BENEATH LOST GROUND

by G. D. Higgins

  “Which hotel is it?” asked Brophy.

  “The Tower,” Kenneally replied.

  “The Tower,” said Brophy. He thanked Kenneally for his good work and rang off. “Veale was booked into The Tower for a couple of nights and never checked out,” he said to McCall.

  “The Tower? Jesus. That’s right beside where we pulled Delaney out of the River.”

  “Maybe a coincidence, maybe not.”

  “Why wouldn’t he check-out?”

  “I don’t know, but let’s go and see if we can find out.”

  As they spoke, they were at Passage Cross on the Dunmore Road. The roads were already busy with beachgoers, but it would only take a few minutes to get there. Hopefully, White and Leard were preoccupied with the Polish girlfriend, and they could be the first to see what Veale had left behind.

  When Brophy pulled up to the main entrance of The Tower Hotel, a squad car had just parked in one of the spaces reserved for VIPs. The doorman began to protest at Brophy for leaving his car outside the main entrance, blocking anyone else who wanted to pick-up or drop-off guests. Brophy flashed his warrant card and barely looked at the now silenced man.

  He approached the reception desk. McCall and the two uniformed guards hung back and scanned the lobby and lounge areas for any chance sighting of Veale.

  “I understand our sergeant just called to enquire about William Cliffe,” Brophy said to the red-haired receptionist.

  “Yes. A guard called alright, asking about a guest who didn’t check out. Is he okay? He seemed like such a gentleman. I hope nothing bad’s happened to him.”

  “From what I understand, he left some possessions behind.”

  “Oh, he did, yeah.”

  “Can you take us to where you’ve stored them then?”

  “Of course. Step behind the counter there and follow me through the door right here.”

  She pushed open a door on the back wall of the reception area he hadn’t noticed was there, one of those doors that looked the same as the wall, with the wooden trim going along the floor and a metre up. He gave McCall a nod across the lobby, and she briskly came to join him.

  The room behind the wall was shrouded in darkness at first, then the receptionist flipped a switch and a florescent bulb bathed the small storeroom in white light. Metal stacked shelves ran along the sides of the room, partially strewn with bags and lost items. Most of the stuff in the room was covered in dust, some much more than others. A small round wooden table that looked like the kind found in almost every pub in the country, stood against the back wall. A mini black wheelie bag with a shiny exterior laid flat on the table. It was the kind one would use for a night or two away for a business trip or the likes. Brophy squeezed past the receptionist, who looked as though she was about to pick it up and hand it to him.

  “Can you wait outside for us for a few minutes, love?” said McCall from behind her.

  “Oh, I don’t think I’m allowed to let you in here by yourselves.”

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s integral to an ongoing investigation that we check the contents of that bag then take it into evidence. A small forensics team will be along shortly to take it away.”

  “All right then, if you say so.” She left the room, and the door clicked shut behind her.

  Brophy snapped the rim of the second rubber glove he had now fitted and began feeling around the outside of the luggage. He gave it a small shake as McCall put on her gloves. Brophy knelt to take a closer look at the latch.

  “Doesn’t seem to be a combination lock.” He glanced back at McCall for reassurance.

  “Go for it?” she said.

  He clicked open a latch at the side and one on top near the handle. Lifting the side of it open, he felt his heart pound against his chest. He flipped the lid and let it rest against the back wall. McCall edged in closer, rubbing her hip and shoulder off Brophy as she squished in.

  “Eh, easy there,” he said with a grin.

  “Clothes?” said McCall.

  At first inspection, the case looked to only have a few items of dark clothing; jeans, a couple of T-shirts, a jumper. Brophy gingerly moved the clothes over and back to see if there was anything important hidden between them. He found nothing.

  “Take them out,” said McCall.

  He scooped his hands underneath the small pile of clothes and lifted them gently, holding them over the bag for McCall to check the bottom. She felt around the surface and sides of the case but still nothing out of the ordinary. She then examined more carefully to see if anything was hidden behind the lining but came up clean.

  “Okay, you can put them down again.”

  He laid the clothes back down again, ready to close the bag, when he noticed a zipper on the open side. After unzipping it cautiously, he eased his hand in and felt around. “What’s this?” He pulled his hand out slowly to reveal a small perspex case with a gold medal inside.

  “Is that a medal?” asked McCall.

  By now, Brophy had it close to his eyes, examining the inscriptions. “Wow. This is incredible!”

  “What is it?”

  “An All-Ireland final winner’s medal.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “From 1958. The last time Waterford won. This has to be stolen. No one in their right mind would give up one of these.”

  “How did a sex offender drug trafficker get his hands on it then?”

  “I have no idea, but we have to get it back to the rightful owner.” He turned the round-edged box over to look at the backside. “David ‘Davey’ Fraher. Jesus, Fraher was a legend. We all wanted to be like him, tough and hardy, but fast and skillful at the same time.”

  “Isn’t that what they said about you?”

  “They said nothing of the sort about me. I couldn’t hold a candle to Fraher. I know he passed away a few years ago. Some kind of brain cancer.”

  “What the hell was Veale up to?” asked McCall.

  Brophy stood up straight, knew right away he had a grave expression on his face, the way she gazed back, furrowing her brow.

  “God, what is it, Brophy?”

  “Seán Walters was obsessed with hurling, wasn’t he?”

  McCall’s face fell. “Do you think he used it to lure Seán in?”

  “At that age, if someone offered me an All-Ireland medal from that legendary Waterford team, I’d definitely get into a car with them.”

  “And with a smile on your face.”

  “But why would he leave his stuff behind? And if he took Seán from hurling camp, why didn’t his parents raise any alarm. They sat down to dinner that evening. Hardly the behaviour of parents who don’t know where their child is?”

  “Could they have thought he went with someone else and weren’t worried?”

  “Possibly, but we know Ciara Walters had already told them she wouldn’t make it down on time.”

  “The only way to know for sure is to find Veale.”

  “If he hasn’t already done a legger. Maybe he heard about the murder when he was out and got out of Waterford as fast as he could.”

  “That would certainly fit in with the theory of Doyle having Delaney do the murder.”

  “I just don’t know. There are too many holes in this.

  Before McCall had a chance to reply, the receptionist showed a tech officer into the room, and he made straight for Brophy and McCall.

  “Is this the bag?” he asked, pointing at Veale’s luggage.

  “Get a bag for this?” said Brophy, holding up the medal. “And take care of it, will ye? It’s invaluable.”

  Brophy and McCall exited, leaving the tech guy alone in the storeroom.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Shortly after departing the hotel, and on the way back out the Dunmore Road to see Ciara Walters, to inform her about developments and get more information about the day of the murders in the process, Brophy and McCall were called back to the station for a full briefing. Judging by the tone of the call from Kenneally, there was
going to be an announcement later in the day to the media. Brophy didn’t like the sound of it, guessed they were rushing into pinning the murders on Delaney before a full picture of events that day were laid out. Units across the city raided twelve premises that morning — still no trace of the boy.

  The number of reporters seemed to have doubled since the day before; no doubt people piecing together the story of the body fished out of the Suir with the hunt for the killer. When they arrived in the incident room, the place was buzzing with excitement. It was packed with officers rushing from desk to desk, writing up reports, preparing for the adulation that would surely come the station’s way. A rare sight indeed, Superintendent Russell sat at the centre of the large table, Bennett and Kenneally on one side, White and Leard on the other. His arms were crossed, a content air of satisfaction writ on his round blood-filled face. Brophy and McCall took their seats at their adjoining desks and took in the scene.

  Minutes passed before Russell finally laboured to his feet. “Gather round lads and ladies, if you will,” he said in his bellicose rasp of a voice. “We have a couple of announcements to make. I’m sure you have a fair idea of what we’re getting at, but let’s get the details straight, nonetheless,” he said as everyone in attendance quickly formed the usual horseshoe. “Okay, settle down so we can start this thing before the media burst through the doors and drag the story out of us.” He said this with no shortage of hubris, the first time the station had any kind of national attention like that; it was Russell’s chance to shine.

  Rumours had it he was always bitter for not getting a more senior position in Dublin, but this would surely make up for it. Bringing down the fledgling new drug business of two of the major cartels, possibly putting the final nail in their coffins, their domination of the trade in Ireland. Not only that notch on his bedpost, but now it appeared they also had the main suspect in the double murder. His corpse at least. All solved in less than a week. Validation, if ever there was any needed, to justify upgrading the Waterford station to the main headquarters for the South East.

  “Firstly, I’d like to thank you all from the bottom of my heart for your fine policing in this case. Your hard work has helped to bring down major drug operations in the city and track down a career criminal who’s been the bane of many an officer in this station. This morning Michael ‘Budgie’ Delaney was pulled out the river at Adelphi Quay. His remains are currently in University Hospital, awaiting a full postmortem examination, the preliminary results of which should be in later today. What we do know so far is that there was a small amount of methamphetamine found on his person, along with the type of glass pipe favoured by users of this particular drug. Also, there didn’t seem to be any sign of injury on his body, besides the broken wrist he suffered when he dared get physical with our own Detective Brophy the other day.” He said this last part smiling at Brophy and his words were followed by a small spattering of applause from those in attendance. Brophy felt truly uncomfortable by the comment and its reaction. “As of now, and unless it’s proved otherwise, we are assuming Delaney felt the net closing in on him as our main suspect in the murders in Woodstown, panicked and took his own life. As you’re all aware, Detectives McCall and Brophy were tipped off yesterday morning that a man fitting Delaney’s description was seen burying something on a forestry site in Portlaw. The detectives quickly secured the location and found a gear bag buried where our friend was seen. That bag contained the murder weapon and several more illegal firearms with Delaney’s prints. All this evidence, along with the sightings of him near the Walters’ house the time the murders took place, leads us to strongly believe we have the shooter, the likely motive of which was the continuing, albeit severely compromised turf war that had been going on for years between the Quilty and Doyle crime families in Dublin.

  “I’ll be passing you over to Inspector White in a moment to give you more on that, but before I finish, I just want to extend my congratulations onto you all once more for your excellent work.” A ripple of self-congratulatory applause rang in Brophy’s ears. “And finally, I’d especially like to extend our warm gratitude to the two NBCI men with us today. Their knowledge and expertise of this ongoing war has been invaluable in bringing this case to a quick stop.” Russell gave White and Leard a gracious nod, which elicited another shorter round of applause.

  Russell settled himself back into his seat, then White rose and rounded the table to take up a position at its front, closer to the crowd.

  “Thank you so much, Superintendent Russell,” White said, looking behind him. “It’s been a great pleasure and a refreshing change to work at a regional station like this, and I’ve already started drafting a letter of recommendation for this station to be made HQ for the South East. I truly believe that the country has suffered from a lack of decentralised power structures in recent years.” Brophy observed Leard smirk at that comment. “And you are all fully deserving of breaking that trend. This case has garnered huge national attention as you can tell by the ravenous pack of hounds scurrying around outside.” A loud chuckle rumbled up from the crowd. “Yesterday, we took in two major players who were manufacturing the meth in their labs in the city, and Inspector Leard and I have interviewed both men and got some very useful information from them that may lead to even more arrests. As of now, we are satisfied that Michael Delaney was the shooter last Thursday evening. Besides the evidence Superintendent Russell has just mentioned, the arrest of Doyle and the subsequent information we extracted from him has set out a clear motive for Delaney to carry out the murders-”

  Brophy cut in before White had a chance to go on. “Will you be sharing that information with us?” He sensed the shared surprise at the bluntness of his question.

  White was not perturbed. “Not at this time, Detective. For now, the information needs to be kept under wraps as it pertains to several ongoing enquiries regarding the operations of the cartels. But suffice to say, it proves Delaney was sent to Woodstown to confront the Walters, and no judge in the land would posit otherwise. We plan to tell the media of the evidence we’ve all built against Delaney, which we believe should be sufficient in convincing the public we have our man. The details-”

  “What about the boy?” said Brophy, cutting White off mid-sentence and drawing a death glare from Russell. “He’s still out there somewhere. Maybe we shouldn’t be patting each other on the backs just yet.”

  “I couldn’t agree more, Detective. And I’m sure the public and the relatives of the boy will have every confidence that the fine team assembled here today will do everything in their power to locate the boy.”

  “Are we to inform the media that he’s presumed dead?” said Brophy, his voice rising a level.

  Russell and Bennett shuffled uncomfortably in their seats. Leard licked his lower lip and gritted his teeth, poised for an offencive.

  “Absolutely not. There’s every chance the boy is still out there, unharmed. The search will go on until he’s found.”

  “And Veale?” said Brophy. “What do we tell the public about him?”

  White glanced back at Leard, and Russell cleared his throat as if he were about to interject. A few of the officers around Brophy tutted with displeasure. He was robbing them of their moment, but he didn’t care. To him, it was a farce.

  “There’s no reason to suspect Veale has anything to do with this. His name won’t be mentioned publicly, and we-”

  “McCall and I have just come from the Tower Hotel where he was booked in on the night of the murders. He never checked out and left his belongings at the hotel, including a coveted All-Ireland hurling medal. He was working closely with Jordan Walters to manufacture and supply meth, which was sold on the streets by Delaney. Now he’s missing, vanished into thin air. And you say there’s no reason to suspect he had anything to do with this?”

  “That’s enough, Sergeant Brophy,” said Russell with no shortage of aggression in his tone. “I think we’ve heard just about enough from you.”

 
“That’s quite all right, Superintendent,” said White, his perma-smirk wavering. “Detective Brophy has every right to raise his concerns, but what I can say for now is that we have our man and the evidence to prove he was the killer. Anything outside of that doesn’t need to be made public at this time. Now, I’d like to make it clear to you all what you can and can’t mention if asked at this time,” he said, turning from Brophy, taking in the rest of the crowd.

  The grimy dark walls of Brophy’s consciousness closed in on his peripherals, only a star-speckled torrent of light obfuscated his tunnelled view of the desk and the senior officers. Taking in a breath was like sucking a straw in a crumpled plastic bag. He felt around for something to hold on to, so as not to lose balance and faint, likely losing what little regard the station had left for him at that point. There was nothing for him to hold, but he soon felt the warm touch of McCall holding his arm to keep him balanced.

  The rest of the briefing passed by in a fit of muffled voices and earnest receivers of good news. By the time he came to, people were returning to their desks or heading outside for the day’s beat. McCall guided him back to his desk and sat him down.

  “Good on ye, Brophy. Someone needed to stick it to that smug asshole,” said McCall, quiet enough not to be heard by a garda at the adjacent desk. “But I think you’re in for a solid ear-bashing from Russell or Bennett, or likely both.”

  “It doesn’t matter anymore. I’m done with this shit. It’s all just a big contest, isn’t it?”

  Before she had a chance to reply, Bennett came crashing in the stairway door and roared over at Brophy, “What in the name of Christ, do you think you’re playing at?”

  Brophy sprang to his feet. Bennett moved in a few more paces, so they were all but face to face. “It’s called detective work. You should try it sometime.”