BENEATH LOST GROUND

by G. D. Higgins

  Brophy trudged over to his desk, rivulets of sweat creeping down his back. The air was a lot heavier than it had been recently. He thought a cooling thunderstorm would nicely top off what had been an eventful couple of days. The plan was to have a quick chat with McCall, then go home and sleep for at least twelve hours.

  Their adjoining desks were vacant when he reached there, so he took a seat and assumed McCall would be back at any moment. The initial impulse was to go online and have a look at what some of the national papers had to say about the two cases. On shimmying the mouse around and bringing his PC’s screen into life, he quickly decided against it. Surely, he’d come across an article or opinion piece that speculated wildly as to the inner workings of the cases, likely naming him, the ‘former hurling star turned missing person specialist,’ and no doubt have a jibe at him being an expert at disappearing acts for a very famous reason.

  Instead of putting himself through that, he switched off the monitor and sat back in his chair, getting as comfortable as he could. His eyes grew heavy and the urge to sleep overpowered him. Just as his eyes clamped shut, a vision of Mel Fanning presented itself, a laughing young lady, vivacious and poised at the prospect of a long and exciting life ahead. What it must have been like for her to lie in the back of that car as her childhood friends, having wrapped her in plastic sheeting, drove her to her final resting place. The adulation that came his way was well misplaced, but he was relieved to put it to rest finally.

  All of a shot, he was jolted out of his slumber by the sound of a familiar voice behind him.

  “Sergeant Brophy? What are you still doing here?”

  He turned slowly; his movements laboured and heavy. Garda Mallon’s smile was captivating, her pop-star good looks a rarity on the force. “Garda Mallon. I was just having a little rest while I waited for Detective McCall. Thanks for your concern,” he joked.

  “Well done on today. Everyone’s well proud of you,” she said with a broad smile. “But shouldn’t you go home? She could be gone for hours.”

  “What do you mean, hours? Where’s she gone?”

  “She left about half an hour ago, out to Woodstown to see some guy, Harrison or something. I thought you knew.”

  “Harrington, you mean. No, I didn’t know. Did she say why she was going to see him?”

  “He called her earlier about something to do with his initial statement, I think. To be honest with you, I think she’s a little smitten by the guy. I could make out she was blushing on the phone to him from the corner of my eye.”

  “I should hope it was out of the corner of your eye. You don’t want her knowing you see a soft spot in her.”

  Mallon laughed, her green eyes glazed over, iridescent and calming.

  “Thanks for the little pep talk before we saw those bodies last week,” she said, becoming serious. “It really helps to know that even someone with your experience has been through the same thing.”

  “Don’t worry about it. You’re going to make a fine officer. Everyone says so.”

  She lowered her head, blushed, and bit her lower lip. “Well, I have to go now. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Bye, Garda Mallon.”

  She turned and walked across the room to the main entrance. Brophy’s gaze followed her all the way there, and he had to check himself that she was far too young for him. He suddenly remembered that he’d left his phone in his desk drawer before going to see Russell and Bennett. On taking it out, he noticed he had a couple of missed calls and a message from McCall. He checked the message first.

  McCall: Gone to Harrington’s place. Said he saw something Thursday he didn’t think to include in his statement. Fill you in later. Good night.

  Brophy tried to call McCall back, but there was no answer. He left a message for her to call him as soon as possible. His interest was furiously stoked. What if Harrington had some important information that could lead to finding Seán or Veale? Then his heart momentarily sank as a darker thought took hold. What if he was, in fact, the shooter and was luring McCall out for nefarious reasons? He quickly buried that thought as highly unlikely. But a battle still raged inside him, should he go home as everyone was suggesting, or should he head out to Woodstown to meet McCall and find out what was going on?

  Sleep can wait another few hours.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  On the journey out to Woodstown, he made several attempts to reach McCall and became anxious that she wasn’t answering. She usually left her phone on vibrate mode, especially if she was out on the job, and it seemed strange that in the twenty minutes since he’d left the first message for her, she made no attempt to call him back. The thought of Harrington somehow involved in the murders kept creeping into his mind, but as much as he tried, he couldn’t connect the minor issue of the jetty with such a brutal act of violence. Maybe he had missed something, though.

  He cursed himself for not looking into Harrington more, his background, and family history. He never even checked if he’d had any past convictions or warrants. All kinds of scenarios played out in his mind; if Harrington attacked McCall, would she be able to fend him off? If he had taken Seán, was he still alive? If Harrington was involved in the drugs racket, would they be able to pin it on him at this stage? Why isn’t she calling back?

  His heart, already unsettled from sleep deprivation, was now palpitating like an automatic machine gun. It was so apparent to him there was more to the case than Delaney and Doyle wanting the Walters out of the way so they could take over their business. Waterford was a relatively small market for hardcore addicts, hardly worth risking life in prison for. Just as the dark tunnels began to shroud his peripherals, his phone lit up in the dashboard holder and revealed McCall’s name. He was on the outskirts of Woodstown when the call came in. He tapped the answer button and followed it with the speakerphone.

  “Hey. What’s happening? I’ve been trying to call you.”

  “Okay. Keep your shirt on. No panic. I’m at Harrington’s place. He called earlier, saying something had been bothering him the last few days. He wasn’t sure if he should say anything. But it’s probably nothing anyway. I’ll check it out in a while.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Remember we asked him if he’d seen any fancy-looking ‘D’ reg cars in the area around the time of the shooting?”

  “I remember. He said he hadn’t.”

  “That’s the thing. He was thinking along the lines of dodgy looking characters driving around looking shifty. It didn’t occur to him until later that he saw a black ‘D’ reg BMW shortly after the shit hit the fan. He was shaken up and drove to the local pub after getting back home from reporting the shooting.”

  “So, where did he see it?”

  “Look, it’s probably nothing, but he saw it parked in the driveway of the local station.”

  Stunned at this revelation, he looked around and got his bearings whilst driving along the country road. He guessed he was only a couple of kilometres from the station, so decided to head there instead of meeting McCall. Gough clearly said he hadn’t seen such a vehicle.

  “Okay. I’m close to there now. I’m going to head over and see if Gough is in. I’m sure it’s nothing, but probably worth checking out, all the same.”

  “No worries. Give me a shout if it’s anything interesting.”

  “Will do. Bye.”

  Brophy turned onto the road where the station was situated. He’d be there in seconds, so slowed down and jogged his memory for anything that might connect Gough to the goings-on of the last week. Gough seemed like a solid guard, through and through. There was no way he was aiding in the distribution of drugs. But then again, people could often do the direst things for reasons most others couldn’t contemplate. Brophy knew little of Gough’s past, only that he was stationed in Drogheda before being assigned to the small countryside station he now ran alone. Drogheda had its fair share of criminal activity in the last few years, which hadn’t really been in the public eye until th
e murder of Detective Ross O’Malley. Brophy wondered if Gough had known O’Malley, assumed he had.

  He parked in the clearing across the road from the station. As he turned off the ignition, a few raindrops splatted onto the windscreen. Thick clouds hung low in the sky, and it was all about to collapse onto the seared land that had been baking for the last three weeks. Down the road, a blanket of heavier rainfall was barrelling towards him. He got out of the car and slammed the door shut in a single fluid movement and ran across the road to the station.

  The squad car sat slightly crooked in the single space, so Brophy assumed Gough was in. He gave the door three thumping raps of his fist then pressed his ear against it. No sound came. He took a couple of steps back and had a look at the upstairs window. He knew these old stations sometimes had a cell upstairs if the downstairs was taken up by reception and office space.

  Tattered white netted curtains, along with the lowering light, made it impossible to see inside. No telling what the rooms were. Brophy’s shirt began to stick to his skin with the heavy drops coming down now. He stepped back in towards the door and gave it another solid knock. As his fist repelled after the third strike, the door swung open. Gough opened it all the way, resting it against the hallway wall. His eyes shone glassy and bloodshot, but the moroseness of their last visit was nowhere to be seen. He looked elated at seeing Brophy.

  “Detective,” he said warmly. “I wasn’t expecting you, but I’m glad you’re here, all the same.”

  “It’s good to see you too, Sergeant. Could I come in for a quick chat?”

  “Of course. Where are me manners? Come in there.” Gough stepped aside and let Brophy pass him. “Down the hall to the back room. I think you know the way.”

  Despite the lingering taste of liquor off his own breath, as he passed Gough, the stench of booze was overpowering. “Is there a cell upstairs in this shop?”

  “There is, indeed. Not that it gets much use these days. More of a storage space for dust now.” Gough laughed at his quip, and Brophy followed suit out of politeness.

  Brophy entered the same room where he and McCall had chatted with Gough the last time he visited. A half-drunk bottle of Jameson was on the table beside a stack of case files neatly piled.

  “Have a seat there, Detective. I’ll be right with you.”

  Gough disappeared into the adjoining room and re-emerged seconds later, wiping another glass with a dry dishcloth. Brophy cursed silently that he had to have another drink. The last twenty-four hours was the most he’d drunk in over a year. He sat on the chair adjacent to Gough’s and came down much harder than he’d aimed. Lethargy was kicking in, his body gasping for energy whilst his mind raced on.

  Gough plonked down on his seat, topped up his glass, and poured Brophy a hefty measure. Straight away, he picked up his glass and held it out to Brophy for a toast. Brophy knew he couldn’t get out of it now. He picked up the glass.

  “I just want to say, Detective, what you did today, nabbing that piece of filth in Thomastown, was a great thing. Sláinte!”

  They clinked glasses, and whatever way Gough was considering him, Brophy felt a surge of pride from the moment. “Thank you so much, Sergeant.”

  They sipped with eyes locked, willing each other to keep going. Soon the glasses were completely drained. Brophy grimaced and broke down laughing.

  “It’s been some week, alright. You know the night before the murders, I had a nightmare about Mel Fanning.”

  “Is that right?” said Gough, deep interest etched in his face.

  “It happens quite a lot. But now I hope...” he trailed off and didn’t finish but understanding radiated the air between them.

  “I know how it is, Detective. I have them as well. All the regrets of the job, the things you reflect on and know you could have done a little differently; you could have saved someone some pain.”

  Brophy nodded, and there was a long silence.

  “And Delaney as well, huh?” He poured two more drinks. Brophy protested to deaf ears. “Let’s just hope Seán Walters doesn’t enter those dreams,” Gough said gravely. The rain was now pelting off the windows and roof.

  “Did you know Ross O’Malley?” asked Brophy.

  Gough’s whole demeanour stiffened. His eyes darkened. “I did,” he replied with a quiver in his voice. “I knew him very well. Everyone on the job in Drogheda and surrounding areas did. He was well-liked and even more respected. Why do you ask?”

  “I’m sorry. It just popped into my head on the way over here when I was trying to remember where you were stationed before.”

  “I see.” Gough became more tense.

  Brophy was apprehensive about his approach and hoped not to offend Gough by the next question.

  “I hate to ask you this, Sergeant, because I know there’s nothing in it, but during our enquiries, we asked people in the area if they’d seen any black Mercedes or the likes, with Dublin registrations in the days leading up to the shootings.” Gough’s face crinkled, and his head tilted in a quizzical turn. “No one seemed to recall seeing any at the time of questioning. Then, this afternoon a local got in touch with us to say they remembered seeing a black BMW with a ‘D’ reg right after the murders happened.” Brophy paused to gauge any flicker of recognition or fear in Gough’s eyes.

  His expression was unchanged. “Okay. And where did they see it?”

  “That’s the thing. He said he saw it parked in the driveway of this station.”

  Gough beamed. “You’ve got me, Detective,” he said, stretching out his arms, his large white palms facing his guest. “I have a sideline as a door to door vacuum cleaner salesman.” He laughed at his joke and shot up from his seat all of a sudden.

  Rust framed the filing cabinet Gough walked across the room to. He opened the top drawer and ruffled through the manila folders. He looked over his shoulder to Brophy. “A bit old fashioned, I am. I like to have things printed out and not just stare at a screen all day. Worse than any drug, those devices everyone’s glued to these days.” He pulled out a thin, fresh looking file and returned to his seat. “Now let me see,” he said, examining the two pages contained within. “Ah, that’s right. I’d almost forgotten about this, what with all the cartel action and murders in our little village here. The car was left in the car park of the pub for a couple of days, so they asked me to come and have a look. Last Tuesday, it was. Went over and found the door was left unlocked, the key in the ignition. I ran the plates and found it was owned by one Alex Gibbons, from Foxrock in Dublin. His family has a summer house in Woodstown, and he was on a bit of a bender for a few days.”

  Brophy sensed what he was hearing wasn’t entirely true. For the first time, he knew Gough was hiding something, and he dreaded what may come.

  Gough held up the pages for Brophy to take. “You can have a look if you want.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” he said with a wave of his hand.

  “Gibbons came by the day after the incident, and I wasn’t in much of a mind to quiz him, as you can imagine. He took off fairly quickly.”

  “Did you get any information from him?”

  “Like I said, it was the last thing on my mind at that point. He came by first thing in the morning, and I’d had a hard night of it,” he said, gesturing his head at his glass. “He was just another yuppie from Dublin down here to live in the wilds during the hot weather.”

  “It’s just that that’s the exact kind of car we were following up in our investigation. I know you didn’t know that by then, but maybe you can give me his number, and I’ll give him a call.”

  “Sure, don’t we have the killer? What the fish left us, at least.”

  “But we don’t have the boy,” said Brophy, feeling more ill at ease with the situation.

  Gough closed the file and laid his hands across the top of it. He took a deep, audible breath, letting it out through his nose. “You know, I think there’s nothing in this, so maybe I should just put it away.”

  “I�
�m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to put it into evidence. We’ll look into it further in the city.”

  Gough smiled, and Brophy detected a hint of menace in it. What he did next surprised Brophy. He got up and returned to the filing cabinet, put the file back in its place, and slammed it shut a little too hard. A wave of anger was surfacing, one Brophy couldn’t quite place but resolved to keep his composure.

  “Have we a problem here, Detective?” asked Gough.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “How did it feel?”

  “How did what feel?”

  “Finally, getting the one who got away?”

  “Truth be told, a little anti-climactic, as it always does. The girl is still gone, and now I know how brutally it was done. Many lives were destroyed because of that one act of madness, and we have to try to put it behind us and roll onto the next human tragedy. That’s all this job ever is.”

  Gough stood with his back to the filing cabinet. “I know how it feels. To have a case that crushes your confidence in the job, that you feel was your fault for messing up. For an opportunity, after all these years to set it straight, must be euphoric.”

  “Which case is it that plagues you?”

  “Ah, there’s no need to get into that. But let’s just say if the culprit ever raised his snakey head out of the grass, I’d pounce on him with all my might.”

  Distant thunder echoed ever closer to them. The room was cast in darkness even though it was still late afternoon.

  “Are you sure there’s nothing you’d like to confide in me, Sergeant? I understand how this life can fill you with demons. Seeing the worse humanity has to offer on a daily basis.”

  Gough’s laugh sounded like the thunder drawing nearer. “Not on a daily basis out here,” he said, pointing out the window. “This station had been idyllic the last three years. Until this dreadful affair with the Walters, that is.”

  “What do you think happened to the boy?” asked Brophy.

  Gough rolled his head back and around to loosen the tension in his neck and let out a long sigh. “I believe he’s still out there somewhere. But it pains me to think of the situation he might now find himself in.”