BENEATH LOST GROUND

by G. D. Higgins

  Following the arrest of Clarence Veale, Brophy and McCall did their best to extract information from him at his hospital bed. A mixture of medication, semi-consciousness, and stubbornness made him resistant to their probing. It was made clear that because of his past record with minors and his close proximity to the family at the time of the murders, he would be charged with the abduction and possible murder of Seán Walters if he didn’t comply. That made him a little more forthcoming with some answers, but still, he remained guarded.

  His solicitor had already assured him they had very little on him in terms of the murders and the production of the meth. If he was cleared of any involvement with the missing boy, he would likely go free as soon as he recovered. Then he’d be left out for the dogs. He wouldn’t last long after all this.

  Veale continuously denied any knowledge of the drugs, claiming he was merely old friends with the Walters, taking them up on a dinner invitation as he often had. Brophy eased into the main subject that was on his mind.

  “You said Ciara Walters asked you to procure the medal for Seán?”

  Veale blinked and attempted a sly grin that only resulted in sending a shock of pain down his battered face.

  “If I didn’t know any better,” said McCall, “I’d say you were afraid of her.”

  Veale’s eyes darted back and forth, anything to not make eye contact with the two officers towering over him.

  “Was the meeting with Donahue called off because she couldn’t make it?” asked Brophy, not giving him time to recover from the previous question.

  Veale raised his mangled, bandaged hand a couple of inches, likely forgetting three fingers on it were broken, as he tried in vain to flip off Brophy.

  “I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’ She’s behind it all, isn’t she?” he said with more force. “She’s also the one who informed Sergeant Gough what was going on with her brother and sister-in-law.” Veale was visibly startled by this revelation. “So, what does that tell you, Veale? That she had your back? That she sees you as an equal partner?” Behind the firmness of the swelling on his face, Veale was grimacing. “You see, she was hoping Gough, in his unstable state of mind, would also take you out of commission, leaving her as the only one from the upper-echelons of your organisation to run the show in Ireland. But things went wrong. No one was meant to get killed. She only planned on you all getting busted, but instead...Well, you know the rest.”

  “Fuck you!”

  “The way we see it, you have two choices. We can release you back into the path of the hounds, or you can go into protection with your pal, Doyle. Maybe you can share a bedsit in Birmingham.” Brophy and McCall sniggered. “I’m gonna ask you this once; where would she run to?”

  McCall used her foot to tickle Brophy’s ankle, and again he squirmed and banged his head off the side of the twenty-year-old Opel Corsa van combo.

  “Jesus. Why couldn’t they give us a regular-sized van to hide out in?”

  “Yeah? Why not just one of the big white ones with Garda written across it in big blue letters?” She gave him a teasing smile.

  “Whisht a second. What have we got here?”

  They both stared intently at the screen as a black C class Mercedes eased into the entrance of the car park. The next flight to Doha was in just over an hour. If it was her, she was cutting it close. It was the fourth day in a row they hid out at Dublin Airport’s long-term car park in the poky van combo; all other avenues to track down Ciara Walters having been exhausted. Most of the team assumed she had already left the country, but Brophy wasn’t giving up. It was only the two of them on the stakeout and one detective garda staking out the check-in counter, but Brophy’s success in the past week bought him as much time as he needed.

  As the car backed into a space on the second floor, they could make out two people, one in the driver’s seat and one passenger. The woman had wavy black hair and wore oversized sunglasses; the passenger was hidden from view, obscured by the concrete column they parked next to.

  “Not a sound,” whispered Brophy. “Wait till they get out and move away from the car.”

  McCall gave him a look as if to say, ‘don’t dare patronise me.’

  The woman got out of the car and went straight for the boot, facing away from the camera lens that pointed downward from a yellow emergency sprinkler system pipe. She had put on a beige sun hat and wore a knee-length green dress. She opened the boot, which took her more out of view. Brophy’s pulse raced, and a feeling in him grew that this was her.

  She emerged seconds later with two large black cases, carry-on bags attached. She came around the car, keeping her head down, looking in at her companion. She gave a slight knock on the window. They could just about make out the corner of the door-frame as the passenger side swung open. A few heart-stopping moments passed, and Brophy began to think the pair headed in another direction they knew to be in the blind-spot of the cameras. But that was unlikely. How could they possibly know?

  The woman walked to the front of the car, followed seconds later by a young boy dressed in blue jeans and a grey hoodie, his face obscured by a black baseball cap. She put her arm around the boy’s shoulder and seemed to be hurrying him along. They had their backs to the camera now, each wheeling their luggage behind them. Brophy gave McCall the signal, still not sure if it was them.

  They got out of the van as quietly as they could and headed for the couple who were almost at the lift.

  “Excuse me!” said Brophy, a decibel short of a shout.

  The woman kept her head pointed to the lift door. She began pressing the button multiple times. The boy turned to see who was behind them, and instantly Brophy knew it was Seán Walters.

  “Ciara,” he shouted. “Stop right there.”

  McCall ran towards them and reached them in seconds. She grabbed Ciara Walters’ arm and swung her around.

  “What are you doing? We’re late for our flight,” she protested in a futile display.

  Brophy had now caught up. “The game’s over, Ciara.”

  “Aunty Ciara. Who are they?” said the boy on the verge of tears.

  “Are you Seán Walters?” asked Brophy as a formality but wanting to hear him say it to prove he wasn’t dead.

  “Yes. Who are you?”

  “Don’t say anything, Seány. Don’t believe a word they say,” she said, becoming hysterical. McCall proceeded to handcuff her.

  “Don’t worry, Seán. We’re the guards,” said Brophy.

  “I don’t want to go on a plane. I want to go home to my mum and dad. Do you know where they are?” he said, tears welling up in his innocent eyes.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Brophy followed McCall as she marched down the corridor towards Interview Room Two. They had waited anxiously in the office for two hours after returning to the station with Ciara Walters to get a chance to question her about her involvement in recent events.

  Seán Walters was in Interview Room One with a representative from child services; they waited for the arrival of Meabh Donahue, Barry’s wife, so she and Aidan could break the news to him about his parents, together. Brophy was grateful he didn’t have to be there.

  The NBCI had long since left the city but would no doubt be on their way back to take over things again, and block Brophy and McCall out of proceedings. Both left their phones in the desk drawers after seeing incoming calls from White. Bennett ignored a further two calls from him as he and Russell joined them in the office to congratulate them on bringing Ciara in. Russell intimated there was no way he would deny Brophy and McCall their opportunity to get the full story out of “Ms Walters.”

  McCall reached for the door handle and looked intent on barging in, a tried and tested technique for shaking up an arrogant, above-it-all suspect who had been waiting around, stalling the inevitable for as long as she could. But before McCall pulled the handle, she turned to Brophy with a broad smirk.

  “You sure you’ll be able to keep your heart on the task?” she said and raise
d an eyebrow into a mocking arch.

  “Get lost, you. I said there was nothing there.”

  McCall dropped the eyebrow and down-turned the smirk into a grimace. She barged in more dramatically than Brophy had expected, letting the door swing fully open and crash off the wall on its backside. When Brophy stepped in a couple of seconds later, his stomach knotted as he saw Ciara visibly shaken by the sudden intrusion. Her solicitor sat beside her, whispering something, probably not to react to the detectives’ bellicose act.

  McCall plonked down on one of the two seats on the near side of the tattered table, and Brophy lowered himself in a more measured manner, never breaking eye contact with Ciara. Her lips tensed several times in a way that usually precedes tears or a smile.

  “Detectives,” said the solicitor, who was dressed in an expensive blue pinstriped suit and barely looked old enough to drive, let alone defend a client in such a big case. Brophy cottoned-on there was no way Ciara intended for him to ever reach a courtroom with her but would be fired at a later stage for a contrived conflict of interest, another delaying tactic of those who could afford it. “I demand you release my client at once or press charges. As far as I can see, you have nothing on her. She’s a bereaved victim in all of this.”

  McCall overemphasised her scoffing sound. “Oh, please, Solicitor...?”

  “Hunt.”

  “Mr Hunt, that nonsense isn’t going to work here. We have mountains of evidence against Ms Walters,” she said, staring straight at Ciara, who met her eye contact without hesitation. “And that’s before we even get to the fact she was about to board a flight to Doha with a missing person, using fake passports. So, with all due respect, pipe down. Do your parents know you’re skipping school, anyway?”

  Hunt’s face reddened, and he wound up to let loose when Brophy intervened.

  “Why did you lie to us when we asked you if you knew who picked up Seán from hurling camp?” he asked.

  Her nostrils flared. Anger or grief, Brophy wondered.

  “I didn’t know who to trust. And I had to protect him, no matter what. If I have to go to jail for that, then so be it.”

  “You’re not going to jail,” piped Hunt.

  “Shush,” said McCall in as patronising a way as could be imagined.

  “So you did this to protect him?” asked Brophy.

  “Yes.” A tear rolled down her cheek. “I knew those monsters were around him. I was gonna do whatever it took to get him away from those people.”

  “Is that why you sent Sergeant Gough to the house?”

  He detected a sudden change in her.

  “There is absolutely no evidence of that,” squealed Hunt, losing control of his emotions.

  “Let me rephrase the questions, then, if you will. Did you invite Gough to dinner that night?”

  “I’ve never spoken to the man before in my life,” she said coolly. “And why on earth would I invite anyone to my brother’s house?”

  Hunt touched her arm as if to signal not to ask unnecessary questions.

  “Because you knew Veale would be there, seeing as how you invited him to help out with the Aidan Donahue situation. Then you cancelled last minute, knowing Veale was already in town and would still have dinner with your brother and sister-in-law.”

  “That’s preposterous,” said Hunt. “You’ll never make such a fanciful theory stick.”

  “I don’t think I’ll need to. I think Ms Walters will eventually plead guilty to the charges we bring against her.”

  Ciara’s expression stiffened.

  “Why would she do that?” asked Hunt. “Gough was a cold-blooded killer. No one has any sympathy for him.”

  McCall’s chair screeched a couple of inches across the tiled floor as she shuffled in her place. Brophy heard her increasingly loud breathing. He understood her frustration and also felt like diving across the table and grabbing Hunt by the neck.

  In the days since Gough’s suicide and since the circumstances of his actions became clearer across the country, a great deal of public sympathy was shown to the fallen sergeant’s family and his demise. Politicians and members of the public alike were all but saying, whilst his actions were not justified in any way, his reasons for reacting were understandable. Vicious debate pervaded over whether he should be given a proper police burial with a full Garda salute. In the end, it was decided he wouldn’t, and was laid to rest in a small service attended by his family and closest friends.

  Many sectors of society fumed at the decision and saw him as a vigilante hero who brought down a burgeoning drug empire. Brophy and McCall agreed with this in private but dared not say it aloud. Having Gough’s name besmirched by a weasel like Hunt was almost too much to bear. But they had to grit their teeth and hold their peace.

  Brophy laid his hand on McCall’s leg under the table to stop her tapping her foot and calm her down.

  “We can hold you for twenty-four hours before charging you, so I’m gonna tell you exactly what I think your role was, and you can sleep on it, and we’ll discuss it further in the morning,” said Brophy. “Is that understood?”

  Ciara nodded.

  “I believe you’re a lot closer to Quilty than you let on. Maybe even closer than Jordan was.”

  Her expression remained passive.

  “For some reason, you wanted your brother and sister-in-law out of the way. Why? I’m not sure yet, but I’m guessing it’s because you wanted to control everything yourself. You arranged for this dinner with Veale and Donahue to ensure he’d be in the house, and you also invited Gough, informing Jordan, Maura, and Veale you already had him on their side, a new recruit into your growing little empire.”

  Ciara’s lips parted slightly.

  “You told Maura about Gough using a burner phone, one we wouldn’t be able to trace back to you. I guess she wasn’t fazed by this, as she knew all too well how involved you were with running the business. I’m guessing you knew Gough was close with Detective Ryan and would love the chance to take Veale down. So, you gave him that chance. But you only expected him to arrest them and find the meth, then you’d probably get custody of Seán, and the whole missing person thing wouldn’t have happened. One thing gets me, though.”

  “Yeah,” said Ciara, indignantly. “What’s that?”

  “Even after it all went haywire and your only sibling ended up dead, you showed little remorse. The scene outside the house that night was a great act and fooled us all for a while. But a couple of days later, you were baking cookies and, from what I understand, you never asked when you could have your brother’s body to have a funeral. That’s a first for us when a family member died tragically. Usually, it’s one of the first things people ask.”

  Ciara’s eyes were like rising tides, waiting to spill over. When they eventually did, she let out an unmerciful wail and buried her face in her hands.

  Brophy looked at McCall who gave him a sly smile.

  “Let’s get out of here, Sergeant,” said McCall. “Maybe she’ll be ready to talk after a sound night’s sleep.” She got up and headed for the door, much more calmly this time.

  “Seán will only ever be truly safe if you help us take down the right people,” he said with forced compassion. “We’ll see you tomorrow.” He nodded to Hunt, who was now pale and gob-smacked.

  Brophy rose from his seat and headed for the door.

  “Conal,” called Ciara through the tears and sobs.

  He half-turned to see her looking pleadingly towards him, moving her lips but nothing coming out. She lowered her head again.

  “Just one more thing I’d like to know?” She looked up at him again. “Sean’s Dublin jersey was found in the woods near the house with blood on it.” She gave a half smile. “Did you put it there?”

  Composed again, she said, “He put it there himself when when we dropped out to get clothes for the weekend. He didn’t want his parents arguing over his fighting again. He’d grown terrified of their incessant raging arguments.”

 
Brophy turned, walked out and closed the door gently behind him.

  McCall was waiting at the far end of the corridor, leaning with her back against the wall. He reached her within a few seconds.

  “Looks like you got her, Detective. Fancy a celebratory drink?”

  “I’d love to, but another time if that’s all right. I’m taking my daughter for a driving lesson when there’s still a bit of light left in the day.”

  “Okay. Well, soon, I hope. We need to celebrate.”

  Brophy headed for the stairs, leaving McCall behind.

  “I saw that letter on your desk earlier,” she said, turning serious. “Will you even be here tomorrow?”

  “We’ll see, Christine. We’ll see.”

  Brophy walked down the steps slowly, unsure of what the future held, but fine with that for the first time in a long while.

  Dear reader,

  Thank you for reading to the end of this book. I do hope you enjoyed the journey. If you’d like to be notified about my upcoming releases, please sign up to my newsletter. I promise not to bombard you with emails.

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