road and footpath outside the station. Assistants ran to and from the vans, grabbing camera and mic equipment and returning to set up facing the building’s main entrance. McCall had to shout at two crews to unblock the entrance to the staff car park. As they shuffled away with a murmur of invectives, one of the photographers recognised Brophy and bee-lined to his opened window.

  “Sergeant Brophy. Can you tell us if one of the men arrested is being charged with the double murder in Woodstown on Thursday evening?”

  Brophy turned his head as the shutter clicked inside the oversized camera in the young man’s hands. He felt like getting out of the car and smashing it on the road but knew the consequences would be far more of an irritation than the satisfaction he’d get from seeing the look on the photographer’s face.

  Before the thought finished, McCall was squeezing past the slow-moving crews.

  “What in the name of God is this all about?” she said.

  “Looks like the cat is out of the bag,” said Brophy.

  A minute later, they were in the crowded incident room. Detective Reagan sauntered in their direction, her shoulders drawn back, a grin of pride on her face.

  “Where have you two been?” she said.

  “Out looking for the kid,” said Brophy. “What’s happening here?”

  “They’ve pressed charges against Donahue and Hughes.”

  “What charges?” asked McCall.

  “Manufacturing and trafficking drugs, of course. What else?”

  Brophy felt a shiver besiege his entire body, the cold dark walls closed in on his peripherals, and the ground rotated and slanted with nonrhythmic guile. He pressed a closed fist hard down on a tabletop and took a deep breath to stave off the oncoming descent into panic and possible collapse.

  “They’ve just signed death warrants for these men and their families,” said McCall, her tone on the edge of an outburst. “Why did they have to press charges so soon?”

  “No one knows the details yet,” said Reagan. “The Dublin lads inte
rviewed them. I can only imagine they got some kind of confessions out of them. We could learn a thing or two from them, don’t you think Brophy?”

  Brophy was swaying on the spot now.

  “Sergeant, are you okay?” said Reagan, puzzlement washing out her pride.

  “Don’t worry about it, Conal,” said McCall. “There’s nothing we can do about it.”

  Brophy regained a modicum of composure, ploughed headlong towards the door at that back of the incident room that led to the stairs, and barged out. He took the steps two at a time, for two floors, arriving at the fourth, where most of the private offices were located. Knowing the NBCI had set up shop in a disused room at the end of the hall, he almost galloped all the way down. He took a quick look through the gap left by the cardboard covering the small panelled window on the door and saw Leard and White inside. Without knocking, he burst through the door, gritted teeth and tense heaving breaths. Leard was sitting at the lone desk, talking on his mobile whilst reading something off the desktop computer. White stood by the window looking down at the reporters, satisfaction etched crookedly on his mug. Both turned with a start at Brophy’s aggressive entrance.

  “What have you assholes done?” he demanded through coarse panting.

  “We’ve done our jobs,” said White, taking a couple of steps towards the younger sergeant.

  “You know as well as I do that those two men were coerced into doing what they did. And now we’ve let them hang out to dry. Do you know what could happen to their families?”

  This question turned White’s dismissiveness into something akin to rage.

  “Do we know what could happen, you ask? Of course, we fucking know what could happen. We’ve lived with the consequences of doing our jobs too well for years. Seen every kind of vengeful acts played out on the streets of Dublin. Innocent people getting caught in the middle of the gangs’ feuds. Unsuspecting parents learning that their children, barely out of their teens, were mixed up in the drugs trade, only finding out when we deliver the news that their son has been decapitated for saying the wrong thing to the wrong dealer. So, yes, Sergeant Brophy. We know what can happen, which is why we act quickly, which is why we’ve brought down most of these cartel players in the last few years. But I’m quickly beginning to realise that maybe you don’t understand how these things play out. Makes me think we were premature in offering you the position we talked about earlier.”