BENEATH LOST GROUND

by G. D. Higgins

  “Thanks for letting me sit in on this,” said Brophy. “I know you didn’t have to.”

  “Are you mad, Sergeant? You just ended this nightmare for everyone here. I should thank you for coming.”

  Brophy gave a half-smile, and before he could say anything in reply, the door opened wide. A blast of sunlight burst in from the window on the other side of the hall, casting Sergeant Ryan and Brendan Foylan in a film of golden tinfoil. Brophy tried to focus on Foylan to savour the furtiveness of his defeated slouch, but his face was cast in shadow by the intruding sheet of light. Ryan guided Foylan to the seat and shoved him down much harder than was necessary.

  “Hey, watch it,” protested Foylan, hissing back at Ryan, who stared down at him with pure malice in his gaze.

  Foylan turned to face the detectives, and his features came into focus at last. Not a hint of remorse, Brophy thought. Just the same smug, arrogant expression as always.

  “What the hell am I doing here? You’re all going to be in deep shit for this.” Brophy and Reid knew to let him go on as much as possible before saying anything, in the hope his anger might make him say more than he should. “You’re one desperate man, Brophy. Coming to my place of work, starting a fight, and now this charade.”

  Brophy and Reid ignored him and smirked at each other.

  “So, what’s the joke? Is this some kind of prank to humiliate me?”

  “Have you been advised you can have a solicitor present?” asked Reid.

  “I don’t need one. But when I do speak to him, we’re going to-”

  “A body was dug up near the old railway bridge this morning,” said Brophy. He let the words hang.

  Foylan visibly fought to hold back the look of shock and fear, and it probably would have worked if he weren’t talking to two seasoned detectives. They waited and waited, longing for Foylan to break the silence.

  “So?” he said, the tiny word cracking up in his faltering voice.

  “You see, I paid a visit to Maurice in hospital this morning. I regret to tell you, but he’s close to the end.”

  “I know that. It’s a terrible tragedy,” he said, attempting to sound compassionate but failing miserably.

  “He wanted to get things off his chest before he checked-out. It seems he’s been afraid to say a thing about it for years, for fear of what might happen to his mother. But what we all know is that not a fucking thing will happen to her because of what’s about to come out,” Brophy said, his jaw tensing unnaturally as he spoke.

  Sweat patches began to show on Foylan’s underarms and chest. “What’s any of this got to do with me?”

  “Oh, please, Foylan. You know what’s coming. Just admit what you did, and the courts might show some bit of leniency.”

  Foylan started to inhale massive shots of air through his nose. “It was him. He fucking killed her, the sick bastard.”

  Brophy slammed his hand down on the table, creating an unmerciful clatter. “Don’t even think about it, you murdering scumbag. Forensics are on their way to your parents’ house as we speak to examine the door frame of the downstairs bedroom. You’re done for, Foylan. We have you.”

  “I swear on my mother’s life. It was him. He was always intensely jealous of us, but he didn’t have a hope, so it drove him nuts. He said if we didn’t help him hide her, he’d tell you people we’d all done it together.”

  “You’re a lying little maggot,” said Brophy, almost fraughting at the mouth. “They were in the living room when they heard you two arguing in the bedroom.”

  “No, it was him with her in the bedroom.”

  “You just said he didn’t have a chance,” said Reid. “Why would he be in a bedroom alone with her, in her boyfriend’s house?”

  “We were buzzing off our heads. They were just chatting or something. He probably made his move, and she rejected him. That’s what happened,” he said as if to convince himself.

  “So, when the postmortem comes back, the results will show she was carrying Scully’s baby?” said Brophy, unsure whether they could do such a test so long after her death.

  Rage flashed across Foylan’s face. He couldn’t hide it.

  “You don’t have kids, do you?” said Reid.

  “What’s that got to do with anything?” Foylan was fuming now, almost ready to reel in.

  “Maybe you despise the thought of having children,” said Brophy. “Maybe you have from a young age. And that night, Mel told you she was pregnant with your child, and you flipped your lid. You wanted her to go to England and have it taken care of.”

  Foylan shouted, “That’s not what happened, you bastard.”

  “You hate children so much, and the thought of having one with a girl from a council estate just didn’t work for you. She refused to go, and you lost it. You drove her head so hard into the door, there was no turning back after it.”

  “Shut up,” he roared, tears now streaking down his reddened face. “I’d never hurt a child. I wanted to keep it. It was that fucking bitch that wanted to kill my baby. She even had the ticket to England already bought. How could she?”

  Brophy glanced at Reid. They had him.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Later that day, Brophy arrived back at the Waterford City Garda Station. The reporters who had clung to the place like an infestation of mould in the last five days had all but vacated the premises. A new top story was taking over, a mere day after it had been unanimously decided that the double murderer was fished out of the River Suir with a pocket-full of the meth he was selling on the streets of the city.

  Following the press conference the night before, people were already washing their hands of the dirty business, and now an even more dramatic story was unfolding just a forty-minute drive north. This time it wasn’t some scumbag, thug dealer. This time it was a respected businessman from a ‘good family,’ whose girlfriend had gone missing twelve years earlier. A man who had been suspected by most as having something to do with her disappearance but was surrounded in a shroud of localised silence, no one wanting to be the one to feel the wrath of his powerful family. And most of all, his two best friends who had witnessed the murder and helped bury her body by a yew tree they all used to play around together as children, were stunned into silence in the years proceeding their wicked deed; one of them dead, the other soon to join him.

  Brophy had been summoned to the top floor to meet with Superintendent Russell before reaching the outskirts of the city on his journey back from Thomastown. He knocked on the black metal door and was immediately hollered in. Inspector Bennett was seated in a swivel chair in front of Russell’s desk and swung around to face Brophy as he entered. Both Russell and Bennett looked ruddy-cheeked, big smiles on their faces, half-drunken glasses of whiskey on the desk before them. Russell sat on his chair with his hands clasped over his substantial belly, an air of relaxation and contentment Brophy had never witnessed in him before.

  “Have a seat for yourself there,” said Russell, beaming with delight.

  “You two seem jovial amongst all the carnage of the last week.”

  Russell chuckled, not a bit offended by the comment as Brophy had intended. “Now, now, Conal. There’s no need for your flippant remarks. We’ve heard it all before.”

  Brophy sat next to Bennett feeling slightly deflated by the current situation but still light and composed having cracked the case that had dogged him for the last decade.

  “I just want to say, Brophy, you’re one of the finest investigators I’ve ever seen on the job,” said Russell, trying to sound serious through the merriment smudging his features into a crooked smile.

  “Thanks, Superintendent.”

  “Great job, Conal. Seriously. No one ever thought Mel Fanning would be found. There’ll be a book written about it one day,” said Bennett.

  Brophy cringed at the thought.

  “It was made official about twenty minutes ago. I think maybe your work in Kilkenny put the final stamp on it,” said Russell.

&nbs
p; “What are you talking about?” asked Brophy.

  Bennett cut in. “We’re the new Garda headquarters for the South East region. It comes into full effect in October.

  Russell shuffled around one of the drawers at his desk and pulled out another tumbler. He slammed it down on the desk close to Brophy and said, “Will you not have a drop to celebrate with us, Conal?”

  “I really shouldn’t. I haven’t slept in two days,” he replied as Russell, heedless, poured him a generous measure.

  “It’s gonna mean a major upgrade of this place, and there’ll be promotions to be had,” said Russell.

  “And there’s many fine people who I’m sure will do a great job in those roles,” said Brophy.

  “Ah, here now, Sergeant,” said Russell with an expression that attempted to come off as solemn but failed miserably through his glassy eyes. “I hope you weren’t serious about this resigning business?”

  “I’ve been considering it for a while, and I think now might be as good a time as any.”

  “Jesus, Conal,” said Bennett, incredulous. “Don’t you know what we’re trying to say here? You’re a shoo-in for detective inspector. This is as good a time as ever to stay and do what you’re good at.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence, but I’ve my mind pretty much made up. I think McCall would make a much better DI, anyway.”

  Bennett scoffed at the suggestion and took a sip of his whiskey, an irrepressible scowl sagging his features.

  “Christine McCall is definitely in the running too, Sergeant, but the fact remains that you have a lot more experience than her.”

  “And more respect,” cut-in Bennett, scorn twisted into his voice.

  Brophy made firm eye contact with him in an attempt to decipher what was behind his disliking of McCall. “What have you got against her? She’s a great detective. Everyone here loves her.”

  “Maybe she doesn’t love everyone back the same way, though,” said Russel with a mischievous grin.

  And then it clicked with Brophy. Although Bennett was married with three children, he had a reputation for trying it on with most new female recruits. He just never imagined he had had a try with someone so out of his league.

  Bennett was stony-faced now. “There’s also the matter of the missing boy. Don’t you want to know what happened to him before you ride off into the sunset?”

  Brophy almost yielded to his manipulative remark, his initial instinct to bark back at Bennett, but managed to rein himself in. “Of course, I want to find the boy. I didn’t say I’m leaving today, did I? I think there’s every chance he’s still out there, unharmed. To be honest with you both, I think there’s a chance the killer is still out there too.”

  “Ah, don’t start on with that, Sergeant,” said Russell. “We got the killer. It’s obvious it was Delaney. And I’ve every confidence White’ll get a confession out of Doyle sometime soon. You just have to have a little faith.”

  “Do you not think it’s strange that Veale hasn’t been heard from in all of this? He just disappeared into thin air.”

  “White assured us that Veale was well clear of Waterford. On the run like many a time before,” said Russell.

  “What about the hotel? He never checked-out and left his personal belongings behind.”

  “Leave it alone, Conal,” said Bennett, with a hint of disgust in his tone. “We got our man, and now we can focus all our resources on finding the lad. Shouldn’t that suit you better?”

  “It’s not about what suits me. It’s about finding the people responsible.”

  “Which we’ve already done,” said Bennett emphatically.

  “Who was the other person supposed to be at dinner that night?” asked Brophy.

  “It must have been Delaney,” said Bennett.

  “Come out of it, for God’s sake. Do you really think a family like the Walters would have a street dealer over for casserole?”

  “Why not if they were talking business?” said Bennett.

  “There was supposed to be a meeting between the Walters, the Donahues, and Clarence Veale to sort out the problem of Aidan Donahue’s debt to Doyle that night. Maura Walters had already started preparing dinner for a large group. Veale cancelled, according to Barry Donahue, so the meeting was called off.”

  “So what?” said Russell, his furrowed brow hinting that Brophy had piqued his curiosity.

  “So why would Veale have cancelled? He was in town, booked into a hotel for that night, and the following.”

  “Maybe he caught wind that something was going to happen and got out of here as fast as he could,” said Bennett. “These cartels are full of snitches and double-crossers. One of Doyle’s people could have tipped him off.”

  “That still doesn’t explain why he’d leave his stuff behind. If he knew what you’re saying, wouldn’t he want to check-out early and have it on record? Then be seen somewhere in public when the shootings happen. That’s their usual M.O.”

  “We have the killer,” said Bennett. “Along with all the evidence that puts him in the area, the guns he hid, and a motive. Why are we still even entertaining this-”

  Bennett was stopped in his tracks by Russell, raising a hand, palm out, in his direction. “What do you think really happened then?” he said.

  “I’m not sure. And I acknowledge it very well could have been Delaney. But there are too many unanswered questions. And if we don’t find those answers, I don’t see how we’ll find the boy.”

  “So, what do you want to do?”

  “Firstly, I’d like to interview Barry Donahue and get more details about the dinner that night.”

  “That’s gonna be difficult,” said Bennett. “He has a high-priced hawk of a solicitor, and I don’t think you’re his favourite person at the moment.”

  That one stung deep. Brophy felt intensely guilty about Donahue’s arrest, after assuring him he’d be treated leniently, maybe even protected.

  “Let me have a try. I think it might help if I was able to go in there with some kind of a deal if the information he gives me could lead to us finding the boy.”

  “Can’t see that happening,” said Russell. “The big boys want to put him up as a poster boy for the new breed of white-collar cartels on the go now.”

  “You know he was coerced into it, though, right?”

  “And he’ll have every chance to prove that in court.”

  “By the time he’s in court, the Doyles will have so much fear put into him, that I doubt he’ll do anything but plead guilty.”

  “What is it you think you can get out of him at this stage?” asked Russell.

  “I’m not sure. I still haven’t ruled out the possibility that he or his son collected Seán from hurling camp and hid him to keep him safe.”

  “The family and their properties have been checked out thoroughly,” said Bennett. “I can say with all certainty none of them are involved.”

  “What about Walters’ sister? What’s her name?” said Russel.

  Brophy became self-conscious his face might be reddening at the question. “Ciara. McCall and I have spoken to her. That’s another thing that doesn’t quite fit with their version of events. If Veale and she hadn’t cancelled, she and the boy would have been there during the meeting. Hardly the scene for a child.”

  “I don’t think these people have any reservations about that kind of thing,” said Bennett. “They are drug dealers, after all.”

  “There were messages deleted from Maura Walters’ phone that day. I think that might hold the answers.”

  “Tech team said it could take weeks to retrieve those if they can at all,” said Russell.

  “There was also the neighbour, Harrington,” said Brophy.

  “What has he got to do with anything?” asked Bennett, sounding more impatient by the second.

  “Maybe nothing, but he did have a dispute with Walters about planning permission for a jetty.”

  “Okay, this is getting out of hand,” said Bennett. “You�
��re making things out of nothing here. Delaney was put up to it by Doyle. He had a way into their house as he sells their gear for them. He pulled the trigger then took the boy. Why can’t you just accept that and concentrate on finding him?”

  “That’s exactly what I am doing. I’m asking questions, probing. It’s called investigating. You should try it sometime,” said Brophy with a jagged edge in his voice.

  Through gritted teeth, Bennett replied, “How dare you speak-” but before he could finish, Russell interjected.

  “Okay, that’s enough, you two. This investigation is not over yet.” Bennett sunk back into his seat. “But until I know otherwise, Delaney is our shooter. You do what you have to do, Sergeant. But keep your theories on the down-low for now. I’ll try to set up an interview with Donahue, but as I say, I wouldn’t get your hopes up. And I need you two to be on the same page when the inspectors come down from Dublin in the months to come. They’re gonna want to see that we run a tight ship here, so I can’t have you two sniping at each other every chance you get.”

  Brophy and Bennett sat there with bated breath, sulking.

  “Is that understood?” said Russell firmly.

  “Yes, Superintendent,” said Brophy after a short silence.

  “Yes, Sir,” said Bennett.

  “Off with you now, Sergeant. Get some sleep. The least you deserve is the rest of the day off.”

  Brophy didn’t need to be asked twice. He got up to leave. As he took a few steps away, Bennett called after him.

  “Conal.” Brophy turned to face him. “Well done on getting that bastard.”

  Brophy nodded with a faint glimmer of a smile. He turned and left the office.

  The incident room was a lot more sedate than it had been the last week. People weren’t banging into each other, rushing out to follow up leads in the case. Now was more a mixture of hushed voices on phones, making enquiries and responding to tip-offs from the public as to the whereabouts of Seán Walters, and gardaí gossipping about the rumoured decision about the new South East headquarters.