Deadly Ancestors: A Bernadette Callahan Mystery (Bernadette Callahan Detective Series Book 5)

by Lyle Nicholson

  “Hello, Callahan here.”

  “Where did you get the gun?” Sullivan asked.

  “Oh…hi,” Bernadette said, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. A bedside clock showed 4 p.m.

  “Why didn’t you call the police or me?” Sullivan asked.

  “I’d be spending the entire day in questioning at your station, which means a lost day of finding Cahal. He knows I’m here. Those men were sent to take care of me.”

  “Did you get a good look at the two men?”

  “Yes, I did. What about the gun? Did you run it through ballistics?”

  “It’s a match for both murders. When can you come to the station to make an ID of the men?”

  “So, here’s the problem with that. Cahal’s people know I’m here. They were after me. The red-haired man knew my name. Isn’t it obvious to you that our murders are connected?”

  “Yes, that’s obvious. When we catch the two men, we solve all the murders,” Sullivan said.

  “I don’t think so. Cahal is at the center of this. Those two were pretty low level and pretty dumb. That they were able to take out two old men is even a wonder. I want Cahal, and if you help me get him, I’ll help you get your two boys who think they’re men.”

  “You know I could bring you in?”

  “For what, for finding a gun on the streets? Happens all the time. I was being a concerned citizen as I toured your lovely land.”

  Sullivan paused for a moment. Bernadette could hear him breathing heavily.

  “What do you want?” Sullivan asked.

  “Help with a stake out of a Gypsy camp outside of town. And I also want to know who in your department let it slip I was coming to Ireland.”

  “I’ll find out. Then we’ll have to meet. Can you give me an hour or so?”

  “Sure, I’m going to continue my nap, call me,” Bernadette said. She lay down on the bed, falling into a deep sleep in seconds.

  42

  Ronan threw his full weight into the strike with the broad sword. The heavy steel made a loud thwack sound as it met the wood pole in the center of his workout studio.

  His gymnasium had been turned into the medieval equivalent of a weapons room. Shields, lances, pikes, and swords lined the walls. Large banners of ancient Irish kings hung from the wooden beams in the ceiling. A large stone fireplace crackled and snapped with burning wood.

  John Dunne entered the room through a wooden door set with brass. He stood watching Ronan. He never disturbed him, but this was important.

  Ronan stopped at the sight of Dunne. He was breathing heavily, sweat glistening on his face. He grabbed a white towel and mopped his forehead.

  “What is it?”

  Dunne advanced into the room slowly. He hated this place. The weapons were ghastly with sharp edges and spikes. He preferred a gun. Much more civilized, in his opinion. You killed a person, you didn’t maim.

  “Two of our people made contact with Bernadette Callahan.”

  “And?”

  “She seems to have escaped capture.”

  Ronan wiped his hands with the towel. “How could she have got away if they made contact? What did they do, introduce themselves? They were supposed to take her to the sea and kill her. What kind of people do we have?”

  Dunne shuffled uneasily from one foot to another. “Mr. Bronaugh, all of our people have been conscripted from the group you started, Tuata De’ Danann. The master you have at the head of it has full power over these people. I’m sorry they’ve disappointed you.”

  Ronan dropped his towel. “Yes, you’re right to point that out. They are in the command of the master.”

  They both paused and stood there. The wood crackled and snapped in the fire.

  “We must do the best we can,” Ronan said. “If our people cannot defeat her, they must stop her in another way. I’m sure you can think of something, Dunne.”

  “Yes sir, I will do so,” Dunne said as he walked out the door. He had an idea how that would happen.

  “Oh, one more thing, Dunne.”

  “What is it?”

  “How is our grand finale doing?”

  “The grand finale, sir?”

  “You know, the bombs that are being delivered.”

  “Oh yes, sir, the bombs. They left for England this morning. They are safely on their way.”

  Dunne walked out of the room and sent a text to make sure the bombs were indeed on their way. He doubted he’d live through another major disappointment.

  The two large transports rumbled off the ferry at Holy Head making their way on the A5 to the M54 where the motorway spliced through Birmingham and merged into the M6 until it became the M1 after Coventry. The men in each transport didn’t acknowledge each other at a petrol stop.

  They got out, picked up tea and sausage rolls, and moved on. Just outside of London in a town called Watford they pulled into an industrial area. They backed the transports into a large bay and got out. Three men waited inside.

  They greeted each other and unloaded the cargo.

  “Careful now,” a man named Finn said. “You’ll blow us all to fock if you jiggle it too much.”

  “It’s not armed, you silly bastard,” a man named Declan said.

  “I don’t like taking chances,” Finn said.

  Declan laughed. “You afraid you’ll get to Valhalla before us?”

  “Everything in its time,” Finn said, guiding the large carton onto the platform.

  They unpacked the first carton. Inside there were wires and a central control linking four cylinders with a transmitter.

  “This is PETN, a nitro derivative,” Finn said. “This is more powerful than TNT and will cause one hell of hole in any place we put it.”

  “Roll out the copier,” Declan said.

  Two men rolled out a large photocopier; it measured some eight feet long by four feet high. They pushed it onto platform and opened the inner doors. It was empty inside.

  “This will work.” Finn said. “What’s the other one going into?”

  A man rolled a large industrial laundry basket onto the dock.

  “You’ve got to be joking.” Finn said.

  Declan waved his hand. “What, you’ve never seen a commercial laundry delivery? These are rolled off without question.”

  “How are we to get it into the banquet room?” Finn asked.

  “Easy, we tell them we have a special delivery of tablecloths and napkins that are on the top. Our men roll it in there right into the dinner and leave. Five minutes later as they’re leaving, our mate hits the detonator on his phone and boom,” Declan said.

  “When does it all happen?” Finn asked.

  “We lay low for a few days; the Master wants it to happen at a special time.”

  “Why, what’s up with the time?”

  “You bleeding idjit, it probably coincides with the sun the moon or the stars in some ancient realm. That’s how the master works and we don’t question it,” Declan said.

  A large man in overalls stood beside them. His hair was shaved off on one side with a Celtic cross tattooed on his head. “No, it doesn’t. There’s a meeting of a bunch of European big shots at Canary Wharf and the other is a hotel in Brighton with the entire British Cabinet. We’re going to take them all out with these two bombs.”

  Declan and Finn raised their eyebrows in recognition of the new information. “We’re going to cause some right shite we are,” Finn said.

  Ronan left his practice hall and went into his shower. He no longer allowed his butler to enter his bath. He found the experience unusual, even though his butler told him that kings were bathed by their retainers and toweled off. He’d thought of having a young woman do it for him but realized how they could talk. He had enough irregularities that he did not want it reported in the news he had some young girl bathing him.

  He toweled himself off, pulled on a plush bathrobe, and padded his way over a deep carpet to his private chamber. He allowed the maid in to clean and no one else could enter his
room. Some things must be kept sacred. He picked up his phone and dialed the number of Brendon Shannon.

  Shannon answered, “Mr. Bronaugh, a delight as always to speak with you.”

  “How close is the vote on the protection of Ireland bill?”

  “Ah, well, not as close as we’d like but there is hope on the next round of voting,” Shannon said.

  “In two days, there will be something in the news to convince them,” Ronan said.

  “I see. Would you care to give me an idea of what to expect?” Shannon asked.

  “No, but I expect you to do your job. Convince the undecided members they need to vote in favor of the bill. Once this bill is in effect my company can screen all violent behavior from all embryos in Ireland and then the world. Don’t you see how safe the world will become?” Ronan asked.

  “Of course, clear as a bell,” Shannon said.

  “Then you’ll have no problem in getting it done,” Ronan said, disconnecting the call. He walked into his bedroom and stood before a full length. He took a long look at himself in the mirror. Would the world see that the path he was blazing for them was the right one? If everything went as planned, they’d have no choice.

  43

  A loud phone pierced Bernadette’s consciousness. She was sure she answered it. She said hello several times. There was no one on the other end the line. She put the phone down and went back to sleep.

  It was only after her cell phone rang again and again that she realized she was dreaming. She sent a message to her conscious brain, “Wake the hell up and answer the phone.”

  She threw her arm across the bed and picked up the phone. “Hello, Bernadette here.”

  “I hope I didn’t wake you from a deep sleep, coming up from a jet lag sleep is horrific,” Sullivan said.

  Bernadette rubbed her eyes and looked at the time. It was 6 p.m. “It’s late, I thought you were going to call me in an hour.”

  “I had some things to sort out. It seems the leak is in our department, our tech people found someone had hacked into our communications system. Every phone call I’ve made to you has tapped by an outsider. They knew about your arrival from the day you left Canada.”

  “Has your techs plugged the leak?”

  “Yes, they have, but we have no way of knowing who did this.”

  “So, where are we on this? Do you want to meet?”

  “Yes, meet me in a half hour at the Brewery Inn. It’s only a few doors down from you.”

  Bernadette took the time to hang a few clothes up on the three hangers in the small closet. The place didn’t have much of anything except a bed, a small chest of drawers, tiny closet, and small bathroom with a shower, toilet, and sink.

  She went into the bathroom and confirmed that she looked as exhausted and jet lagged as she felt. She pulled some things out of her makeup bag and attempted to do some reconstruction to her eyebrows and throw some color on her face. At the end, she smiled; she no longer looked like a cadaver—success.

  Making her way down the three floors by way of the stairs, as the elevator was so slow it seemed to be a joke amongst the hotel staff, she came onto the street. The evening foot traffic was building with young Dubliners out to party and probably get seriously happy or drunk, the latter being the likely outcome.

  Bernadette found her way to the Brewery District Pub. It was a rather bland looking place with little ambience. A few tables and chairs were scattered about the place. A dart board was set up in the corner, and if Bernadette’s eyes did not fail her, there was a jukebox. Two young people were trying to figure out how it worked. Someone finally showed them how to put a Euro in it and punch a song on the playlist. A song emanated from the old relic.

  At first, Bernadette couldn’t recognize the song, then it came to her. It was the Commitments singing “Mustang Sally” from the 1991 movie with the same name aptly called, The Commitments.

  Bernadette wasn’t even a teenager when she heard and saw the movie. It was totally against her grandmother’s wishes, but she loved it. She hardly identified with being Irish at the time until she heard the one line in the film: “The Irish are the blacks of Europe.” That was the one thing that made her see her Irish roots.

  Sullivan was at the bar nursing a pint of what looked to be Guinness. She approached as he got off his stool and came towards her.

  “What can I can get you?” Sullivan asked.

  “A half of Kilkenny would be nice,” Bernadette said.

  Sullivan raised his eyebrows at her choice before turning to the barman and placing her order. They walked to a table far away from the others to talk.

  Bernadette sipped her beer, taking the place in. “A bit of an unusual place.”

  “They know how to pour a proper pint of Guinness here. It shouldn’t be in a frosty mug like they do now. The Europeans and their strange ways.” He sighed as he looked at his pint. “Some things should be left alone.”

  Bernadette regarded the middle-aged detective over her beer glass. There was a lot to like in this man. If he lived in Canada, he’d be a good drinking buddy.

  “So, did you learn anything else in the past few hours?” Bernadette asked.

  “There was a report of two men being accosted by a Canadian woman in Kildare this afternoon,” Sullivan said, putting his beer glass down and staring at her.

  “Oh. Really? Do the two men wish to press charges?”

  “No, actually. They made their complaint to the barman of the James Nolan Pub. They said a lady jumped them and began beating on them. The barman made a report to the local constable but failed to get the names of the victims and wouldn’t give the name of the assailant. Seems like he covered for you,” Sullivan said as his body convulsed with laughter. “You gave them a right pounding it seems.”

  “They came at me with a gun. I think that’s improper etiquette in Ireland.”

  Sullivan smiled. “We matched the car’s number plate to Sean Murray, he has a mate he hangs with, Jamie Kelly. Both are low-level criminals. Here’s a picture of both of them. Do they look familiar?”

  Bernadette looked at the two pictures Sullivan placed on the table. Both were mug shots from the police files. “That’s them,” she said.

  Sullivan placed the pictures back in his pocket. “You’ll be happy to know that Sean Murray is related to Emily Murray and was known to hang about with Dylan Quinn and Cahal Callahan.”

  “I thought there might be a connection. So, the murders in Canada and here in Ireland are all related. Someone is trying to silence something.”

  “That’s exactly what we’re thinking.”

  “Who exactly is the we that’s now involved in this? “Bernadette asked.

  “The special detective unit. After running the gun and the license plate, we can see the dots connect. I spoke to my detective sergeant and he agrees we need to help you find Cahal.”

  Bernadette sipped her beer and stared at Sullivan. “Now wait a minute. That’s a pretty fast turnaround; even my people wouldn’t see things that quickly. This isn’t because I’m a target and all you have to do is dangle me about like bait, is it?”

  Sullivan coughed into his hand. “Well, not exactly bait, as it were, but you have already attracted the attention of the same people we’re looking for. My chief thought if we put you on the hunt, they’d come to you.”

  “I think I’ll need a full pint to digest this,” Bernadette said pushing her empty half pint forward.

  “Let it be my honor,” Sullivan said.

  He returned with a full pint of Kilkenny and a pint of Guinness for himself. The noise in the pub was growing. Young people had crowded around the jukebox, finding the relic a fascinating toy. They started to punch in tunes from the oldest Van Morrison albums and some Cat Stevens.

  Bernadette took a sip of her new pint. “Okay, I’m ready to be your bait, if that’s what you wish, but for tonight, I want you to join me at a stakeout for Cahal.”

  “Where?” Sullivan said, leaning forward to hear th
rough Van Morrison’s “The Healing Game.”

  “There’s a Gypsy camp south of Kildare. I think Cahal has been there with his old girlfriend.”

  “Who is this lady?”

  “She claims to be my Irish birth mother.”

  Sullivan pulled a face. “Your what?”

  “Long story. Let’s just say we had a talk and I think that one, she’s probably lying about being my mother, and two, that she’s seen Cahal recently.”

  “Why do you think she’s seen Cahal?”

  “The first thing was her body language, everything about her told me she was lying, and the biggest tell was a book of matches with a Canadian maple leaf on it.”

  “A book of matches, you must have more to go on that that?”

  Bernadette leaned forward and held Sullivan’s gaze. “The only place I’ve seen those match books were in the duty-free store at the airports in Canada. Now, haven’t you worked with less than that on solving a case?”

  Sullivan blew out a breath. “You have me there—intuition is a detective’s greatest asset. Those without it never make it in this profession. Okay, I’ll arrange a stake out—when?”

  “Tonight.”

  “Tonight. Why would you go tonight? You’ve just bested his goons. He’ll go into hiding. You’ll never find him there.”

  “He thinks I’m tired. He knows when I arrived in Dublin. He’s thinking he’ll be okay at the caravan tonight. He’ll move tomorrow.”

  “You must be joking,” Sullivan said. “You’ve hardly had any sleep; you look like you can hardly see. How do you think you’ll be able to sit in a car and do a stakeout?”

  Bernadette leaned forward. “That’s easy. I won’t be using a car. It’s too obvious. There’s a small hill above the place with perfect sight-lines. I’ll park myself in the trees for the night and watch. I’m positive Cahal will make an appearance.”

  “Are you convinced this is your plan for tonight, then?”

  “Yes, I am.”