“I need to see the medical examiner’s report on these two deaths,” Bernadette said turning to Sullivan. “How soon can we see them?”
“I can bring up the files back at Garda headquarters.”
“Good, let’s get back there. I want to see what John Dooley looked like.”
“Why?”
“I have a hunch that we might have the wrong man on the tombstone,” Bernadette said.
“You think that’s Cahal Callahan buried there?”
“I’m not sure, but it wouldn’t surprise me, he gave me a story that my father was a cook on ship, which I knew was a lie. But he was telling me the truth about the real Cahal.” Bernadette said
48
“I can’t believe how much I’ve been played,” Bernadette said as they drove back to Dublin. “Cahal told me the story of me being born to a Gypsy woman, then he gave me the name of Aideen in Kilmeague. He knew I’d follow up. He knew if I chased him to Ireland, I’d come to see her. And he knew if the woman posing as Aideen gave me the name of Francine that I go to see her. He even knew where I’d come to do a stakeout.”
“We have a clever adversary on our hands,” Sullivan said. “He seems to be one step ahead of us.”
“Well, we’re about to catch up,” Bernadette said. She sat in silence for most of the ride into Dublin, wondering where the hell her instincts on Cahal had gone. She’d had misgivings about him from the moment she met him. The whole relative thing had reared its head and she’d let her guard down. Damn, she felt stupid.
They entered the Garda headquarters, Sullivan signed her in, and they went to his desk and pulled up the medical examiner’s website. Sullivan entered the name of John Dooley and the date of death.
“There’s no picture in the file,” Sullivan said.
“Is there one of Aideen Callahan?” Bernadette asked.
“Yes, here it is,” Sullivan said as he pulled it up.
Bernadette stared over Sullivan’s shoulder at the corpse of her long dead Aunt Aideen. Even in death, with eyes closed, she could see the resemblance of her father.
“How could one picture be there and not the other?” Bernadette asked.
Sullivan sat back in his chair. “No idea. Let me do a search of John Dooley with his date of birth. I might find a picture of him.” He ran the search and it came up empty.
“How about that? What are the chances of two men being ghosts like that? No previous pictures on file,” Sullivan said. “And, the most troubling is, the coroner’s photos of Cahal are gone.”
“A wonderful coincidence if you wanted to murder someone and take their identity,” Bernadette said.
“Do you think Francine Dooley will tell us about the death of her brother?” Sullivan asked.
“We could ask. I doubt if we’ll get anything.” Bernadette said.
They made their way down to the prisoner’s cells for those recently brought in and awaiting trial. It took over a half hour to get Francine out of her cell. She looked a mess when they brought her in. A female guard placed her in an interview room. Sullivan and Bernadette came in and sat in front her.
“We know about Aideen and John Dooley,” Sullivan said.
Francine laughed. “What do you think you know then?” She pulled a cigarette from a pack lit it and sucked the smoke deep into her lungs. When she exhaled, she did it by blowing it towards their faces.
“We know that it’s Cahal Callahan in that grave,” Bernadette said. She was fishing, hoping she’d see a sign of something in Francine’s face.
“Do you now? Did you pull him up? Did you do one of those fancy DNA things on the bones? Is that what you did?” She looked at both of them. “I thought not, you’re here to fish. Put me old bones in the lock up forever with your copper lies. Well, you’ll get nothing from me, I’m no tout.” Francine faced them both down. Her expression gave nothing away but the hatred she felt for them.
Sullivan turned to Bernadette. “For your information, a tout is someone in Ireland who tells on the others, you’d call them a rat in North America.”
“Thanks, I thought as much. So, Francine, you’re saying you do know the truth but you’re not telling the truth, is that it?”
“You’re twisting my words, you are. Coppers all do that. Twist an honest person’s words.”
“But you’re not honest, are you Francine. You’re holding onto something? You aided Cahal as a fugitive. You’ll go down for that, you’ll do time for that,” Sullivan said.
“I told my story. I said he came by to visit; I didn’t know he was an escaped fugitive. My solicitor says I’ll get out in a jiff. You won’t have these old bones in your lock up.”
Sullivan turned to Bernadette. “We might as well go. She’s not going to tell us much.”
Bernadette looked at Francine; she could see the grim set of her jaw, her eyes staring with hatred. They had no leverage on her. They’d need the DNA evidence from the grave of John Dooley to make their case, that would take a court order and precious time she didn’t have.
They walked out of the interview room with Francine yelling curses at them. They could hear her as they got to the elevator to go back upstairs.
They got coffees and went back to Sullivan’s desk to look over some more files in search of Cahal until they were both exhausted.
Sullivan finally shook his head. “This is a case that will have to be left to the cold case squad. I’ll have them dig up the graves once we get a court order.”
Bernadette nodded and then stopped in her tracks. “You know, there was a grave marker I saw at the camp when we were being marched to meet Cahal. Do you think we can get a warrant to open it up?”
Sullivan looked at her. “You saw a grave there?”
“Yes, it was in a clearing. I just remembered it now. It looked well-tended. If they don’t have the authority to bury the dead on their land, I think we could check it out.”
“You don’t think it couldn’t have been an animal? People do that now, you know. My brother’s kids have a little pet cemetery in his back garden,” Sullivan said.
“How about if we err on the side of a crazed female detective from Canada and see what happens.”.
“Okay, fine, I’ll see what I can do on all accounts. It’s going to depend on the manpower we have. Right now, Cahal and his people have the entire island tied up with the troubles they’ve been causing.
Bernadette rubbed her forehead. “You’re absolutely right. This just proves the man called Cahal is more complex than we thought.” She took out her phone and scrolled down her numbers.
“Before I left Canada, I was given a phone number of a nun here in Ireland who might be able to help us,” Bernadette said as she dialed the number.
The number rang several times before an old voice that was barely audible answered the phone. “Hello. Who’s calling?”
“Bernadette Callahan. I’m calling for Sister Mary-Margaret. Do I have the right number?”
“Hold the line please,” the voice said. There was the sound of a door closing. “Yes, you have the right number.” The voice changed, it sounded younger. “You must come to see me tomorrow morning after mass. I’m in the Sisters of Charity Nursing Home under the name of Grace Gordon. Make sure you’re not followed when you come here.”
The call ended.
Bernadette stared at the phone. “I have no idea what that was about, but I have an appointment to see a nun in a nursing home tomorrow morning. What times is mass in this city on Sunday?”
Sullivan arched an eyebrow. “My parish is from nine to ten, and others may be different. I’d say you’re safe any time after half ten. Do you think she has useful information?”
“I’m not sure. She’s in a nursing home using an alias and her first phone voice was a fake. She’s undercover, but I have no idea from what.”
“Maybe someone in the home is stealing all the pudding? I’m sorry, a bad joke. We’ve been at this for hours, we’ve both missed lunch, and it’s now past five,�
� Sullivan said.
“I’m buying,” Bernadette said.
They headed out of the building to a local pub that Sullivan liked. The place was already filled with regulars enjoying a drink before dinner. They found a small booth in the back and placed orders. Sullivan ordered his usual Guinness; Bernadette ordered a Perrier and lime. Her little binge last night needed some space.
“The beef pot pie is braised in Guinness, a delightful dish,” Sullivan said.
Bernadette smiled. “I thought everything was braised in Guinness in Ireland…”
Suddenly the room shook. A blinding light followed by a cloud of dust and debris descended over them. For a few seconds, Bernadette couldn’t see anything.
“We’ve been hit by a bomb—are you alright?” Sullivan asked.
Bernadette’s ears were ringing. She knew the explosion had concussed her whole body. Slowly the ringing ceased, and she got her bearings.
She stood up. The solid wooden booth had saved them. There were people everywhere, wandering around the pub, with their cloths in tatters.
Sullivan took her hand; they went to the front of the pub and started to direct people out of the place through the back. The fire trucks and medics arrived.
Detective Denis Bishop met them as they were standing in the alley outside with the other patrons. People were wrapped in blankets shivering in the cold and from the trauma.
“You’re a lucky bastard, Sullivan,” Bishop said.
“How many causalities?” Sullivan asked.
“The bomb was placed on the outside of the building. It was more of a sound wave explosion. A lot of people might have some hearing loss and some glass fragment injuries but no fatalities. You two seem better than most,” Bishop said.
“We were in a back booth. Saved us from everything but the concussion wave,” Sullivan said. “Anyone call in to claim his or her handiwork?”
“Someone called a half hour ago, said Dublin was going to be shook up tonight. Three more of these have hit pubs in the past ten minutes. The same type, mostly flash bangs, made to scare more than injure.”
“Who would do this?” Bernadette asked.
“We still have no idea. If it was the real IRA, they make sure they call in before, then pull the trigger. This seems set to scare,” Sullivan said.
It took several hours before they could leave the pub. They made sure the other patrons were okay before they left the scene. Sullivan went back to the station to file his report before they found another pub.
Most of downtown Dublin had emptied out. The police had cordoned off most every street into the core. They had to go back to Bernadette’s brewery district where things were quiet if not downright subdued.
This time, Bernadette ordered a glass of Jameson’s whiskey. Her ears still had a ringing in them that she hoped would subside.
Sullivan ordered a Guinness. Bishop joined them with a Kilkenny. They sipped their drinks for a second and let the alcohol drown the weariness they felt.
“This really is shite,” Bishop said. “I thought all of this was behind us.”
“Maybe it really is in the Irish DNA to always be in the troubles,” Sullivan said. “Isn’t some member of parliament trying to push a bill to take out the aggressive strain in a newborns embryo?”
“It’s called genetic editing. The church is having a fit with it. But some politician, Brendon Shannon, I believe is his name, has put the thing to a vote this coming Tuesday,” Bishop said. He sipped his pint. “Imagine that, taking the aggression out of the Irish. All us coppers would be out of a job in twenty years’ time.”
“We couldn’t do it in Canada,” Bernadette said.
“And why exactly is that now?” Bishop asked.
“It would put an end to our hockey games,” Bernadette said.
Sullivan raised his glass. “Cheers to that. A bit of healthy aggression is good, does a body good to get things cleared up I say, but then again when it goes over the top….”
“—We get called in,” Bishop said finishing Sullivan’s sentence.
They drained their glasses, ordered some food, and left the place as it was closing. Bernadette checked her cell phone as she climbed up the three flights of stairs. She’d received three texts from Chris; he’d heard about the bombing in Dublin and he wanted to know if she was okay. She’d been so busy making sure everyone else was okay, then trying to come down from the trauma of the blast, she’d forgot to contact him.
She texted him back to tell him she was fine. It had been a long day; she was going to get some sleep. She entered her cold room, bolted the door shut and turned on the shower. Stripping off her clothes, she got in and soaped herself up to get rid of the dust and smell of the cordite. She had to wash, rinse, and repeat until she was satisfied she no longer smelled like a bomb blast.
She dressed in her flannel pajamas and climbed under the cold covers. As she dozed off to sleep, the ringing was still in her ears.
49
The ringing that Bernadette woke up to wasn’t in her ears, thankfully, it was the sound of church bells. She stared at her watch; it was half past eight in the morning. She’d overslept but felt refreshed. The jetlag was ebbing out of her body, and now she felt like this was the right time zone.
A few clouds scudded about in the sky, the sun making an effort and there looked like no rain. Checking her phone, she scrolled the news feed from last night. Seven pubs had been bombed in the night as well as some mailboxes and two banks. The targets had been spread between Belfast and Dublin. It looked like someone was trying to create panic, but why?
The cities would be in lock down. Checkpoints would be everywhere, and numerous pubs and businesses would remain closed. Bernadette checked the address of the nursing home, and then plotted it on her phone map. It was four kilometers away. A nice walk, and she could use the exercise.
Sullivan told her last night that he’d be going into the office this morning to look at reports, so she was on her own to speak with the nun who had acted strangely on the phone.
After getting dressed, she made her way downstairs to the lobby. The young man at reception told her where to find some breakfast on her journey. She was directed to a little hole-in-the wall café with only a few people in it.
Avoiding the traditional Irish breakfast, as her stomach felt like it was still processing the blood sausage from the previous day, she chose two Irish scones with jam and tea. She decided on tea, as scones and coffee seemed wrong.
The scones were fresh and fluffy with a flakey layer, crunchy outside and a soft center. Her senses went on a bit of a rampage as she swallowed the first bites. These scones were somewhat like the traditional bannock bread that native’s baked in Canada, but this was something more refined.
She finished her breakfast as quickly as she could although she’d love to have lingered and bought a third scone, but she made her way out the door and down the street.
The police checkpoints were at major intersections. Passing through them wasn’t too hard. She gave her reason for travel and where she was staying. At one, when the Garda were being a bit fussy as they didn’t seem to understand why a Canadian tourist would be going the direction she was headed, she told them to call Detective Sullivan at Garda Headquarters, and that seemed to calm them down.
The Sisters of Charity Nursing Home looked run down. The outside was brick with cracks. The paint was peeling off the windows and the sidewalk leading up to it had missing pavers.
Bernadette made her way to the reception desk to find Grace Gordon. She was given a room number. No one escorted her or asked her about her visit. The room was on the second floor. There was an ancient elevator that several elderly residents with walkers and wheelchairs were parked in front of. Bernadette couldn’t be sure if they were waiting to get on or merely waiting to see who came out of it.
Grace Gordon’s room had a number and her name on it. Bernadette rapped the door as hard as she could to get the attention of Grace, but not too loud in
case some of the residents were sleeping.
“Come in,” a voice said.
Bernadette opened the door and peered in. “Grace?”
“Come in, come in. Close the door behind you.”
Bernadette walked inside the low-lit room. A figure in a wheelchair was in the center of the room.
“Bernadette Callahan?”
“Yes, that’s me.”
“Good, it’s me, Sister Mary Margaret. Now I can stop this charade,” he said getting out of the wheelchair and throwing off a blanket. She walked to the bed and sat down. Bernadette noticed she had a limp.
The woman appeared in her sixties from her gray hair and wrinkles on her face, but as she moved and turned on a lamp, Bernadette could see she was much younger, perhaps in her forties. She had done some wonders with makeup.
“Can you tell me what’s this is about, Sister?” Bernadette asked.
The nun directed Bernadette to a chair and beside her on the single bed. “I’ve been here in Dublin for eight months investigating the cult of the Tuatha De’ Danann. I’ve found everything about them except who the leader is. I know they are funded by Ronan Bronaugh and that the lot of them have some kind of brainwashing.”
“What kind of brainwashing?”
“Every one of them has been led to believe that they are the direct descendants of both Irish and Norwegian royalty.”
“Yes, that is odd, but what are they involved in?”
“That’s just it, I wasn’t able to find out. I know where they’re located, I know they are up to something quite sinister as we’ve been seeing all manner of codes in FB and Twitter feeds, but there’s no pattern yet other than all the bombings.”
“You think this group is behind it?”
“Almost sure of it. But we’ve no smoking gun, as you North Americans say. We think this is to do with the genetics editing bill set to be voted on in parliament,” Sister Mary Margaret said.
“What’s the connection? Why would it matter to the group?”
Deadly Ancestors: A Bernadette Callahan Mystery (Bernadette Callahan Detective Series Book 5) Page 24
