Silent as the Dead

by Scott Hunter

O’Shea slowed the car as a herd of sheep came into view. He eased around the animals with a wry shake of his head and a wave to the farmer. ‘Only in Ireland,’ he said. ‘Main road, an’ all.’

  They were heading west on the R559, a well-maintained but narrow route which, in the height of the summer season, would carry endless carloads of tourists anxious to take in the sights of Europe’s westernmost point. But the season was drawing to an end and apart from the farmer and his flock they encountered only one or two cars coming the other way and a lone pair of young hikers slogging along the verge.

  ‘How’s the head?’ O’Shea asked.

  ‘I’ve felt worse,’ Moran replied, keeping his eyes fixed ahead for further obstructions. In truth, his head was pounding. He hoped that the blows he’d received outside Geileis’ cottage – and as a result of Black’s car ambush – wouldn’t result in any further congestion of his own neural A-routes; traffic control in that department had been temporarily compromised by events at Charnford Abbey, the same events which had also left him partly lame. His recovery then had been in doubt, since at the time of the abbey explosion he’d also been recuperating from a near-fatal road accident. Black’s roundabout intervention, by comparison, was small beer. Nevertheless, Moran fretted about his headache and promised himself a visit to Dr Purewal, his long-suffering GP, on his return to the UK.

  ‘That’ll be right, I reckon,’ O’Shea said with a sideways glance. ‘A man in your line of work’ll see some violence over the years, sure he will.’

  ‘But not today,’ Moran said. ‘No guns.’

  O’Shea spun the wheel and the Land Rover cornered smoothly. ‘Is that right, Brendan? Don’t forget you’re in my territory now.’

  ‘It was mine too, once.’

  ‘Sure it was. You can take the man out of Ireland, eh?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  O’Shea was silent for a moment, then: ‘Look, at the end of the day, Brendan, he’s my brother. Like I said, I want him stopped, but I don’t want him hurt.’

  ‘Let’s hope Sean feels the same way, eh?’ Moran said. ‘I wouldn’t put money on it after what’s just gone down in Reading.’

  O’Shea was about to reply but, Moran’s mobile rang.

  ‘Moran.’

  Charlie’s voice: ‘Guv? At last.’

  ‘Sorry, Charlie – the signal’s a wee bit wayward out here,’ Moran said. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘We’re bringing Caitlin Hannigan in.’

  Moran listened, throwing occasional glances at O’Shea as he absorbed Charlie’s update. ‘Right. Thanks. Get the boyfriend in as well. Pronto.’

  ‘We’re on it, guv.’

  ‘What about SECTU? What’s their take on this?’

  ‘They’re covering the Duchess’ visit, but only in lip service mode if you ask me. I’ve just got off the phone. It was a palm-off. Some snotty fast-tracker, by the sound of him. Quietly confident, can’t foresee any problems, quote, unquote.’

  ‘I’ll bet – because they’re not thinking Ireland. They’re thinking ISIS, lunatics driving on the pavement, white vans and knives. They’ve dotted their Is and crossed their Ts in all the wrong places.’

  ‘I’m starting on Caitlin soon as.’

  Moran glanced at O’Shea again. ‘While Black has her mother you’ll have your work cut out.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Time is short. You’d better get cracking. Aine’s your best angle. Caitlin and her ma are close. Play on that, you know, ‘she wouldn’t want you to do this’ and so on. I’ll call you as soon as our cat’s back in the bag.’

  Moran signed off. He wished he felt as confident as he’d tried to sound. He’d been right, but that didn’t make him feel any better. Caitlin wasn’t just leverage for Black to get his hands on Aine. She was a significant part of whatever he was planning. She’d got cold feet, but Black had upped the stakes, pulled her back on board.

  O’Shea pulled over and killed the engine. ‘He got to her, didn’t he?’

  There was a brief silence. Rain trickled down the windscreen, fogging the glass.

  ‘Hang on to the brotherly love,’ Moran said. ‘Your daughter’s not in any physical danger just now. She’s in a lot of trouble, by the look of it, but at least she’s safe, so let’s concentrate on the job in hand: getting Aine clear. If we don’t, Caitlin isn’t likely to back down. Not with her ma’s life at stake.’

  O’Shea rested his head on the seat back, pressed both hands to his cheeks, scraped his fingers down to the point of his chin until they met in what could have been interpreted as a gesture of prayer. For a second he looked old and vulnerable.

  ‘I can’t believe she’s doing this,’ he said quietly. ‘I thought, you know… I thought she was well out if it. Normal job, normal life, away from here, away from all the fear, the danger, the madness. A different life is what I wished for her, separate from the things I’ve done – just a chance to have a happy life, can you understand that, Brendan?’

  ‘Yes,’ Moran nodded. ‘Yes, I can.’

  ‘That’s all I ever wanted for her. And now…’ he trailed off. ‘Ah well, enough sentiment. It’s been a while since I’ve played this kind of gig, Brendan.’ He fired up the land rover’s engine. ‘Still, old habits and all that. Let’s get to work.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Charlie checked the camera position and hit record. ‘2nd October 2017, 11.25am. Interview with Caitlin Hannigan. Officers present: DI Charlie Pepper, DC Bola Odunsi. Ms Hannigan has requested a lawyer but has agreed to answer preliminary questions without a brief being present. Can you please confirm that for the tape, Ms Hannigan?’

  ‘Yes, that’s correct.’ Caitlin’s eyes were on Bola. Something there, different to before. Something hostile.

  ‘You lied to us, Ms Hannigan. Your abductor was shot by a small calibre automatic weapon. The shotgun came afterwards. Would you care to explain?’

  ‘No comment.’ Caitlin pushed a lock of hair off her forehead with a steady hand.

  ‘We have reason to believe that you are involved in a potential act of terror. We are also interviewing your accomplice, so you may as well tell us everything you know.’

  Caitlin’s composure was faultless. A little pale, maybe, but confident. ‘Where’s your evidence? I was abducted from my apartment. You know the rest.’

  Very confident. Charlie leaned forward. ‘We have reason to believe that you are part of an organisation intending to cause harm to a visiting member of the Royal Family.’

  ‘You’ve been reading too many thrillers, DI Pepper.’

  ‘I don’t read thrillers. What happened in that apartment? Black called you, didn’t he? He told you he had your mother, that he’d kill her if you didn’t go through with it. Didn’t he?’

  ‘Go through with what, exactly?’

  ‘So you know Black,’ Bola said. ‘Thanks for confirming.’ He scribbled on a notepad.

  ‘I never said I knew anyone of that name.’

  ‘But you do, don’t you?’ Charlie pressed the point home. ‘He called you. Told you what to do.’

  ‘Not at all.’ The hair push again. ‘That guy might’ve killed me. I’m the victim here, not the other way round, for God’s sake. Why would I be speaking on the phone to anyone? As a hostage?’

  That’s what you’re going to tell us, Caitlin,’ Bola said. ‘We’ll have the evidence within the hour.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re adept at sniffing things out, DC Bola.’

  Bola’s face gave nothing away under Charlie’s sideways scrutiny. ‘DC Odunsi,’ he corrected her in a low voice. ‘We have a diving team checking the canal outside your apartment building right now,’ Bola said. ‘If there’s anything there, they’ll find it.’

  ‘Like what, exactly?’

  ‘Like a gun, Caitlin,’ Charlie said. ‘And maybe a mobile phone.’

  A shrug – and now, Charlie noticed, an avoidance of eye contact.

  ‘We’ll trace the calls, find out who made them.’ Bola looked up from h
is notepad. ‘And then we’ll know, won’t we?’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘That you received instructions from a mobile phone network in Ireland while you were a ‘hostage’,’ Charlie made the bunny quotes sign, ‘in the Eldon Square basement flat.’

  ‘Did you kill that man?’ Bola’s voice was steady, conversational. ‘With a small handgun?’

  ‘And then blow his head off with the shotgun? Make it look like suicide, a cornered rat’s desperate last act?’ Charlie followed through smoothly.

  ‘Absolutely not,’ Caitlin shook her head. ‘I’m not answering any more questions without my brief.’

  Bola glanced at his watch. ‘Should be here anytime now. Suits me.’ He looked at Charlie for confirmation.

  ‘Yes, all right. Interview suspended at 11.37.’ Charlie stood up. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll be back soon.’

  ‘Guilty as hell,’ Bola observed as they made their way along the corridor to the incident room. ‘And here’s the man to prove it.’

  George McConnell’s unmistakeable figure had appeared at the far end of the corridor. He halted by the incident room door and his bristling body language told Charlie immediately that the little Scot had plenty to tell them.

  ‘Boss.’ A nod to Bola.

  ‘Let’s have it, George.’

  The IR was bustling, electric with activity. Heads looked up as they entered. George’s customary conversational speed, Charlie estimated, had accelerated by forty or so percent.

  ‘The gun’s with forensics now,’ George was saying. ‘And the mobile. There’s no SIM, but they’re doing what they can. The phone model uses NAND memory chips, so in theory there’s always the option of extracting–’

  ‘–OK, thanks George. As soon as we can prove anything conclusively about calls to and from Eldon Square, I want to know.’ Charlie looked at the clock above her office door. Three and a bit hours. Not enough. What were they looking for? A sniper? A car bomb?

  ‘George. How much do we know about the gunman? Who was he? Where was he based? What did he do for cash? Did he have a job? If so, where and what?’

  ‘The team are working on it.’ George indicated a knot of busy DCs in one corner of the IR.

  ‘Help them out. I want to know everything about our late friend. And Bola, the boyfriend trace. Speed it up. You’ve seen him, you’ll recognise him. I want him in here within the hour. Any problems, let me know and I’ll squeeze Caitlin harder.’

  Charlie went to her office, left them to it. This was the moment she had to share her fears with the Chief.

  DCS Higginson was a good-looking man. Meticulous to a fault, his office exuded an air of calm, tasteful efficiency. Nothing phased him; disorder was not permitted either in his physical surroundings or in his thinking. He was a strong leader, approachable and supportive – traits which made him popular throughout the ranks. He was, however, a man who did everything by the book. And that was what Charlie was fretting about as she knocked on his office door.

  ‘Ah, Charlie. Come in. Something urgent, you say?’ The Chief looked up from his laptop. ‘How can I help? Please, have a seat.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Charlie took a brief moment to compose herself; Higginson always made her feel like a schoolgirl sent to the headmaster for some minor classroom infringement. Did she fancy him? At times, maybe, if she was honest; she’d found herself on occasion concocting a dreamy fantasy or two, but recently she’d come to realise that the Chief was more father figure than potential conquest. And that was fine, because an authoritative steer was exactly what she needed right now.

  Higginson arched an eyebrow. ‘Any news on these warehouse break-ins?’

  ‘Warehouse break-ins?’ Charlie was momentarily fazed. It took her a couple of seconds to make the mental adjustment. The Portman Road raiders; they’d turned over two warehouses in the last month. She had DC Taylor and DC Butterfield on the case. Last thing she’d heard was inconsequential – Taylor and his sidekick were still on all-nighter stakeout duty.

  She blushed, ran a hand through her hair to mask her embarrassment. ‘Not yet, sir, I’m afraid. Soon as I have something, obviously–’

  ‘Of course, of course. So, what’s on your mind?’

  Calm down, Charlie…

  She cleared her throat and brought Higginson up to date with the latest developments, leaving out unhelpful details such as the guv’s temporary working relationship with an ex-Republican paramilitary.

  Higginson nodded. ‘I see, I see. Well, my first inclination is to secure the evidence and pass all you have on to the SECTU team. They’re covering the Duchess’ visit, obviously. I’m quite sure they’ll have taken every precaution.’

  Charlie bit her lip. This was exactly what she had feared. By the time they’d secured sufficient evidence and completed and passed on the paperwork, the Duchess’ visit would already have happened.

  ‘I suppose I’m thinking that our concerns may not be taken seriously enough, Sir. And we’re almost out of time.’

  ‘Let’s run through where we are, shall we?’ Higginson folded his large, dry hands and placed them on his spotless blotter. ‘We have a young girl, apparent victim of a kidnap, or assault, whatever you will, a dead perpetrator and a slight anomaly as to cause of death. Have we proved that the bullet was fired from the handgun found in the canal?’

  ‘We will, sir. Forensics are on it.’

  ‘And what about proving that Ms…’

  ‘Hannigan, Sir.’

  ‘Thank you. Miss Hannigan actually pulled the trigger? She denies it, I believe?’

  ‘Well, yes Sir, but–’

  ‘So,’ Higginson gestured by moving his thumbs slightly apart, ‘in theory, the handgun could have belonged to the deceased gunman. He could have shot himself, agreed?’

  ‘Well, he could have, Sir, but I don’t think–’

  ‘But it’s possible, in terms of where we are at the moment?’

  Defeated, Charlie let her breath out. ‘Yes, Sir. I suppose so.’

  ‘You see? We must be careful. We can’t just pass speculative theories to the SECTU operation without hard evidence, and neither can we tread on their toes by conducting our own parochial anti-terror campaign.’

  ‘Well, of course not, Sir. But DC Odunsi overheard a conversation which implied–’

  ‘Implied. Implication is not hard evidence, Charlie.’

  ‘There’s an Irish connection, though, Sir.’ Should she go on? Too late, it was all going to spill out. Well it would just have to. ‘What I mean is that… well, DCI Moran is visiting a friend in Ireland at the moment, and he’s made a connection which sheds some light on what’s currently happening.’

  ‘Has he, indeed.’ Higginson sighed deeply. ‘You really will have to make sure your guv’nor is confined to his home county, DI Pepper. I’m experiencing a strong sense of déjà vu.’

  ‘Sir. But actually, DCI Moran is in his home county – I mean, he was raised in Ireland, near Dingle. And he’s there to support a friend whose wife has been reported missing.’

  ‘I fail to see–’

  ‘It’s Caitlin Hannigan’s mother, Sir. That’s what I mean by a connection.’

  Higginson sat back in his chair and fell silent for a few moments, stroking his upper lip with a broad forefinger.

  Charlie waited, the clock in her head ticking like a time bomb.

  ‘I’ll put you in touch with someone I know,’ Higginson said. ‘She’s pretty high up in the SECTU pecking order, so tread carefully.’

  ‘Of course, Sir. Thank you.’

  ‘Run it past her, just to make her aware. If you feel you’re not being taken seriously, then–’ Higginson drummed his fingers, ‘then I might not notice if you decide to take appropriate action – carefully and sensitively, mind.’

  ‘Absolutely, Sir.’

  The Chief made a satisfied noise in his throat. ‘But listen, Charlie.’ He leaned forward again and fixed her with his steady, fatherly gaze. ‘This is the Royal County,
after all. If our dignitaries aren’t safe here?’ Higginson spread his hands. ‘The Irish issue was put to bed a long time ago. Personally, I think this is a storm in a teacup. Moran’s jumping to all kinds of conclusions. Don’t you go following his lead.’ The forefinger was wagging now, kindly but firmly. ‘I’m banning that man from taking any future vacations. You’d better warn him.’

  ‘Yes, Sir. I will.’ Charlie tried to smile but her face wasn’t complying.

  Higginson picked up a ballpoint and scribbled on a notepad. He tore off the leaf and presented it. ‘There you are. Keep me posted, DI Pepper. And look after our Kate.’

  ‘Sir.’

  The DCS’ attention returned to his laptop screen. The audience was over.

  Detective Chief Superintendent Sally Gilmore sounded peeved. ‘Irish? Are you serious? I can’t imagine an Irish operation posing any kind of serious threat in 2017.’

  ‘But Ma’am, the intelligence we have points–’

  ‘Intelligence? We have specialist intelligence officers working around the clock here, DI Pepper. Do you not think that they might have alerted me to the possibility of a terrorist attack on the Duchess of Cambridge? It’s so-called-Islamic-state terrorism we need to be on the lookout for, not some half-baked, retro-IRA plot.’

  ‘Ma’am, if I may–’

  ‘–We have the situation covered, DI Pepper. Now I suggest you attend to your crime-solving duties and leave bombs and terrorism to the experts.’

  Charlie gripped the phone hard, bit her lip.

  ‘If that’s all, DI Pepper?’

  ‘But at least check the route perimeters, Ma’am?’ Charlie tried to keep her voice from adopting a pleading tone. ‘The rooftops around the RBH, maybe – there are quite a few multiple-occupancy properties. I do feel that it would be … prudent.’ Prudent? God … it sounded lame but Gilmore was a big cheese. She had to take care.

  A slight hesitation. ‘With your background I can understand why you might be a little jumpy, DI Pepper. I heard the Board were unexpectedly lenient? Well, jolly good, but you must learn to temper your reactions a little.’