BENEATH LOST GROUND

by G. D. Higgins

  The half-dozen or so officers left in the room tensed to stillness, staring at the two men.

  “You are way out of line,” shouted Bennett. “What the hell has even happened to you, eh? You used to be a fine detective. Now you just float around like a fucking zombie, a shell of a police officer. This is by far the biggest case we’ve solved at this station, and you want to ruin it with your bullshit.”

  Brophy shouted back, “I don’t consider finding a missing boy who may have witnessed his parents’ murder as bullshit.”

  Bennett’s voice came down to almost a whisper. “Neither does anyone else in here, you arrogant fuck. The boy will be our main priority for ages to come, but we have to face the fact that he’s more than likely already dead, buried in a hole somewhere we’ll never find him.”

  “Do you want to be the one to tell his aunt that?”

  Bennett nodded, his expression softening a little. “You should have quit after the Fanning case ten years ago. You’ve been compromised ever since, holding back everyone here.”

  “You know what?” said Brophy. “I’ve been thinking the same thing. You’ll have my letter of resignation on your desk in the morning.”

  Brophy brushed past him, almost knocking him over in the process. He rushed out the door, his head held down, feeling dizzy and nauseous.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  The heat was unrelenting, and Brophy’s ankle stung extra bad having taken the steps down from the incident room three at a time. Dying to get out of there as fast as he could, he sent a young reporter, who had somehow managed to get in past the car park and lay in wait at the back entrance, toppling to the ground as he barged past him with his shoulder lowered, man to man tackle style. The effort to catch him clean caused further pain to his ankle, but he felt it was worth it.

  The clean-shaved reporter cried out in protestation from his embarrassing sitting position, but there was no one around to hear him. Brophy made his way over to his Saab and got out of there as quickly as he could. His world seemed to be closing in on him, and he was destined to go home and crack open a bottle of gin McCall had given him for his birthday months earlier. Never much of a drinker, he could hardly wait to get it down him and forget about the mess his life had become for a few hours.

  All his failings flashed before him as he skidded out of the station car park: a university dropout, his girlfriend pregnant at twenty-three, missing the big game that still plagued him, his divorce, his heady rise towards the top ranks until the case of Mel Fanning created all sorts of disillusionment, and the subsequent years of caring less about everything day by day, the dark tunnel.

  He gripped the steering wheel tight and zipped in and out of side-streets, attempting to reach the outskirts of the city as fast as possible so he could breathe again. Every so often, the dark shadows closed in on him, and he feared, as many a time before, that he would crash during one of these attacks he didn’t have a name for.

  On reaching the roundabout near the Viking Hotel, he was due to swing a right onto the road that would lead him to the N25, his route home, but caught sight of the signpost in the corner of his eye that pointed in the opposite direction. The sign read ‘Dunmore East.’

  An image of Ciara Walters popped into his head, and he realised he had promised to call out and give her an update of the past few days’ events, so she wouldn’t have to read between the lines of whatever the media was deciding to spin. A crushing stab of guilt recoiled in his stomach. What must she be feeling right now? Rumours were already well circulating that the imminent press conference would announce the main suspect in the murders was located. And yet no sign of her beloved nephew. It would be the most natural thing in the world to fear the worst. That Delaney likely took the boy after pulling the trigger on his parents, then realised there was nothing he could do with him, so probably took his life too and buried him somewhere he’d never be found. It was certainly what most of the officers in the station thought, even if they dared not say it.

  After taking the left turn, his mood slightly shifted, and the darkness that had begun to subsume him subsided. He couldn’t quite make out what was causing the sudden change but went with it. His thoughts cleared, and he was able to focus on what he should write in his letter of resignation. An idea that he should write it whilst tucking into the gin later brought a smile to his face.

  Barely noticing the fifteen-minute journey go by, he soon pulled up outside Ciara Walters’ house. The same ‘D’ reg white Skoda that was parked there the last day they came was unmoved. Getting out of his car, he looked down towards the bay and took a deep breath of sea air that felt cooler than the last two weeks, giving him hope the heatwave would soon ease up.

  He walked up to the front door and rang the bell. The solid wood door had no window panes to give him an indication if someone was coming or not. A good thirty seconds passed, and a shroud of dark thoughts began to creep across his consciousness once more.

  Then the deadbolt clunked out of its resting place, and his heart pumped an extra-strong beat. The door swished open, and the orange light of the hall cast a strange ethereal glow around her. She smiled on seeing Brophy, then fought it back just as quickly.

  “I didn’t expect you to come alone,” she said. She wore a loose-fitting white linen dress and was barefooted, explaining why he didn’t hear her moving through the house to come to the door.

  His attention was rapt by her beauty, and he hesitated to answer. “Detective McCall had something to attend to.”

  “Is it something to do with the body they found in the river this morning?”

  “As it happens, yes, it is.”

  “Oh, please come in, Detective Brophy. Where are my manners?”

  “That’s quite all right. I was just admiring how beautiful it is here,” he said, looking down towards the bay again.

  “Yes. Please, God, we find Seán soon, and I’ve decided to move here full-time so he can stay in the same school and not have his... Oh, what am I talking about? There hasn’t been any sign of him yet, has there?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  Her face became grave and full of sorrow and loss. She turned and headed down the hall towards the kitchen. Brophy followed after her, closing the door on the way. He entered the kitchen and saw a glass of red wine and a half-eaten salmon salad on the island.

  “I’m so sorry, I’ve disturbed your dinner.”

  “Not at all. It’s been sitting there for ages. I can’t bring myself to eat much these days. Will you have a glass of wine?”

  “I really shouldn’t. I’m driving, and I’m not much of a drinker.”

  “That must be rare in your profession,” she said, gesturing for him to take a seat at the island and crossing the kitchen and reaching up to grab an extra wine glass. She turned back to face him, swaying the glass to and fro with a subtle wrist movement. “But I’d really like to not have to drink alone for a little while if that’s okay?”

  “Of course. Pour me one so. I know where the guards set up their breathalyser points anyway.”

  She chuckled briefly and sat close to him and poured him some wine. “So, what have you got for me, Sergeant? The news has been far too disturbing for me to watch the last couple of days,” she said, nodding in the direction of the adjoining half living room. The TV on the far wall was unplugged, several black wires hanging down to the ground from its mounted position.

  “I’m not sure if you heard about the raids yesterday morning?”

  She waved her hand dismissively then took a big gulp of wine. “I know all about the labs being busted. I can’t say I’m shocked about Hughes, but Barry Donahue is a different story. He always seemed like the straightest, most incorruptible type you could meet.”

  “We’re not sure if it was entirely his choice.”

  “What do you mean? God, I hope you’re not saying Jordan made him do it? That’d be all we need on top of everything else.” She took another good sip of wine and refilled her glass in a h
urry, causing it to splash over the rim, onto the counter.

  “No. We don’t think it was Jordan. In fact, it may have been Jordan helping him out.”

  Her brow folded in confusion. She took another smaller sip and encouraged him to follow suit. Her light blue eyes conveyed a coolness and assurance about her. He took a long drink and thoroughly enjoyed the feeling of it going down. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a drink besides the sip of brandy at Harrington’s place, but it was a while.

  “I hope you don’t take this the wrong way,” he said. “But it’s one of the more confusing things about this case. You see, that’s what they were supposed to be discussing at the dinner on Thursday evening with Barry and Aidan Donahue. Apparently, when Jordan and Maura heard about a debt they had to a rival dealer, they wanted to help them out. So, they invited Clarence Veale to dinner as well, and they were going to come up with some kind of plan to help the Donahues out of their sticky situation.”

  He gauged her response. She looked as though this was all news to her but was numb to any kind of over-expressive reaction at that stage.

  “And it’s confusing why?” she asked.

  “It doesn’t make much sense that they would have such a serious meeting with a heavy hitter like Veale and have you and Seán present at the same time.”

  This last statement definitely provoked a reaction in her. She contemplated him for a few moments, her steely gaze cutting through his rugged and ready facade. “Are you suggesting that because I cancelled, the ultra-serious crime gang meeting was also cancelled?”

  “Not at all. There’s just too many loose ends here, and I’m trying to make sense of it all.”

  She smiled at him, but the smile was void of warmth. “What’s your theory then? Aren’t great detectives supposed to have wild theories about the crimes they’re investigating?”

  “Just as well that TV is unplugged. I think you’ve been watching too much of it.”

  She broke down laughing, drawing a rare smile from himself. She picked up her glass and clinked it off his, then took a sup. Brophy did the same.

  “I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but Veale is also on the missing list.”

  “And you think he might have Seán?” she said, her hope irrepressible.

  “It’s a possibility.”

  “Where do you think he might be?”

  “As of now, we have no idea. You see, Jordan cancelled the meeting, saying Veale couldn’t make it. But today we discovered that Veale was booked into a hotel for a couple of nights the time of the...”

  “I see. Can’t you track where he went next? Use his credit card or mobile phone or something. I don’t know how exactly you do it, but surely he shouldn’t be too difficult to find.”

  “Therein lies the problem. Veale never checked-out of the hotel and left his stuff behind him.”

  Her head swayed gently over and back, her eyes labouring on a thought. “Do you think he was the killer, and took Seán as he was leaving, after... you know what.”

  “It’s a possibility I’m looking at.”

  “And I assume there’s a search team out looking for him as we speak.”

  “Unfortunately not.”

  She turned boorish and said, “Why the fuck not? He’s the main suspect in a double murder and kidnapping, and you’re not out looking for him!”

  “The body they pulled out of the river this morning, he was another associate of Jordan and Veale. A local dealer, probably the biggest in the city. He was seen around Woodstown the time of the shooting, and there’s another few things that point towards it being him.”

  “That doesn’t mean this Veale guy wasn’t involved too, right?”

  “I agree,” he answered, starting to feel the burden of unloading all of this on her. “The thing is, the senior investigators are convinced they’ve got their man and aren’t putting many resources into hunting down Veale at the moment. In fact, there’s going to be a press conference soon, if it hasn’t been on already. They’re going to announce that they have the murderer.”

  “And then what? What are they doing right now about my nephew? He’s just a boy. Jesus Christ, he must be terrified.”

  She brought her hands to her face, on the verge of breaking down sobbing. She managed to hold it back, got up, and went to the kitchen sink. She picked up a wet face towel and pressed it gently to her face.

  Brophy couldn’t help thinking how every move she made exuded a quality of such refined grace and elegance he could hardly take it.

  She turned around and leaned back against the counter. “What do you really think, Detective? Is Seány still alive?”

  “I truly believe there’s every chance he’s out there alive and well.”

  “But there’s also another possibility. Please tell me what you’re really thinking. It’s clear you haven’t even convinced yourself of the words you’re saying.”

  “I think there’s a strong chance Veale collected Seán from hurling camp. We found a rare hurling medal with Veale’s stuff. I think Veale might have used it to coax Seán into the car with a smile on his face. What hurling-mad kid wouldn’t beam at such a thing? But after that, I really can’t tell. Maybe Veale was onto the murders and was gone by the time it happened, and that’s why he pulled out of the dinner.”

  “That would make some sense, at least. And do you think he took Seán to protect him from what was coming?”

  “Maybe, but I really can’t tell.”

  She walked back to the island and picked up her glass and beckoned him with her eyes to have a drink. He threw back most of what was left in his glass, and she gave him a refill. She sat down again and leaned in closer, moving her head around in a circle to relieve some of the pressure from her shoulders. “I trust you, Detective. I know you’ll do all you can to bring him back to me.”

  “Call me, Conal.”

  She laughed lightly, and her gaze changed to one of restrained wonderment. “My, my. With all this madness, it’s too easy to forget I’m sitting with a hurling legend.”

  “Ah, come off it,” he said, blushing. “I had a couple of good seasons, and people don’t stop going on about it.”

  She became serious and contemplative. “Do you find modesty gets you far in life?”

  “Touché.”

  “Seán would love to meet you. He will meet you, right?”

  “I certainly hope so.”

  She stared at him for a few beats, her face softening again. “I’ve watched The Sunday Game with him a few times. He goes berserk when he sees your clip on the opening credits, diving through the air like Superman then springing up to score the clincher. Must have been an incredible feeling?” she said. He thought he sensed her, moving in ever so closer but his heightening nervousness robbed him of much of his sense of spatial awareness. His throat became dry, so he took another long sip of wine. “Aren’t you gonna answer me?” she said with a flutter of a mocking laugh.

  “It felt...good.”

  This time she didn’t attempt to hide the derision from her laugh. “Good? That’s all you can say? It felt good.” Her impersonation made him laugh, and a wave of relaxation travelled down his body. “You score the winning point in the dying seconds of the game to get your home county into the All-Ireland for the first time in almost fifty years and it felt ‘good.’ C’mon, Conal Brophy. You can do better than that.”

  He nodded, paused a moment, then said, “It was like the climax of every boyhood dream I’d ever had exploded all around me in a cacophony of elated applause and worship.”

  “Worship, eh?` Now we’re talking.”

  “It was the first time I ever felt truly alive. Like nothing else in the world mattered if I couldn’t get us to the final.”

  “What about the final, though? Didn’t you go missing?”

  “Let’s not get into that.” He looked down, breaking eye-contact, regret, and shame surging through him. “Something I’ve never lived down. It follows me everywhere I go.�
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  “Oh, I’m sorry to bring it up.”

  He reengaged with her poised gaze.

  “Tell me one thing, though, if you don’t mind.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Did you want to play on the final, or was it beyond your control?”

  “I still dream about what I would have done if I was there, how I might have altered the course of the game and help us win. But it wasn’t to be.”

  “I can understand that. I always competed for Dad’s love, but he seemed so focused on Jordan, I gave up when I became an adult and went my own way. It wasn’t until near the end, when he was sick that I found out he only kept Jordan close because he was afraid of what he might become if he didn’t keep an eye on him. But as it turns out, all his efforts were in vain. Good God, I’m so glad he didn’t live to see any of this unfold. I can only hope he didn’t know anything about it when he was still with us.”

  “You say he suspected Jordan always stayed friends with Quilty?”

  “It was kind of obvious. He went to Marbella a couple of times when that’s where Bobby was hiding out. And trust me, Jordan isn’t the Marbella type. More like Monaco, I’d say.”

  “He wanted to be a high-flyer?”

  “Always believed he was. And as much as he was an asshole, sometimes, he didn’t deserve this to happen to him.” She closed her eyes to fight back a well of emotion and looked even more stoic and sublime to Brophy. One side of her blonde hair was pushed behind her ear, the other dangling over her face. She opened her eyes and smiled at him. “I wish I could have met you at a better time than this, Conal. I feel I can be myself around you. That’s a rare experience for me.”

  His stomach knotted at the sound of her words. No idea had he she felt the way he was beginning to feel. At ease, ready to show himself to her. Something he hadn’t done since the early years with his ex, before their doomed marriage. He took another drink of wine and enjoyed the moment just long enough before it might get uncomfortable, and said, “I won’t stop until I find him. I promise you that.”