by Scott Hunter
Sean Black. Moran let the name ring in his head. The spray kicked up as the boat tacked its last few metres towards the jetty and Moran tasted salt on his upper lip.
His leg was killing him and he was hungry. It’d been a long trek back from O’Shea’s and he was impatient to get to his car. O’Shea had hinted that he had been in Aine’s company recently; she was scared, compromised somehow. And, whatever the reason, she had been compelled to go into hiding. Had she gone directly to O’Shea for help, knowing that he was the only one close enough to understanding his brother’s psyche – the only person qualified to offer advice? Did O’Shea know where she was, and had simply declined to share the information?
And what of Sean Black? Once described by the British press as a ‘loose cannon’ during the lengthy and protracted peace process, he was known to have masterminded a notorious shooting at a border town and claimed responsibility for a number of bombings. Despite his unstable reputation he had evaded capture primarily, it was said, by having friends in influential places. Moran wondered if these ‘friends’ would describe themselves as such. Unlikely; he was pretty sure they’d be too scared to reveal anything much.
The thing was, if Aine had been summoned by Black but had cut and run instead, there was plenty of emotional leverage at Black’s disposal: Donal and Padraig were vulnerable, so why hadn’t Black made a move in that direction? Moran fingered his bruised face. Sure, he had people keeping an eye, but nothing Donal had said gave Moran the impression that his friend considered himself to be in any danger.
Moran raised a hand to the skipper as he disembarked. It was just himself and an older couple making the return journey; the others, as predicted, had stayed on Blasket. He wondered if they’d have been so keen if they’d known who was living on the far side of the island – and what he had stashed in his eco. Moran hadn’t missed the long, wooden boxes stacked almost out of sight in the kitchen: explosives, and maybe guns and ammunition.
But O’Shea wasn’t active; of that, Moran was pretty certain. Sure, the islander might have squirrelled away a stash for a rainy day, but it would have to be some thunderstorm for O’Shea ever to use it in anger.
Moran was so absorbed that he only looked up when he reached the top of the walkway and began his customary pocket-patting in search of car keys. That was when he noticed the two gardai vehicles boxing his own into the verge. As he approached he could see the yawning boot and the expression on the approaching officer’s face.
‘This your car, sir?’
‘It is.’ Moran’s stomach contracted. This was going to be bad, no question.
‘In which case, sir, I’d like you to accompany me back to the station.’
‘Why? What’s the problem?’
‘That’s the problem.’ The officer pointed to the open boot.
Curled up in a foetal position, Jerry’s body looked even smaller and more vulnerable than ever. But vulnerability wasn’t something Jerry was likely to be worrying about any more.
Jerry was dead.
CHAPTER TEN
Moran’s mind was racing faster than the garda driver. Donal would vouch for him, of course. And Geileis. And there was no proof. Moran hadn’t laid a hand on Jerry.
Or had he? Had he touched any of his old friend’s belongings, personal effects? Even if he had, so what? They couldn’t pin this on him – no evidence.
Except that the body was in his boot.
The car braked to a halt. The door opened, hands reached for him.
They led him down the side of a grey-rendered building and ducked his head under a weatherbeaten wooden door.
Moran resisted. ‘Wait. Aren’t you going to book me in officially?’
‘Shut up. We do things our way here.’
A narrow corridor, a row of cells. What the hell was this?
‘You can’t just–’
‘Get in.’ The push sent him staggering forward. The door slammed.
The cell was tiny, as Moran had anticipated. This was a small village. The occasional drunk on a Saturday night or maybe the odd punch-up outside O’Reilly’s would pretty much sum up the extent of the lawlessness the local garda would have to deal with on a routine basis. The harsh smell of disinfectant and the engrained stench of urine appeared to confirm his analysis.
Moran sat on the bench and put his head in his hands. What could he remember from the assault on the road? The first thing the garda would want to know is why he hadn’t reported it – and also what he’d been doing on Blasket. O’Shea would be known to them. The boat skipper had been close enough to observe their meeting. Two and two make five.
The cell door clanked and swung open. An officer he hadn’t seen before beckoned with an impatient gesture.
Moran knew the drill. He followed the uniform into a small room. One table, two chairs, a recording machine. Another officer came in. He was shorter, dark. No smiles.
‘Interview with Detective Chief Inspector Brendan Moran begins–’ The first officer looked at the wall clock. ‘8.32pm. Sergeant James O’Mahoney. Garda Liam Buchanan also present.’ O’Mahoney fixed Moran with a level gaze. ‘Visiting a friend, Inspector Moran?’
‘Yes. Donal Hannigan.’
‘Old friend?’
‘Yes. I lived with the Hannigans in the Seventies.’
O’Mahoney nodded.
‘You knew Jerry O’Donaghue well?’
Moran cleared his throat. ‘He was in my social group at the time. Yes, I knew him well.’
‘What happened to your face?’ The dark guy, Buchanan, asked.
‘I was set upon. Last night. Late.’
‘And you didn’t report it? Looks painful.’ O’Mahoney tapped a pencil on the table, rubber side down.
‘No. I didn’t want to make a fuss.’
‘They take anything?’ Buchanan again.
‘No. I don’t believe so.’
‘Then why did they attack you?’ O’Mahoney tucked the pencil behind his ear and steepled his hands.
‘I have no idea.’
‘Yes, you do,’ Buchanan said. ‘You’re just not letting on.’
‘Listen.’ Moran spread his hands. ‘I’ve been on Blasket all afternoon. The car’s been parked up since late morning.’
‘Did you shove auld Jerry in the boot last night, maybe?’ Buchanan picked his teeth with his pinky nail. ‘I used to enjoy a dram in his bar, y’know. I kind of warmed to the man.’
Moran took a deep breath. Rain spattered on the small window. ‘I did not.’
‘When did you last see Mr O’Donaghue?’ O’Mahoney again.
‘Yesterday evening. At a friend’s house.’
Nods.
‘He was fine.’ Moran went on. ‘He’d had a few drinks, but no more than usual, I wouldn’t say.’
‘Oh, you wouldn’t?’ Buchanan said.
‘The guys who went for me. You’d be better off questioning them.’
Buchanan leaned forward. He had a shaving cut on his chin, a tiny piece of tissue clinging to the small wound. ‘See, here’s our problem. We haven’t a description of these people. You didn’t report the attack. No one has seen any strangers about. Apart from yourself, that is. What were you doing in Jerry’s bar yesterday?’
‘Having a drink.’
‘Asking questions is what I heard. You have an old score to settle? Against Jerry? That why you’re back here?’
‘No.’
‘Really?’
‘Look.’ Moran leaned back in his chair, which creaked ominously. He quickly redressed the balance by leaning forward again. ‘You’re aware, I’m sure, that Mr Hannigan’s wife is missing. I felt that I might be able to support Mr Hannigan in the meantime. He’s an old friend and very upset. I’m sure you can understand that.’
‘Bollocks,’ Buchanan said. ‘You thought you’d have a crack at finding her yourself.’
‘The investigation into Mrs Hannigan’s whereabouts is continuing,’ O’Mahoney broke in smoothly. ‘And we don’t encourage
members of the public to get involved. I’m sure you’d take the same line on your own patch, Inspector.’
‘Are you charging me or just warning me off?’ Moran felt his face reddening. ‘You know damn well that I didn’t kill Jerry O’Donaghue. OK, the body was in my car. I can’t explain that, except to say that whoever attacked me more than likely dumped him in there last night – I didn’t open the boot this morning. You haven’t a scrap of evidence to link me to Mr O’Donaghue’s death. Forensics will confirm that.’ He paused, read their expressions. ‘You have handed the car over to forensics, haven’t you?’
O’Mahoney and Buchanan exchanged glances.
‘Who’s the SIO on this?’ Moran posed the question in a calmer tone. No point in getting them agitated.
‘It’s still a local affair,’ Buchanan said.
‘You’re kidding. You’ve a murderer in town and you’re treating it like a minor burglary? Come on, really?’
‘That’ll be all for now, Moran.’ Both men got up. ‘Interview suspended 08.45pm. Officers O’Mahoney and Buchanan are leaving the room.’ O’Mahoney stabbed the tape machine button.
‘Now wait a minute–’ Moran was on his feet.
‘After you.’ O’Mahoney indicated the door.
Moran went out, walked the few paces to the cell.
Buchanan opened up.
Moran stepped reluctantly in and turned to face them. ‘How long d’you intend–’
But the cell door heaved to. Bolts clunked into place and footsteps receded.
Silence.
Moran stood by the cell door awhile, cursing silently. He knew they couldn’t hang onto him for long without evidence, but the one thing which had struck him about the two gardai gave him little confidence in the prospect of his release: O’Mahoney and Buchanan were acting as if they had all the time in the world. Patience was their watchword, it seemed. They’d been patient all the way from the ferry; more so now with a suspect in custody.
Suspect or target? Moran favoured the latter. It was Buchanan who’d given the game away. He knew Moran had got a look at him on the N25, so he’d done the obvious: he’d shaved his beard off.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Someone was trying to insert a screwdriver between his ribs. The pain was tolerable at first, but worsened in a matter of seconds. Moran twisted, tried to pull the steel out of his body but it was no good – he couldn’t reach it. The point of the screwdriver probed his body, searching for the most sensitive areas. It gave a final twist and Moran sat up with a cry. Sweat was pouring down his torso.
He felt behind him and found the culprit; a screw head had come through the surface of the bunk. Moran cursed. The place was falling apart.
He looked at his watch. It was just after four. Then he heard a scraping sound. Rats? More than likely.
A bolt was drawn. The cell door creaked on its hinges.
‘Moran.’
It wasn’t a question. The shape in the doorframe knew he was there.
‘Well? Are you comin’, or stayin’ with your wee whiskered buddies?’ O’Shea shone a thin torchbeam into the small space.
‘A moment.’ Moran slipped into his shoes and joined O’Shea at the door. The building was silent, wrapped in darkness. ‘I won’t ask how.’
‘Best not.’ O’Shea said, sotto voce. ‘You’ll have guessed by now that this building isn’t part of the official Gardai Station.’
Moran followed O’Shea out the way he had come in. The fluorescent light flickered dimly as they passed, like a failed attempt to capture photographic evidence. Moran hesitated, imagining for a moment that he heard a muffled voice behind a door marked Toilets, but O’Shea was already outside, holding the door open.
Moran hesitated at the threshold. Technically, he was under arrest, and his departure would not only be considered unlawful, but perhaps also an admission of guilt – at least in the minds of O’Mahoney and Buchanan. However, the fact that he’d been kept in some dodgy lockup was confirmation enough that the two were acting independently of the official gardai, so Moran reasoned that a choice between the cell and O’Shea’s alternative was no choice at all.
They walked quickly across the road and into a narrow alley. O’Shea turned left at the end and clicked a key fob. A four-by-four’s twin headlamps lit up like cats’ eyes. Moran stole a glance behind but the alley was still and lifeless.
He sank gratefully into the passenger seat as O’Shea gunned the engine. He didn’t ask where they were going. He’d find out soon enough.
O’Shea drove fast but accurately. They hit the coast road for a bit and then turned inland again. Moran checked the dashboard clock; it was 4.25. Felt like it, too. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.
‘Coffee’s what you’ll be needin’. Plenty available presently.’
‘The gardai. They followed me from Rosslare. Why would they do that?’
‘Sleepers.’ O’Shea indicated right and they turned off the roundabout into a row of nondescript terraced houses. He deftly parallel-parked the four-by-four and killed the engine, turned to Moran with a raised eyebrow. ‘On Sean’s payroll. He’ll have heard you were coming. Sent them to keep an eye – to begin with, at least.’ O’Shea withdrew the ignition key and mimed a locking motion. ‘Looks like they decided you needed to be kept out of the way.’
‘They’d have just left me there?’
O’Shea nodded. ‘Until it was safe to let you out.’
Moran raised an eyebrow. ‘And that would be when, exactly?’
The islander gave him an odd look, half-pitying, half-amused. ‘There you go with your questions again.’ He opened the driver door. ‘Wait for my signal, then follow.’
O’Shea cast a practised eye up and down the street. Satisfied, he motioned Moran to join him. Not the first, second or third house, but the fourth. O’Shea waited, performed his checks again then quickly mounted the steps to the front door.
The hallway was dark and narrow. Moran peered into the gloom. The house smelled musty, slightly damp. O’Shea went right and flicked a light switch. The room lit up slowly as the power-saving bulb illuminated. Sparsely furnished; peeling wallpaper, a coffee table, two used mugs, a pack of cigarettes. Standard safe house vibe. Moran shook his head ruefully as he recognised a turn of phrase he’d clearly picked up from his DI, Charlie Pepper. Pepper was Moran’s right-hand officer – capable, ambitious, and making slow but steady progress following a recent attempt on her life. Moran had initially been hesitant to leave the team in her hands during his absence but the medical reports – and Charlie herself – had eventually convinced him. She was back, and hopefully for good.
Moran could hear O’Shea rattling around in the small galley kitchen. He reappeared presently with two mugs of coffee. ‘No sugar.’
‘Thanks.’ Moran gratefully sipped the hot liquid.
O’Shea sat himself down on the threadbare sofa. ‘So. What happened?’
Moran shrugged. ‘They made the hit on Jerry O’Donaghue, planted the body in my boot. Laurel and Hardy turned up to make the arrest.’ He made imaginary speech marks in the air to emphasis the word. ‘That’s it.’
O’Shea nodded. ‘And now Sean will guess I’m involved.’ He took a sip of coffee. ‘Not good.’
A footstep on the staircase brought Moran’s heart into his mouth. He half-rose from the armchair until O’Shea brushed his alarm aside with a wave of his tattooed arm. A figure appeared in the living room doorway. Slight, tousle-haired.
‘What the hell kind of time d’youse call this, Joseph O’Shea?’
Moran did a double-take as he tried to reconcile the person in the doorframe with the Aine Hannigan he remembered from yesteryear. Her features swam in and out of focus, like a familiar photograph which has been retouched, or an old painting which has been restored; the familiar blended with the unfamiliar in one discombobulating moment of confusion.
‘Who’s your pal?’ Aine cocked her head at Moran. ‘What happened to no one else’ll know?
’
‘Aine,’ Moran managed at last. ‘It’s Brendan.’
Her hand went to her mouth. ‘Oh my God. It is too. What on earth?’
Moran held out his hand but Aine brushed it away and hugged him, pressed her cheek to his. She stepped back, studied his face. ‘It’s been too long, Brendan. But I can’t say I’m as pleased to see you as I might have been. Not the way things are.’
‘I’m here to help.’
She shook her head vehemently. ‘You can’t. Not with this. Not with him.’
Arms folded, she looked him up and down. ‘Just go, Brendan. I don’t know what Joseph’s told you,’ this with a glare in O’Shea’s direction, ‘but whatever, he didn’t tell you enough. Or you’d never be here at all.’
‘Donal and Padraig. What about them?’
Aine looked away, bit her lip. ‘How are they?’
‘As you’d expect.’
‘When did Donal call you?’
‘Last week. I came as soon as I could.’
Aine nodded.
O’Shea, who had been listening to this exchange in silence, interjected. ‘And a right bloody cock-up he’s made of it so far.’
Aine ignored the interruption. Still addressing Moran, she said, ‘Does Donal know anything?’
Moran shook his head. ‘No. You should send word. It’s not right to leave him like this, just hanging.’
Aine put her face close to his. ‘If I so much as breathe, Sean Black’ll be onto me. Do you know what that means? Have you any idea?’
‘He wants you back on duty?’
She sighed, folded her arms. ‘I could hardly believe it. It’s been so long, I’d all but forgotten.’ She squared up to Moran. ‘It’s like another life, Brendan. A long time ago.’
‘Sure,’ Moran said. ‘For you, maybe. Not for him.’
‘Anyways,’ O’Shea said. ‘You’ll both sit it out here until I say so. No phone calls. No goin’ out, no curtain-twitchin’, nothin’. Got it?’
‘I’ve just about had enough of here, Joseph O’Shea.’ Aine’s cheeks had coloured. ‘With no change of clothes, no flamin’ hot water, no nothing.’
