by Scott Hunter
‘OK, Brian. Let’s start with an easy one. Do you know a woman named Caitlin Hannigan?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Relationship?’
‘Just a friend.’
‘Right. How do you know her?’
‘Friends.’
‘When did you last see her?’
A shrug.
‘Try again.’
‘Couple of days, maybe.’ Keelan scratched his cheek with a grubby finger.
Bola raised his eyebrows.
‘Yesterday, then. I dunno.’
‘Been here long?’
‘What?’
‘In Reading.’
‘A while.’
‘Where are you from?’
‘Ireland.’
‘No, really? Specifically.’
‘County Kerry.’
‘Thank you. Know a guy called Sean Black?’
Keelan’s eyes darted this way and that, as if looking for an escape route. He licked his lips. ‘Nah.’
‘Sure?’
‘Yeah.’
Bola leaned forward. ‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Your problem.’
A knock on the door. Bola paused the tape. ‘A moment, Mr Keelan.’ He left the room. ‘Yes, PC Bradley?’
‘Message from DC McConnell to phone him. Says it’s urgent.’
Bola found a quiet corner, dialled George up, listened. ‘Great stuff, George. We took Keelan’s prints a half-hour ago.’
He went back into the interview room.
Keelan looked up, cocky still, over-confident. ‘You can’t hold me for long – unless you’re arresting me, which you’re not.’
‘Really?’ Bola sat down, folded his arms. ‘Under the Terrorism Act 2006 the pre-charge detention period was extended to twenty-eight days. Depends on your definition of ‘long’, I suppose.’
‘You can’t do that!’ Keelan jumped up, banged the desk. Bola wasn’t alarmed. He was a big guy, a lot bigger than Keelan.
‘Sit down, Mr Keelan. I want to tell you a little story.’
Glowering, Keelan did as he was told.
‘We found a gun in the canal.’
‘So?’
‘We have good reason to believe that the gun belongs to you.’
‘Yeah? Even if you could prove it was mine, it’s still not a crime to own a gun.’
‘Agreed. But if said gun was used to blow someone’s head off, that would constitute a crime, right?’
Keelan sniffed, looked away.
‘Anyway,’ Bola went on, ‘it was nice and clean, all fingerprints carefully erased.’
A trace of a smile now on Keelan’s face.
‘But you didn’t clean the ammunition,’ Bola went on. ‘Did you know that fingerprints can be revealed on bullet casings even if they’re wiped clean?’
Silence.
‘Well, there you go. You learn something new every day. And this isn’t the first time forensic advances have come to the rescue for us hard-working coppers. Amazing what those guys can do nowadays, isn’t it, Mr Keelan? Yep, even if there’s very little of the casing to work with, all that’s needed is a tiny bit of corrosion left by the sweat. They use powder and apply an electrical charge, you see. That makes the dust stick to the corroded areas, and hey presto! We have a fingerprint.’
Keelan licked his lips.
‘It’s not foolproof. A lot of people don’t secrete enough salt in their sweat to corrode the metal, so…’ Bola shrugged, ‘no print.’
Keelan sniffed again, relaxed a fraction.
‘But you, Mr Keelan. Well, you’re a sweaty one, for sure. You left enough salt on one of the bullets to mine a whole lab’s worth of prints.’ Bola leaned in, ‘Did you give this handgun to Caitlin Hannigan, Mr Keelan?’
‘No.’
‘Did you force her to take it? Did you load the bullets for her? ’
‘No!’
‘What were you doing, then? Giving them a polish? This is sounding like accessory to murder, isn’t it, Mr Keelan? Did you threaten Caitlin Hannigan? Were you blackmailing her to do something she didn’t want to do?’
Sweat was forming on Keelan’s forehead. ‘No! Are you crazy? I want a lawyer.’
Bola sat back. ‘Thought you’d never ask.’
‘We found the gun, Caitlin,’ Charlie said. ‘Or rather, DC McConnell here found it.’
‘Remind me, which gun was that?’ Caitlin Hannigan replied smoothly. Her brief, a short guy with round glasses, ruffled his papers and took out an expensive-looking pen.
‘The one you dropped in the canal.’ George McConnell slid a plastic folder across the table. ‘Showing Ms Hannigan Exhibit 1A.’
Caitlin gave the photo a cursory glance. ‘Can you prove I touched it?’
‘Your friend did,’ Charlie said. ‘His prints are all over the bullets.’
‘Well, that’s not me, is it?’
‘What did Sean Black tell you to do?’
‘Sean who?’
‘You’re an electronics graduate, right?’ Charlie continued. ‘You’re doing well in your career, I understand. Government engineering or somesuch?’
‘I work hard.’
‘I’m sure. No time for boyfriends? Attractive young woman like yourself?’
Caitlin gave her brief a look. ‘Not much.’
‘Brian Keelan an exception?’ George chipped in. ‘Taste of home, maybe?’
‘Meaning?’
George shrugged. ‘Nice Irish lad. Not bad looking, so DI Pepper tells me.’ George glanced at Charlie for confirmation, who shrugged.
‘He’s just an acquaintance.’
‘Ever discuss politics, Caitlin?’ Charlie tried not to look at the clock. This had to be by the book, nice and steady. PACE compliant.
‘I don’t really follow politics.’
‘No? Unlike your mother, then. You haven’t asked about her, Caitlin. Why is that? She’s missing, remember?’
‘I presumed you’d let me know if there was any news.’
‘You’re a cool one and no mistake,’ George said. ‘Unless, maybe, you already know your ma’s going to be all right.’
‘Because you’re keeping your side of the agreement,’ Charlie said.
‘What agreement?’
‘The agreement Black forced you into. The agreement which means you’re going to carry out your side of the bargain.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
Caitlin’s brief nodded approvingly. His pudgy hands moved the pen across his sheet of foolscap.
Charlie interlocked her fingers and rested her hands on the table. ‘I’ll tell you what I think, Caitlin. You’re a bright girl. You’re aware of the political thread running through the centre of your family, going back a long way. Maybe you subscribed to those ideals when you were old enough to understand. But you moved away, life happened, time passed and you found you weren’t as completely sold on the ideals as you used to be. But then the past came calling in the shape of a guy called Sean Black. Your mother probably mentioned him from time-to-time. Bad news. Very intense, very focused. A lot of hate. He needed a favour. Your background was right, an easy connection. But better still, you’re an electronics expert.’
‘I like gadgets,’ George added. ‘But I don’t reckon I’m in your league, Caitlin.’
For the first time Caitlin’s composure wavered. She looked away, swept her hair back. Folded her arms. A defensive posture. The truth was getting closer. The brief had stopped writing, his small eyes alert behind the thick lenses, hanging on for the next question.
‘Is that what Black wanted?’ Charlie said. ‘What did he ask you to do, Caitlin? Something clever? Something technical?’
‘If you don’t have any evidence, you can’t keep me here, can you?’
‘We can keep you for long enough,’ George said. ‘Anyway, what’s the rush? Got to be somewhere?’
‘Somewhere important, maybe, Caitlin?’ Charlie added. She sat back, folded her arms, app
raised Caitlin from top to bottom, woman to woman. ‘You didn’t really want to do this at all, did you? You still don’t. But Black’s got your mother. You have no choice. Am I right?’
Silence.
‘If I can guarantee your mother’s safety, will you call it off?’
Caitlin looked away, looked back. Did the hair thing.
‘Will you?’
‘Call what off?’
George abruptly got up. ‘Right. Have it your way. I’ll have a chat with Mr Keelan. Maybe he’ll tell us more about what you’ve been up to.’
‘Whatever.’
‘I’m due an update on the mobile phone, Caitlin,’ Charlie said. ‘I wonder what that will tell us? Won’t keep you long.’
George went through the ‘pause interview’ formalities. Caitlin’s brief put his pen down, spoke quietly in Caitlin’s ear. She smiled, nodded.
In the corridor Charlie took a breath. It was nearly two o’clock. An overwhelming sense of dread washed over her. She wanted to call high-flying-Gilmore and yell at her until she saw sense. Fly with that, babe…
‘You OK, boss?’
‘I’m fine, George.’ Charlie set her mouth in a determined line. Yelling would make her feel better, sure, but there was no point trying to reason with Gilmore. It was down to her. And maybe the guv. She punched Moran’s number. ‘George, get Bola out here. Now. And find out how they’re getting on with the canal mobile.’
‘Will do.’
Charlie put the phone to her ear. Four rings. Five. No answer.
She gave up, put the phone away. Whatever Moran was up to, he’d find a way to let her know.
Just make it soon …
Bola appeared looking slightly – what? Guilty? Worried? She frowned, still slightly annoyed that the big DC had tried to cover for George. She understood why, but still. She’d need to have a chat with him later. ‘How’s it going with Keelan?’
‘Brief’s due any minute. I think he’ll cave in.’
‘I’ll talk to him. I want you to chase up forensics and pathology on the gunman’s identity. I need that info now, Bola. And where’s George got to? Ah, talk of the ginger devil–’
George, red-faced and clearly excited, materialised from the direction of the IR. ‘Got it. Asda network. Calls made to and from Ireland to Eldon Square area at time of shooting. They’re working on tracing the exact location, but because the SIM’s missing it means they’ll definitely have to analyse the–’
‘Prints?’ Charlie interrupted. It was a speculative question. There wouldn’t be, she knew. Keelan was the weak link here, not Caitlin.
‘Nope. Clean as a whistle.’ George shook his head. ‘Sorry.’
‘And the gunman?’
‘Yep, good progress, I believe. Five minutes, OK? James and Phil are working on it.’
‘Tell James and Phil five minutes is too long.’
‘Right. Will do.’ He turned and scuttled away. Half-way along the corridor he stopped, turned. ‘Almost forgot. Tess is OK. They’re discharging her this afternoon.’
Charlie threw him a grin. ‘Thanks, George, that’s great news. That girl is not going anywhere near anything remotely dangerous until I say so. Bola?’
‘Boss?’
‘Keep an eye on Caitlin while I’m with Keelan, would you? Just an eye, no questions.’
Bola spread his hands. ‘I thought you wanted me to–’
‘Just do it, Bola.’
Tess Martin swung her legs out of bed and gingerly placed both feet on the floor. Her bandaged midriff made her feel like the Michelin Man, ungainly and awkward.
She was sore but feeling a great deal better than she’d felt during the night when she’d had to call for a nurse and a sick bowl. That was just post-anaesthesia nausea, though. Just? Being sick was the worst. Still, she’d felt so much better afterwards and had even managed to sleep a little which, in this busy ward, was nothing short of miraculous.
She pushed forward so that her weight was on her legs. Nothing bad happened. Everything appeared to work. She began to shuffle along the row of beds towards the toilet. She was a bit light-headed but that was also to be expected. She nodded at the nurses’ station on her way past and received a tight smile from the ward sister in return.
So far so good. She was burning with curiosity about what had happened last night. Hopefully her mobile was still in her handbag. Number one priority, toilet. Number two: nip out and make a call.
Tess pushed the toilet cubicle door open and sat down. As she did so she noticed that her hands had begun to shake. She pressed her palms onto her knees. It took a full five minutes to steady them enough to tear off a small piece of toilet tissue.
She got up presently, a little unsteadily this time, and went to the mirror.
The grey-blue eyes which looked back at her swam in and out of focus; it took Tess a good few seconds to realise that the woman in the mirror was crying.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Geileis moved slowly around the cottage, clearing up and tidying, even though there was hardly anything left to wash, dust or put away. It had been good to have company, for a while at least. The feeling of emptiness had returned with Moran and O’Shea’s departure, and to this she could now add the nagging worry – all right, fear – that she might not see either of them again.
What they were doing was crazy, off limits. Anything could go wrong, and probably would. Black was an animal, a lone wolf who’d stop at nothing to get what he wanted. But there was nothing further she could do. She’d done her best, helped O’Shea as much as she had been able. She bent to retrieve her empty glass and flinched as she felt the familiar, sharp ache in her stomach. They’d told her it might get worse. The good couple of months she’d enjoyed following her last round of treatment had lulled her into a false sense of security. It had been easy to pretend that all was well – and when Brendan had arrived, even despite the less than ideal circumstances, she had found herself playing a dangerous game of make-believe. He liked her, that much was obvious. She wasn’t Janice, never could be, but surely something good could be salvaged from such a tragic past? Surely they could learn to love each other? In time…
But time was a commodity she wasn’t sure she could lay claim to.
She looked up at the sound of car tyres crunching on the gravel. A door slammed. Heavy footfalls outside.
Oh no, surely not?…
The knocker rapped three times in quick succession.
She opened the door. ‘Liam.’ She tried a smile. It felt as though it would crack her face but he didn’t seem to notice.
‘Can a man get a drink around here?’ Buchanan strode proprietorially into the lounge.
Geileis told herself to be calm, but she could sense the garda’s agitation. ‘I’m not feeling well, Liam. A headache–’
‘Is that right, now?’ He was beside her, reaching for her. Geileis backed away.
He grabbed her arm. ‘You were keen enough last week,’ he said softly. ‘Are you going to reject me, is that it?’
Geileis began to feel the first stirrings of fear. Her first thought, call the gardai, bounced back at her with plain absurdity. Buchanan was the gardai. No panic button these days, not like her office in London. She was in the middle of nowhere with a man she hardly knew. ‘Let go of me, Liam.’
He drew her closer until she could smell the sourness of his breath. She flinched and cried out as his grip tightened.
‘I’m not messin’ about, Geileis. I know Moran was here. And I know that he knows more than he should. Has he been back? Have you been helping him? All your questions, eh? You’ll be knowing where he is, I’m sure.’
Geileis gasped in pain. ‘I don’t. I haven’t seen him since Tuesday.’
‘You know what happened to Jerry?’
The grip tightened. ‘Yes. I told you; Donal told me. Don’t hurt me, please…’
Buchanan released her and she staggered back, rubbing her arm. She felt faint.
Buchanan looked her up
and down. ‘God, look at you. I don’t know what I ever saw in you. You’re just an old, desperate woman.’
Geileis backed away until she bumped against the bookcase. Her hands went behind her, looking for a weapon. The gun was locked in the bureau, on the other side – now the wrong side – of the room. And the keys were in the kitchen, on the hook … her fingers closed instead over a brass candlestick.
Buchanan advanced on her, wagging his finger. ‘You’re lying, you old witch, aren’t you? Moran’s been here. I can smell him. What is it, eh? You’d rather have him than me, would you? Well, I’m going to end this little episode. The way I should’ve ended it before.’
Geileis waited, biding her time. She moved back further, and further still until she was at the kitchen door. Something moved across the lounge window – just a flicker, but Buchanan had his eyes fixed on Geileis. Her heart beat wildly in her chest. Maybe there were others, keeping watch outside the cottage.
Buchanan lunged. She brought the candlestick around in a wide arc, caught him a glancing blow on the side of his head, ducked under his grabbing hands.
‘Oho, you bitch.’ He felt his head and his hand came away red. ‘Now you’re dead.’
He caught her by the throat, lifted her off her feet. The room darkened, stars blipped and fizzed across her vision. She could feel her feet kicking, trying to find purchase.
Think, think, think…
But her strength was ebbing. She stopped kicking, summoned her resources for one last effort and brought her knee up into Buchanan’s groin. The pressure on her throat lifted instantly as Buchanan doubled over, his mouth a wide O of agony.
Geileis staggered, almost fell, found her feet, and kicked out again, this time connecting with Buchanan’s knee which gave a satisfying crunch on impact. Buchanan howled. She hefted the candlestick and lashed out, striking the top of Buchanan’s head, then followed with another blow to the side of his face. Buchanan keeled over, twitched and lay still.
Geileis dropped the candlestick and held onto the sink for support. Her legs were unsteady and there was blood on her hands and forearms. It was only when she looked around for something to clean herself that she noticed O’Shea’s familiar frame filling the doorway.
