Silent as the Dead

by Scott Hunter

  If it runs to schedule…

  Moran got up and walked towards the gaggle of firemen and gardai. Duffle Man was still talking animatedly to one of the officers, but as Moran approached he jumped smartly into the police car’s passenger seat. There was a further brief exchange between Duffle and the driver before the vehicle reversed smartly and took off up the lane. Moran frowned. Had the driver been arrested? Had the gardai found something in the Land Rover?

  ‘Half an hour or so, sir.’ One of the gardai, interpreting Moran’s quizzical expression as the unspoken question on everyone’s mind, delivered his estimate with good-natured bonhomie. It sounded optimistic to Moran, but at least there was some expectation that things might get moving before midday. He raised a hand in acknowledgement. That was better news, the first of the day. Moran hoped to add to that tally once he got to Blasket.

  As it turned out, it wasn’t difficult to find O’Shea. The man was waiting for him.

  Moran knew it was him just by the way he was standing; there was something unhurried, laconic, almost idle about the way he was watching the passengers disembark. A tourist would be more animated, while anyone affiliated to the island’s nascent tourism industry would be acting more purposefully – and would probably sport a more welcoming demeanour. Not that O’Shea looked hostile; Moran reckoned he just looked indifferent.

  The islander was lean and tall, dressed in jeans and black jumper, bearded with grey-streaked hair caught into a long ponytail. Moran stepped gratefully onto dry land – boats weren’t on his hobbies list, especially dinghies – and approached O’Shea with his hand outstretched.

  ‘I’m Moran. How did you know I was coming?’

  ‘Does it matter?’ O’Shea’s voice was soft and low, his eyes guarded. ‘I don’t have many visitors.’

  ‘Well, I appreciate the welcome anyway.’

  ‘What happened to your face?’

  O’Shea’s expression was difficult to read. He probably knew exactly what had happened. Moran dissembled. ‘Difference of opinion in a bar.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’ O’Shea seemed amused. ‘And you a policeman an’ all.’

  ‘Not here I’m not. Anyway, thanks for taking the trouble to meet me.’

  ‘You’d never have found me in a million years. Thought I’d save you a wasted visit.’

  ‘Very kind. Is there somewhere we can talk?’

  O’Shea looked Moran up and down. ‘We’re talkin’ now.’

  ‘I meant somewhere more comfortable. Somewhere I can offer you a drink.’

  ‘Ah. Now that’s my kind of talk. No bars on the island, more’s the pity.’

  O’Shea turned and began to lope up the slipway, surefooted on the seaweed-strewn rock. He was wearing knee-length boots which glistened with some water-resistant coating. Moran followed, taking extra care on the uneven ground. His stick would’ve been handy right enough and for a moment Moran regretted his hasty decision to abandon it. Stubborn as ever, Brendan …

  But O’Shea was lengthening his stride, leaving Moran and his dinghy companions behind. Moran’d be damned if he’d ask O’Shea to slow down. He scrambled up the slipway and eventually found more solid ground beneath his feet.

  It was an uphill climb but Moran found himself shivering in spite of his exertion as he passed the village’s crumbling remains; he could sense the ghosts of the long-gone islanders in the shadows and maudlin, decaying piles of stonework. ‘Is it far?’ he called out to O’Shea’s back.

  The tall figure stopped and turned, silhouetted for a moment against the horizon. He shouted: ‘The Englishmen not keeping you fit, Brendan?’ Then he presented his back once again and Moran concentrated on placing one foot after the other.

  To the east, the smaller island of Beiginis, home of the local grey seal population, lay like a flat, green disc in the blue waters of the sound while far away on the mainland the fin-like elevations of the Three Sisters stretched heavenwards towards a sky filled with bloated, grey-white clouds. It was a warm afternoon for late September, and soon Moran was sweating profusely. After twenty minutes he detected a slight slowing of O’Shea’s pace and took the opportunity to rummage in his bag for a drink. He found the plastic bottle of mineral water and drank deeply, wiping sweat from his brow with his free hand.

  Shortly the route began to slip into a gentle decline. O’Shea made a slight course alteration and gestured. Moran shielded his eyes against the sun and found himself looking at a long, low building on raised decking, set into the lee of the hill. It looked like one of those eco-houses Moran had seen on some prime-time TV show a while back. O’Shea was evidently taking his long-term survival seriously – you’d have to, really, Moran thought, living in this kind of isolation. As he got closer Moran noticed the solar panels, the large plastic containers beneath the building, the charcoal burner and a smaller outhouse, the purpose of which was self-evident.

  As he approached O’Shea’s head appeared from one of the windows of the main building. ‘Are you comin’ in or what?’

  CHAPTER NINE

  Moran climbed the wooden steps onto the decking, ducked his head and entered. The house was more spacious than it appeared from the outside. It was split into three areas: a main living room, a bedroom, and the last presumably a kitchen or food preparation area of some sort. In the centre of the room, an open grate beneath a conical central chimney was packed with wood ready for a fire to be lit.

  ‘Sit down.’ O’Shea pointed to a threadbare armchair. ‘And tell me what it is you want.’ He perched on the edge of a plain table, its surface covered with ephemera relating to, as far as Moran could tell, the outdoor life: fishing lines, saws, a hunting knife, a few blocks of shaped wood. There was also, he noted, a shotgun propped up against the far wall.

  The islander rapped the table with his knuckles. ‘See this? Good solid stuff. Spanish. From an Armada wreck. Made it myself. Like most things here.’

  Moran set his bag on the floor, which was dry, clean and bare apart from a thin oriental rug which extended beneath the table and was speckled with loose wood chippings.

  ‘Take a look at this,’ O’Shea offered, the gleam in his eyes showing that despite his gruff exterior he was enjoying the rare opportunity to show off his creation. ‘When I built the place I didn’t just opt for natural resources – I wanted to recycle what I could. Whatever was practical to get over here from the mainland.’

  Moran joined him at the rear of the cabin, a translucent arrangement of small windows forming an interlocking wall of glass. ‘Surplus stock – aircraft windows,’ O’Shea explained. ‘Got them from Shannon. Cheap as chips – there’s an English expression for you, Brendan. Make you feel at home. Come and take a look out here.’ O’Shea held the back door open, and Moran stepped cautiously onto a shorter area of decking upon which a peculiar contraption was sited – a kind of cross between a fork-lift truck and a fence trellis.

  ‘Observation platform,’ O’Shea explained. ‘Finished it last month. Watch this.’ O’Shea stepped onto a squared-off sheet of metal, closed a gate behind him and pressed a button.

  Moran stepped back in amazement as the islander was hoisted rapidly into the air.

  ‘Old scissor-lift. Fairground junk,’ O’Shea called down. ‘No mains power – I’ve built a wood and dung furnace to fire up the generator.’

  Moran waited for the platform to make its descent and watched O’Shea disembark, closing the gate behind him with an affectionate pat. ‘See for miles up there. Like it?’

  ‘Remarkable,’ Moran agreed.

  ‘Anyway, you’re not here to be impressed by my DIY, are you, Brendan? So.’ O’Shea motioned for Moran to walk ahead of him into the house. ‘What is it you want?’

  ‘Simple. I’m looking for Aine Hannigan. Wife of a friend of mine.’

  ‘Sure. Donal’s wife.’

  Moran wasn’t surprised. There were connections going back here, maybe a long way. ‘I was told you might be able to shed some light.’

  O�
��Shea picked up a hunting knife and began to whittle at a piece of wood. ‘Light? I haven’t shed light for a long, long time, Inspector Moran. There’s not much light in a human heart, as far as I can tell – but you’ll know that anyway, being around the same age as myself.’ O’Shea’s eyes glinted with what might have been amusement even if the short, deft stokes he was making with the knife seemed to contradict that interpretation.

  ‘I’m not here to discuss philosophy,’ Moran said, ‘and I’m not here to delve into what you might or might not have done in the past – let’s get that straight to begin with. This isn’t about you.’

  A gull shrieked somewhere above the house and in the short silence which followed Moran could hear waves breaking against the shore below in a slow, rhythmic wash.

  ‘No?’ O’Shea rested the point of the knife on the table and rotated it slowly back and forth. ‘Well that makes a change, right enough.’

  ‘So, can you help me?’ Moran found the whiskey bottle in his bag and held it up in an unspoken question.

  O’Shea clattered the knife onto the tabletop with a thump, disappeared into the kitchen area and returned with two glasses. Moran went to the table, poured two shots and held up his glass.

  ‘Your health.’

  ‘And yours.’ O’Shea resumed his half-standing, half-reclining position at the table.

  Moran studied his new acquaintance. Here was a man used to being on the alert – never able to relax, always ready for action. Moran had little doubt regarding the nature of his past actions. Everything about O’Shea proclaimed his trade: Warrior. Freedom fighter. Survivor.

  ‘Aine heard that someone was looking for her,’ O’Shea said finally. ‘Figured she’d get out of the way while she could.’

  ‘Where?’

  O’Shea shrugged. ‘She’s gone off the radar. For a time. But he’ll find her.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Ah, now, I can only go so far, Inspector.’

  ‘Someone from your old organisation, I presume.’ Moran sipped his drink, watched for O’Shea’s reaction.

  ‘Now what would you know about my old organisation? A fella who took off to work for the English.’

  ‘I had my reasons for leaving,’ Moran replied evenly. ‘No political agenda.’

  ‘True enough,’ O’Shea agreed. ‘A broken heart, was it, Brendan?’

  Moran stiffened. ‘We’re talking about you, O’Shea. And Aine Hannigan.’

  ‘You don’t mind me calling you Brendan?’ O’Shea drained his glass. ‘This is a friendly visit, right?’

  ‘I don’t care what you call me. I just need to know where I can find my friend’s wife.’

  O’Shea scratched his beard. ‘You’ll need to get to her before he does. He doesn’t like to be crossed.’

  ‘Don’t play games, O’Shea. I want a name.’

  O’Shea clunked his glass on the table. One stride and the shotgun was in his hand, barrels pointing at Moran’s stomach. ‘The last time a fella came over here making demands, Brendan, I sent him off with something else to think about. He’s not been back since.’

  Moran was unfazed. Even O’Shea wouldn’t be rash enough to shoot a serving Detective Chief Inspector, English or otherwise.

  ‘Let me guess,’ Moran said. ‘They don’t like you cluttering up their nice shiny heritage site.’

  ‘Spot on,’ O’Shea nodded. ‘But it’s a free country, right? I don’t give a toss if they’ve bought Great Blasket or the whole of the USA. There’s no one going to tell me where I can or can’t choose to live.’

  ‘I’m sure your point of view will be carefully considered.’

  O’Shea frowned and his face darkened. The shotgun moved a fraction, shifted in the islander’s grip; his lips twitched. A gust of wind made the rafters creak. The distant sound of an engine suggested a passing motorboat – an end-of-season outing, perhaps. Moran felt sweat trickle down his neck.

  O’Shea gave a snort of laughter, lowered the shotgun, broke it and propped it against the table. ‘You’ve picked up the English humour, I see, Brendan. Only thing I like about the English.’

  Moran relaxed a fraction. Not for the first time he wondered at the wisdom of tackling O’Shea alone. Jerry’s terrified face swam through his mind – the face of a man in fear of his life, in fear of people like O’Shea. He dismissed the image, got to his feet and refilled both their glasses.

  O’Shea nodded his thanks. ‘It’s about family, Brendan, isn’t it?’

  ‘Isn’t it always?’

  ‘But they’re not your own, are they? Not really.’

  This time Moran was taken aback. O’Shea knew a lot about him, which was a little unsettling but, in a stranger way, also curiously reassuring. Moran felt as though he were on the verge of discovering something deeper than a missing woman’s whereabouts. He hid his discomfort by raising his glass to his lips, aware of O’Shea’s analytical gaze resting upon him. The whiskey seared his throat and warmed his stomach.

  After a moment he said, ‘They’re family to me, and that’s all that matters.’

  O’Shea gave him a long look. ‘I don’t know why I’m even entertaining this. First you’ll be giving me your word you’ll not do anything … rash.’

  ‘I just want to get Aine back safely. That’s all.’

  O’Shea gave a bitter sigh. ‘All right. Well, the guy I’m talkin’ about, we’ve not seen eye to eye for many years. And it’s got worse since I found out what he’s planning.’

  Moran nodded. A close friend, then. He studied O’Shea’s body language. No, not a friend. More than that …

  O’Shea shot Moran a knowing look. ‘You’re not a DCI for nothin’, eh Brendan? You’ve sussed it. Sean’s long since lost the surname, but he’s still my brother. It’s Sean Black you’re dealing with, no less. Heard of him?’

  ‘Indeed I have.’ Moran tried not to show any emotion, but it was a struggle.

  Sean Black.

  Sean Black, who had worked closely with Rory Dalton, back in the day.

  Rory Dalton, who had come close to ending Moran’s life at Charnford, the same way he’d ended Janice’s.

  ‘See, Brendan,’ O’Shea went on, ‘the trouble is, the authorities have a habit of puttin’ everything in nice neat boxes. So if Sean’s in one, they’ll put me in it too. Nice and tidy, like.’

  Moran nodded.

  ‘Only it’s not.’ O’Shea studied his glass, and looked up again after a long moment of contemplation. ‘It’s not tidy at all. I’m done with it, Brendan. Finished. I like it here, and I want to keep things the way they are.’

  ‘I can understand that.’

  ‘I think you can.’ O’Shea nodded. ‘But Sean, you see, he’s different.’

  ‘He can’t let go.’

  ‘That’s exactly right. He can’t let go.’ O’Shea emphasised the last two words, the imperative his brother had ignored.

  ‘He’s planning something. And he needs Aine?’

  O’Shea banged his glass on the table and began to pace the room. ‘I must be out of my mind – spillin’ to the likes of you.’ He went to the door and raised his arms to the top of the frame, leaned forward into the gap and stretched long and hard, as if trying to exorcise the realisation that he needed help.

  From a policeman…

  Moran sensed the inner conflict. He had to clinch a deal before the moment was gone. ‘We’ll work it out together,’ he said. ‘For our mutual benefit.’

  ‘Oh God, mutual benefit. Will you listen to him.’ O’Shea disengaged from the doorframe and stood over Moran. ‘You’ll not harm him, understood? That’s the deal. He’s my brother, whatever he’s doing.’

  ‘I understand. I had a brother. Our relationship was…’ Moran searched for the right words, ‘… strained, to put it mildly, but in a different way.’

  ‘You worked it out, though?’

  Moran shook his head. ‘Not really. He died – unexpectedly.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

&nb
sp; ‘Thanks. It was a while ago.’ No point bringing that up, going into the detail. Patrick Moran had been murdered – along with Kay Kempster, an ex-girlfriend of Moran’s – during the Charnford case, at the hands of Rory Dalton. Moran had dealt with it, shelved it after Dalton had gone down, excised the fresh atrocity from his mind. It was hard, though, not to be softened by O’Shea’s curiosity. He opted for a kind of forced levity, worked up a tight smile. ‘Life carries on.’

  O’Shea gave him a strange look. ‘It does that, Brendan. But the ghosts are always there, right?’

  ‘Yes.’ He nodded. He hadn’t expected to feel quite so vulnerable – this guy seemed to have the knack of getting under his skin, almost as though he’d cast himself in the role of confessor specifically to figure out what made Moran tick.

  ‘So, we have an understanding. But do we have a deal?’

  ‘Deal.’ Moran got to his feet.

  O’Shea nodded, helped himself to another drink. ‘It’ll not be easy,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ll tell you now I don’t rate your chances.’ He shook his head.

  Moran extended his hand. ‘Our chances.’

  O’Shea’s grip was firm. ‘I’ll be in touch. Now get the hell out of here before I change my mind.’