Oak and Stone

by Dave Duggan

  ‘Wait,’ called Hetherington. ‘Wait for the support.’

  I ignored him and climbed out, rounded the front of the vehicle and minced my way through the mud at the gate and into the grassy field. I wasn’t gone five metres, before I heard Hetherington squelching behind me.

  The ground rose to a grassy knoll and then fell away again. The pulsing message led me to the top of the knoll. Hetherington was beside me as we crossed the grass, fresh, late growth, following summer cuts for silage. Here and there, cattle hooves left dents and dinges, but there were no animals about. Where the knoll fell away, boggy ground caved and convexed in occasional pools and sumps.

  ‘We’re here,’ I said.

  ‘Take it easy,’ Hetherington said. ‘They’re coming.’

  I heard the sirens too, far below us in the river valley. They would be paralleling the old railway line beside the river, before climbing towards us.

  Then I saw her. Just over the crest of the knoll, facing towards the river and the rising sun. Head to toe down the slope, naked, battered and bruised. One arm skewed and broken across her, like a mottled stick. There was a phone stuffed into her mouth. A squat phone, brutal, grey as a grenade, pulsing messages to my phone every seven seconds.

  ‘Help me, Eddie. Help me.’

  Hetherington stepped forward, no longer cautious.

  ‘Don’t touch her. Don’t go too close,’ I said.

  He leaned over.

  ‘I want to confirm she’s dead,’ he said.

  I peered into the boggy depression. Could it be Ruby? I couldn’t tell. Her hair? There was little or no hair. It was cut or burned off. Clumps of it, patched about her skull, were so matted in blood that the only sense of colour I could summon was ‘gore’.

  ‘She’s dead,’ I said. ‘And has been for some time. Look at the skin colour. And someone’s burned her. At least her head.’

  ‘Do you know her?’

  ‘I … I don’t think so. I don’t know.’

  I walked round the body, trying to catch a detail. A wedding ring? A bracelet or a necklace? A tattoo? A mole? A medical scar? Maybe the forensics’ people would have more luck. I saw nothing. All I got was a slightly bituminous smell, like tar hardening.

  I heard them approaching. Three vehicles; two of ours and an ambulance. Suddenly, amidst the noise of the sirens, I heard a raven caw loudly. I looked behind me and saw a clump of trees rise above the ditch that skirted the field. Another caw brought my eye to the centre of a clutch of oak trees, dressed in their russet and ochre foliage and from where the swoop of a large black bird crossed the grey clouds. I saw something else then; a glint, a passing shade. Perhaps a figure. Moving.

  The raven. The smell. The movement.

  ‘Run, Hetherington! Run! Now!’ I screamed.

  I dashed down the knoll in the direction of the river, trying to put the knoll between me and the trees. After hesitating slightly, Hetherington took off after me.

  ‘Keep down! Down!’ I called, clumping over the clods and holes where cattle had trod. I half-fell, half-dived into a boggy sump as Hetherington caught up with me and went by, when the flash-thud-thump of an explosion blew the top off the knoll and showered us with smithereens of earth and the woman’s body.

  Only the sound of the sirens found its way back into my ears when I raised myself up. Not the crisp piercing sound of before, approaching in reassurance. Now they were muffled as shrouded side-drums playing under water. Then they stopped and I heard nothing. Even the raven was stilled.

  Mud and water ran from me when I knelt up. I felt a heave in my guts, but I forced down the bile. My stomach felt it had been slammed with a sledge. I was facing downhill. I scanned about me, then looked behind. Where there had been a round knoll, there was a jagged crater. I got to my feet and stepped out of the sump. I heard my own hollow laughter, borderline manic. Then I saw Hetherington, further down and to my right, flattened and spread like a desolate starfish on a muddy beach at low tide.

  ‘Kenneth! Ken!’

  Now my own calls filled my ears, unclogging them as I ran, mammoth-like, towards him. A distance of five metres took me a life-span and I fell on my knees beside my colleague, screaming his name.

  ‘Kenneth! Ken! For fuck sake, Hetherington!’

  His right ear was bloody. His back was pock-marked with earth and gore. His limbs, though spread, seemed firm and fair. He hadn’t made it into a sump, so he had taken most of the blast. My fox-hole had saved me. I put my muddy fingers to his neck. His pulse was strong. I bent my face towards him and smelled his mouth-washed breath.

  I stood again and looked back towards the gate we had come through. Figures in hi-viz white and yellow, carrying bags and pressing their weapon belts to their sides, laboured up the slope, towards the crater. I waved my arms.

  ‘Over here. Over here. He’s here.’

  The figures veered towards us, contouring below the cratered knoll, then descended.

  ‘They’re here, Kenneth. They’re here. You’ll be grand. Grand.’

  I said it out loud and was pleased to hear myself clearly. Perhaps he’d hear me too.

  The paramedics attended to Hetherington. The cops stood awkwardly around me, then I pointed at the knoll and told them to have a look and to try not to step on anything vital. I knew the woman was dead and that little but molecules of her remained.

  A paramedic came towards me and took my arm, to lead me away. I stalled for one last look down the river. The clouds on the far bank were massed for an assault. It started to rain.

  Following that episode, Hammy, my boss and guardian, blew a fuse.

  ‘ … I mean, look at us. We’re the right shower. Upstanding officers of law and order, hardly ever sitting on our fat arses, fearlessly fighting crime from wherever it emanates to pollute our beloved city and region. And yet, consider this document here, yes, this summary of cases remaining open, ye all have one and ye all can read “Cases unsolved”? How many? That’s right. Ye can count too, so count them. And that’s only a quarterly review. Don’t be folding your arms like a Buddha, you there, Detective Sergeant Goss. You have the towel. You have the blood samples, you have CCTV footage from the hotel. You have the sisters more or less hanging their youngest brother for the murder of their oldest, and have you got your man? He’s scarpered, you tell me. Our colleagues across the water are seeking him, you say. That shower couldn’t find Christmas on a calendar. Let me tell you, Goss. I’m not sending you over to London, where the bottle basher is supposed to be lying low. No, no. No more junkets across the Irish Sea. That conundrum, Slevin, sitting beside you, has Hetherington back no more than a matter of days and he nearly gets his head blown off. If you want a re-assignment Hetherington, you needn’t bother coming to me. You’re with Slevin on the Anderson case and I want it off this list pronto. I want to be standing here waving charge sheets: Todd Anderson’s killer; the brother who bludgeoned his brother at the wedding; and, great ululations all round, the team who blew the top off a hill on the Creevagh Road and blasted a poor misfortunate woman up and down the Foyle valley. I have the file on my desk. I expect to see photographs of tyre tracks among the trees. Blank. I expect key leads dredged from the garrulous wanderings of rustic nosey-parkers, who saw the whole farrago unfold. Nothing. You have nothing at all. We do have Slevin’s ramblings. About as useful as a pitchfork in the tide. Now. Right. Let me be unambiguous. These cases need cleared. Results are our heaven and our haven. We have a Chief Constable. She has all your names. And she has mine. They are also in files, online and on paper, which she personally updates daily. So I want to help you. I got this job because I proved I can think outside the box and you folks are going to have to show greater ability in that area. Doherty, wake up, shut up and get a grip on Goss’ brass neck. Force him back to his desk and go over everything you’ve got that is evidential, evidential, mind you, not hearsay, anecdote or bullshi
t. And get on the Skype to London, to a proper face. And Karolina, yes you, that’s right, Karolina. You think with all the gear they have, the boffins would have turned up some usable DNA from the woman by now, even if it was scattered to the four winds. Chase them, Karolina. Chase them hard. The bastards used enough stuff to lift the Guildhall and nobody saw nothing. Not the car going in. Not the body being deposited. Not the bastards disturbing Slevin’s ravens before sending the townland skywards. The final insight I want to offer you all now, is that, these cases, in all these cases, Slevin is the key. That’s right. You, Slevin. We badly need a plumber. You are one persistent drip, Slevin, and, if we’re not careful, you’ll flood the lot of us. Slevin, you’re the target, the witness, the victim, the suspect, the perpetrator and the cop. There is a secret, ineffable connivance between Detective Slevin and all these events. Now pick up your cases in the list as shown. I want one page updates by Friday. Then, Sharon will schedule meetings for next week. Now get back at it.’

  THIRTEEN

  I was near death those days, with the bombing in the field and the barrages from my boss. Together with the living, the dead and the in-betweens, all out at Halloween, I took to the streets too, though, technically, I was still on rest leave. The streets throng, as October folds into November, and winter, in its proper sense, comes to bite, keen as a vampire. Everyone costumes up, the more ghoulish and outlandish the better. I adopt the old joke at the fancy-dress party: ‘I came as myself.’ A PS(N) detective, clenched tight, out in the cold, wearing a new suede jacket, over a light wool polo-neck sweater, a concession to the chill of the evening, a half-smoked cigarette pinched between his fingers, with his standard issue hand-gun holstered under his shoulder, giving him the appearance of a bigger heart than he is known to have.

  The first of the living I saw was Karen Lavery, almost as soon as I came out of my apartment building. I fell in with the crowds promenading and congregating by the river’s edge. Karen was in a complete witch’s outfit, standing next to a tall, lean Musketeer. His ruddy cheeks and strong, chapped hands confirmed him as her farmer. She fumbled the introductions.

  ‘This is John. We’re … And this is Eddie. He … we work together. We’re, me and John, we’re going to the dance in the City Hotel, so we …’

  ‘Great outfits,’ I said. ‘Nice to meet you, John. Have a good night.’

  And I strolled on. I didn’t want to intrude. However, I imagined a lingering look from underneath the brim of Karen’s witch’s hat, her eyes beseeching me. But beseeching me to do what? The best I could manage was the sort of wry smile the jilted cowboy adopts, as he mounts his trail-worn steed and heads out of town, leaving behind the young school-teacher, fated to her future with the owner of the general store. I was far from over Karen, if I could allow myself to fantasise like that.

  Two Draculas, touching up their chin gore, blocked the walkway until a family group, led by a twin-buggy, bearing toddler Frankensteins, bamboozled them out of the way. I slipped beyond them and made for the Guildhall.

  Hetherington was sitting on a low wall outside a restaurant, smoking and chatting with two of his friends. They were all dressed as sailors, straight out of On the Town: white suits, pert little US navy caps, loose, blue neck-tie strips. I expected them to chorus what a hell of a town New York was.

  ‘The Bronx is up …,’ I said.

  ‘And The Battery’s ... I know. I know,’ Hetherington replied. ‘Glad you got it.’

  ‘Fair play to you. Looks great. Talk about ‘owning it’.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The sailor suits. You know.’

  ‘Yep. We’re three gay men out for a meal on Halloween. So what?’

  ‘Jesus, Kenneth. I never gave you a hard time about that.’

  ‘No, that’s right. You just nearly got me killed.’

  ‘You shouldn’t read too much into Hammy’s rhetoric. He’s simply using me for a bit of a group cheer. Hang one goat out and the rest flock together, where the wolf can see them.’

  ‘I thought you liked Hammy.’

  ‘I do. He’s a manipulator. But then again, who’s not? How are you anyway?’

  ‘I won’t lose the ear. Might lose some hearing. Might not. And the rest? Bangs and bruises. Ribs knitting together. Medics reckon I’ll live.’

  ‘Good. Have a blast, sailor boy.’

  When that didn’t earn a smile or a rebuke, I turned to move off and found myself hemmed in by a ten-foot high robot and two stilt-walking pirates, who bent to shake our hands. We complied. The robot bellowed and spewed smoke from its shoulder-pads.

  A pirate leaned towards me and snarled.

  ‘Hello, Detective Slevin. You’d want to leave that crew and join the real rulers of the waves. Skull and cross bones, yaaar!’

  Then he stilt-walked after the robot.

  ‘Everyone knows you, Slevin,’ Hetherington said.

  ‘Especially the pirates,’ I said.

  There was a direct look in my colleague’s eyes when he took off his sailor’s cap and used it to wipe his brow.

  ‘Bloody suit’s a furnace. Even on a night like this. Who’d have thought? I’m going to get that gun, Slevin. The Anderson killing. The gun’s the key to it.’

  ‘I read your Manchester report, Hetherington. And I’ll back you up.’

  How does disbelief flit across a face? How does doubt cross someone’s eyes? Hetherington showed me this and more.

  ‘You know that Beresford is convinced about it,’ he continued.

  ‘Beresford? That’s the MI5 fella, isn’t it?’

  ‘I never said he was MI5.’

  ‘Did he say he was?’

  ‘No. Look, it doesn’t matter. He was very helpful and the Manchester ones, well, they relied on him. He was part of their team.’

  ‘With Beresford’s conjectures and Hammy’s tub-thumping, are you now coming up with me as a prime suspect? Call that police-work, Kenneth?’

  ‘It’s about the gun. The murder weapon, Slevin. You see that. We have a body …’

  ‘We had a body, until some bright spark dispatched it post-haste to Manchester for cremation. Now we have no body.’

  ‘So we go for the murder weapon. That’s simply good police-work.’

  ‘Forget the gun. What about the shoe?’

  ‘Nothing. The unit was leased by a legit food business, who left the big chiller there, by agreement. When the lease ended, Property Max shut it up. They didn’t even know anyone had been in it until we called. Forget the shoe. I mean, really forget it. It is about the gun.’

  ‘That’s your mate Beresford singing. This fella Beresford, was he ever here?’

  ‘He didn’t say. I don’t think so.’

  I knew different. Hetherington had shown me a photo. Despite Beresford’s efforts to avert his eyes, Hetherington had caught him full-on. It was Dalzell. I could be excused for thinking that his half-turned stare was directed at me.

  ‘See when he comes over – he might, mightn’t he? - I’d love to meet him. You’re still in touch?’

  ‘He asked me to stay in touch. If I get anything on the gun, he said he’d help. They all did. They couldn’t do enough for us. Even though they gave us nothing.’

  ‘But you must have got a direct lead on that gun, from Da … Beresford?’

  A slew of phantoms passed us. White chiffon, white tissue, white taffeta, white candy floss, white gossamer, all set off by cavernous black eyes and wigs and fingernails so red they seemed to bleed pigment. It was Halloween. No one was who they seemed. Everyone was in between. Even Dalzell and Beresford.

  ‘No, no direct leads. A few notes and queries. I haven’t really had time to chase them down, with nearly getting blown up in the field.’

  ‘Of course. Jesus, you were lucky.’

  ‘So were you. Or is that just the way you are, Slevi
n? Half in the thing, as Hammy says.’

  ‘Hammy says more than his prayers. There was a fella on the wing with me for a few years. Biggest blow-hole since Jonah’s whale. He never let up with the mouthing and the guldering. And always beside him was this wee country boy, grinning and watching. Fellas were getting restive with the motor-mouth. He was going to say something he shouldn’t, with microphones all over the place and screws and touts on hand. Not to mind that none of us wanted to know things we’d be better off not knowing. One night he finished his monologue with a cliff-hanger. “And tomorrow, folks, I’ll give ye the full lowdown on the professor there, hiding away with his books and saying nothing.” Hammy is just a smarter version of my prison mate.’

  ‘What did he say about you, the next day?’

  ‘Nothing. Or more accurately, nothing about me in front of the rest of us. He didn’t appear at breakfast. I went over to his side-kick and asked him where his dummy was. He said “What do you mean?” and I said “You’re the ventriloquist, he’s the dummy. You’ll have to say it all yourself now.” Seems the big fella was moved out with two others. No clear reason. It just added to the myth.’

  ‘What myth?’

  ‘The one that Hammy revisited. The one that says I’m some sort of shape-shifter, with shields all round me and antennae tuned to the zeitgeist. Like that robot yonder.’

  ‘It’s a wonder the ventriloquist didn’t have someone do you.’

  ‘It could happen yet. They’re both out now. Like me. Big Mouth and Pip Squeak. Festering somewhere, I suppose.’

  ‘Things don’t go away. You know that. I’ll get that gun. Watch your back, Slevin.’

  ‘Always, Kenneth. Always. Hey, enjoy the night.’

  I added ‘Aye, aye sailor’, saluted, then fell in behind a samba-band of zombies, headed by a blaring sax and a teeth-gnashing side-drum, with more maracas and tambourines than a Tex-Mex wedding band. I needed music, but not that, so I went in search of Ruby.

  The swinging strains of ‘Don’t Get Around Much Anymore’ brought me to the small podium-stage my sister Ruby shared with a keyboard player and a laptop. She looked and sounded like the voice of the night, charmed and forceful, elegant and straight-on. She was dressed as a witch, under a great cloak that seemed to lift her off her feet. She held a microphone in one hand and in the other she swung a besom, bristling its twiggy ends. I skulked about on the edge of a crowd of ghouls, zombies, monsters, superheroes, medieval knights and ghosts, swaying in front of her.