BENEATH LOST GROUND

by G. D. Higgins

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “You know the statistics. Human trafficking, the sex industry.” Gough’s face twisted into a venomous snarl on saying the last part. “Some real fucking animal’s out there. And they need to be stopped by whatever means necessary.”

  “Within the confines of the law.”

  Gough scoffed. “Obviously, that’s what I meant. But you have to admit; our hands are tied too tight on certain matters. Take your case with the Kilkenny businessman. Everyone, including his own parents, knew he had a hand in the girl’s disappearance, yet we couldn’t act on it.”

  Brophy’s stomach knotted. “I might have been partly responsible for that. I made mistakes in the investigation,”

  “Ah, that’s nonsense. You were following the rules set out by people who have no idea what it’s like dealing with the lowest of the low. They had more powers to deal with things properly back in the day. Then the world grew eyes and got all political. Now we have to suss it out from these damn files half the time.”

  “Things are improving recently. They were able to bring down the cartels after all.”

  “Very little conviction in those words you speak. And don’t tell me anything about bringing down those gangs. The top guys are still out there, living the Hollywood lifestyle, and they seem to have chosen Waterford as their new drugs lab. I’d say they’re far from brought down. And look what happened when the last families were nabbed a decade ago. They were replaced by much meaner bastards, and the next crews will be worse still. There’s a power vacuum out there now, and it’ll get filled by whoever is willing to go the furthest. And we know what that means, Detective Brophy.”

  “Maybe you’re right. But that doesn’t mean we stop trying.”

  Gough stared out the window. The low light cast his round face in soft shadow. “Do you mind if I ask you something personal?”

  “Ask away.”

  “Why didn’t you show up to the big match?”

  The question had evoked bitterness and sometimes anger in him when he was asked in the last sixteen years. This time he decided not to let it be a shackle and ball dragging him down. He would lay it all out to this troubled colleague.

  “I was just a couple of years on the job at that stage. Everything was great in my life: a beautiful young daughter, a fiancé who I adored. And reaching the pinnacle of the sport I’d loved since I first picked up a hurley and started swinging it around when I was two years old. Then-” Brophy’s head shot up towards the ceiling, his gaze fixed on a spot directly over Gough’s head. “What was that?”

  Gough’s upper teeth bit down on his lip. “It’s only rats, Detective. Don’t mind it. Carry on.”

  “Have you someone up in the cell?”

  “I told you, it’s just rats. They get all over the place this time of year.”

  This time a quick secession of three thuds sounded down.

  Brophy shot up from his seat and made for the door.

  “Detective, I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Gough shouted after him.

  The impact of the sudden increase in volume stopped Brophy before he reached the door. He turned to Gough. “What’s going on here? Who have you got up there?”

  “That’s none of your concern. You need to stay out of it and leave right now.” Gough moved slowly towards him. Brophy expected his sheer size would be way too much for him. Gough must have been twenty kilos heavier and had fists like bowling balls prized and ready to strike.

  Brophy grabbed the door handle, fumbled for a few seconds, and Gough quickened his pace. He felt Gough’s hand graze on his back as he raced out the door towards the stairs down the hall.

  “Stop it right now, Brophy, or I’ll shoot you down.”

  At the foot of the stairs now, he stopped with his foot raised to take the first step and looked back at the oncoming behemoth, fully expecting to see a gun pointed at him.

  “You can’t go up there. This is my station, my rules.” Gough’s hand was behind his back, reaching to take out the gun.

  “I’m going up there, Sergeant. This ends now.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t let you do that.” He was only a few steps back now.

  “Where’s your gun?” said Brophy.

  Gough brought his hand out from behind his back. It was empty, and he waved both hands before him. “I don’t have one because I’m not going to need one.”

  He swung a swooping right hook towards Brophy’s head. Brophy dodged the punch just in time but fell backwards onto the bottom few steps. Gough reached down to grab him. He looked delirious as his eyes bulged and his bulbous cheeks became red and sweaty. The wind and rain whipped off the house from every angle.

  “Get off me, you bastard,” shouted Brophy as Gough made his move. He kicked out and struck Gough right in the face, sending him toppling back. Brophy let out a loud groan, having forgotten that was the leg with the sore ankle.

  Gough rose to his feet quickly. “Don’t go up there,” he roared as he headed up the stairs.

  But Brophy was too fast for him; he was already halfway up by the time Gough made it to the first step.

  Brophy found himself on a dark landing, two doors on the left and one on the right.

  Gough came trundling up the stairs. Brophy threw out another unsuspecting kick, landing squarely on his chest and sending him tumbling back down to the bottom step. Gough shrieked in pain.

  Brophy checked the first door on the left. A small dusty bathroom with only a sink and toilet. He walked down the hall cautiously, looking back to see if Gough was in pursuit. The next door on the left was newer than the white wood-panelled door of the bathroom. He reached out for the shiny silver handle and pulled down. It wouldn’t budge. Brophy cursed that he’d have to fight Gough to get at the keys.

  He knocked on the door and called out, “Hello. Who’s in there?”

  No reply came.

  He heard Gough scamper across the hall beneath him. He looked around, trying to think of another way, when he saw a key on a piece of string hanging from a hook near the top of the door frame. Grabbing it without hesitation, he slotted it into the lock, and in one movement, pulled down the handle and pushed the blue door wide open. A putrid stench struck him and nearly knocked him over. Human waste, sweat, and fear smothered the thick air.

  The room was darker than any other in the station, but he could make out the outline of a person crouched over on the ground in the far corner. The cell was otherwise empty. No bunk, no toilet.

  Conscious of his rapid blinking, he tried to allow his eyes to adjust to the darkness as quickly as possible.

  “Hello. Who are you?” he said whilst waiting for better visibility.

  Still no answer.

  “Seán? Is that you?”

  Brophy took a few sidesteps towards the person, keeping at the ready for Gough to come barrelling in at any moment. His eyes adjusted more to the glum foulness of the dark cell.

  The person sat with his back against the wall, half crooked over as if he could barely hold himself up in a sitting position. Brophy’s hopes were soon dashed when he discerned the person was too big to be a ten-year-old child.

  The man’s head bobbed up, a painful struggle to keep it in position. A tiny slit reflected the shallow slip of natural light that made it into the cell. His other eye was completely shut, bruised, and infected looking, puss seeping down the outer side. Now he could make out his entire face was a mass of swelling and cuts. The shaved head was matted with dried blood. His t-shirt, which was probably white originally, held different shades of dark brown and red. He was clearly clinging to the last vestiges of life.

  “Clarence Veale?” said Brophy. “What the hell happened you?”

  The single slit of Veale’s sight focused on Brophy as much as it could. It appeared as though he was trying to speak, but only a trembling wisp of air came out.

  Brophy moved in closer and was repulsed at the hideous sight of the battered criminal.

  “Ha
ng in there, Veale. I’ll get you to the hospital.”

  Brophy reached into his pocket for his phone and cursed that he’d left it on the dashboard holder again. He contemplated helping Veale to his feet and bringing him downstairs and outside so he could make the call. He’d be a sitting duck for Gough, though.

  Before he could think of an alternative idea, the sound of creaking steps taken cautiously reached them in the cell. Gough was on his way back up.

  Brophy went back to the door. On stepping outside, he came face to face with the barrel of the gun, Gough held aloft towards him. He gestured with the gun for Brophy to go back into the cell.

  “I’m not letting you lock me in there. You’ll have to shoot me first.”

  “Don’t think I won’t, Detective. I’ve little left to lose at this stage.” He brought his other hand up to hold the gun, pointed it straight at Brophy’s head. He kept coming at him, so Brophy back-stepped into the cell, not wanting to tempt fate.

  Gough flicked a switch on the wall beside the door, and the cell lit up with yellow light from an incandescent bulb. Brophy glanced at Veale and was even more repulsed at the sight. It was as if no part of him had escaped a disfiguring grotesque injury.

  “This is insanity, Sergeant. It’s not the way to do things.”

  Gough stood at the doorway, the gun held firmly in Brophy’s direction. “The way to do things?” he said and scoffed. “These little scumbags know how we do things just as well as we do, and they’ve spent years using it against us, bending the system so they’d get away with their crimes. Well, I’m having no more of it.” Gough was wild-eyed as he spoke, gun pointed at Brophy, but not taking his eyes off Veale like he expected him to pounce at any moment. Brophy doubted Veale could so much as struggle to his feet in his current state.

  “Did he kill the Walters?” asked Brophy.

  A gurgling exhalation of air came from Veale’s direction at hearing the question.

  “Him. Him”, he managed to force out.

  Brophy couldn’t believe it. “Tell me it wasn’t you who shot them, Sergeant?”

  “They were in the process of infecting your city with their poison. You know exactly what would haven happened if I didn’t stop it. Not only that, but that little posh bitch had the nerve to threaten me if I didn’t join up with them.”

  “You were the fourth guest?”

  “I went over to the house that evening to have a word with this one. And when I went in, she propositioned me to help them out in building their little empire. Even went as far as to say that if I didn’t, ‘bad things would happen.’ So, I showed them bad things.”

  “Put the gun down. Let me take you in before this gets any worse than it already is.”

  “It can’t get any worse than it is. And I’ll go in as soon as this toerag answers my questions.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “I want to know who shot down my best friend in cold blood. And he’s going to tell me where that boy is.”

  “Was Seán at the house when you went there?”

  “No, he wasn’t. It was just him and the Walters, having a right laugh about all the business they were doing.”

  Brophy turned to Veale. “Where’s the boy?”

  After a disconcerting bout of coughing and wheezing, Veale managed to squeeze out, “I don’t know. I swear.”

  “Why did you have the all-Ireland hurling medal?”

  “Gift.” More coughing and gurgling. “For the kid.”

  Gough moved in and pushed Brophy out of the way, sending him crashing to the other corner. He sidled up to Veale and crouched down, jammed the gun to the side of his head. “Where is he?” he shouted in a guttural roar.

  “Shoot me, you fucking pig.”

  Gough grabbed his neck and drove his head hard into the ground. He put a knee on his neck to hold him down and pressed the gun into the back of his head with two hands.

  Instinctively raising his hands in a gesture of peace offering, Brophy rose to his feet and approached slowly. “Let him go, for God’s sake. We can do this properly; take him in and find the boy.”

  “Stay back there, you,” said Gough, then pressed the gun harder into Veale’s temple. “Now, I’m gonna give you one last chance, you little maggot. Where is Seán Walters, you rotten paedophile?”

  Nothing but strained gasping came from Veale.

  “Get off him, Sergeant. He’s no good to anyone dead.”

  “I disagree. I like the idea of him dead. They can pull him out of the river like Delaney.”

  “Jesus Christ. That was you too.” Brophy thought about the guns, the meth in Delaney’s pocket, the tip-off from Gough to check the hotels. It was all him, right from the start. But that still didn’t explain the disappearance of the boy.

  He took a step closer to the hideous sight of a guard resorting to these measures to get a confession. Suddenly aware of his presence, Gough swung around and pointed the gun at Brophy. “This doesn’t end until he tells me who shot my friend. Now back off.”

  Brophy didn’t budge from his position. “Look, I know how it is, these lowlifes getting away with so much and shoving it in our faces, but it needs to end here. Every cop in the country will understand. I’m sure you’ll be given a lenient sentence.”

  Gough laughed. “Sentence? You actually think I’m gonna let them lock me up for this? No. That’s not how this is going to end. You shouldn’t have come here today, Brophy. It’s a most unfortunate thing, but you’re in it now.”

  A chill travelled down Brophy’s body. If Gough was capable of killing three people in cold blood, what else was he capable of? Would he take down one of his own to cover it up?

  Gough put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a four-inch flick knife, never taking the gun off Brophy. He flicked the knife open and brought the tip of the blade right up to Veale’s fully closed eye. “Time to give you the gift of clarity. Hopefully, you’ll remember more then, huh?”

  Veale began squirming but gave little resistance to the much bigger man on top of him. Gough eased the blade into his smoothed over, bulbous eye. A squirt of blood shot out.

  “Mano Dunne,” whispered Veale.

  Gough pulled the knife back a hand’s length. “What’s that?”

  “Mano Dunne. He shot Ryan.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Brophy recognised the name from the news a couple of years back. Dunne was a member of the Quilty family who was shot down in a park in Dublin in broad daylight whilst walking his six-month-old baby.

  “I swear to you. It was Dunne.”

  Gough once again placed the blade close to his eyelid. At the same time, he lowered the gun to his side, possibly forgetting he needed to keep Brophy at bay. Brophy didn’t hesitate and made his move. He dived forward. He pushed his bodyweight at Gough to knock him off Veale, grabbing the arm holding the gun at the same time. He succeeded in forcing Gough back off Veale but missed his attempt to control the gun arm.

  A frenzied scuffle ensued. Gough twisted around and came down hard on Brophy. Brophy felt the wind gush out of him and let out a thumping groan. He brought his knee up hard, causing Gough to roll off him, cursing as he went. Brophy sprang to his feet and jumped on Gough’s back, grabbing his wrist with the gun and shouting for him to drop it. Gough back stepped quickly and drove Brophy into the wall. Brophy felt like his ribcage had folded in but never let go of Gough’s neck and wrist.

  “Drop the gun, Gough,” he shouted with what felt like his last breath.

  He tightened his grip on Gough’s neck and felt him starting to weaken. Suddenly, Gough stumbled forward, driving Brophy into the wall once again. With the power from the hit, Brophy sensed his consciousness slipping away. After a few more seconds, Gough crumbled to the floor, his air passages blocked for long enough to render him immobile. Brophy came down on top of him and gasped for breath. He checked for the gun, which was now beside Gough on the floor.

  A dark flash cut across his vision, and he thought he was
going to pass out. Then he realised the flash was Veale escaping from the scene of his forced imprisonment. Brophy cursed that he’d now have to give chase just after that draining struggle with Gough.

  He heard Veale trundle down the stairs and thought if he managed to get into one of the cars outside, he might get away and not be found again. He stumbled to the door, feeling pain all over his body. When he got to the cell door, he looked back to see Gough getting up. He slammed the door shut and locked it with the key still in its place.

  He almost lost his footing on the stairs and had to hold the banister with both hands to get down. He rushed to the front door. The wind and rain lashed at the station and the trees overhead. A quick scan around the front of the station and no sign of Veale. He headed to the side of the building, which led into an uneven plot of dense woods.

  Already soaked in the three seconds it took him to get there, he spotted Veale easily, stumbling through the trees, falling several times as he did so. It took Brophy under a minute to reach him, and when he did, Veale put up little struggle. He fell to the soaked foliage, life slipping from him. Brophy couldn’t help but feel a pang of pity for the battered man.

  “Do you know where the boy is?” he asked.

  “I have no idea.”

  “Why did you have the hurling medal?”

  “She asked me to get it for him.”

  “Who? Maura?”

  “No...Ciara.”

  Before he had time to process the revelation, a gunshot rang up from the old converted cottage and sent a couple of crows fluttering up from the chimney into the blustery dark sky.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Brophy crouched uncomfortably in the darkness, his body drenched in sweat after the heat had returned following the day of stormy weather. His vain attempts to settle into a less painful position resulted in a loud clank of metal dimpling and springing back into shape. McCall smirked at his disposition and gave him a look to say, ‘it won’t be long now.’ A live video feed came through to an iPad that was placed near their feet, giving them both a view of the car park entrance.