Again he glanced at Murphy. ‘He got up to go to the toilet. We never saw him after that.’
He tried to hold eye contact, but could not.
‘Was he drunk – don’t look at him, Adam,’ I said. ‘Look at me.’
The boy’s gaze shifted sharply from Murphy to me, but fell around my chin.
‘No. He might have had a can or two. That’s all. Nothing happened.’
‘Told you,’ Murphy said behind me.
I stood outside the tent with Caroline and Joe McCready. Caroline had settled herself a little now, though her eyes were raw with crying.
‘They’re lying about something,’ I said. ‘The problem is Heaney’s so scared of his dad finding out he’s here, we’re not going to get anything out of him.’
‘His dad is a bit of a thug,’ Caroline commented.
I nodded to McCready. ‘Take them home. Let their parents deal with them whatever way they want. Once that’s out of the way, bring them in again, separately, and make them go into detail. Look for anything out of place.’
McCready nodded earnestly. Dillon, by contrast, yawned loudly into his fist then squinted against the early morning sun cresting the headland to the east.
By noon, the search party had moved from the headland to a wider sweep of the beach and currently was combing the edges of the grass-covered sand dunes to the north. Search teams had also been dispatched to the fields running away from the beach, among which whitewashed holiday cottages caught the watery rays of late winter sunlight.
Caroline was part of one such team, making its way through the thick meadow grass of a field bordered by a drainage ditch that ran alongside the main road. She wore jeans and a heavy jumper several sizes too big for her, which I suspected one of the men had given her. Her hair was tied back from her face, her eyes puffy with tears or lack of sleep, or both.
I joined her team and walked alongside her, scanning both the ground in front of me and the ditch to my right.
‘You holding up OK?’
She shook her head. ‘I keep hoping he is going to phone me. I’ve called his mobile all day but it kept ringing out. An hour ago it stopped ringing and went straight to the answering service. Do you think maybe he turned it off?’
She glanced at me and I could see in her expression both the hurt that her son might choose not to answer her call, and the hope that he had been able to make such a choice at all.
‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘Maybe his battery died.’
She nodded her head vigorously. ‘Maybe,’ she said.
We walked in silence for a moment, before Caroline spoke again.
‘We . . . we argued before he left,’ she said. ‘He wanted to go camping and I’d said no. His friends were going surfing, he said, and he wanted to go with them.’
Murphy had told McCready a different story; he had claimed they were there for his birthday. And there had been no sign of surfboards in the tent.
‘I refused and he said he was going anyway. I couldn’t stop him.’ She looked at me a little plaintively. ‘He was right. There was nothing I could do. I . . .’ She began to speak, then seemed to choke on her words.
‘What, Caroline?’ I said.
She shook her head. ‘He was right,’ she repeated. ‘Do you think he’s doing this to punish me?’ she asked, suddenly.
‘Peter’s a good fella, Caroline. We’ll find him.’
‘He changed, Ben. As he got older – he changed.’
‘They all change,’ I said. ‘Penny’s looking to go to discos, for God’s sake,’ I added with a laugh.
‘No. Peter’s become very angry; judging me. He blamed me for his father leaving. His moods were all over the place for a while there, he wasn’t sleeping, he was tying himself up in knots. The doctor actually put him on medication for depression, though he only took it off and on. He kept casting up the fact that I chased his father away from him. I think it was easier for him to blame me than to accept that Simon hadn’t wanted to see him.’
‘You had no choice there, Caroline. You had to do it for Peter’s sake as much as your own.’
‘He doesn’t remember that. He said it was my fault.’
‘Kids say things, Caroline.’
‘I should call his father,’ she said, decisively. ‘He deserves to know.’
‘Whatever you think is best,’ I said.
Simon Williams, Caroline’s estranged husband, had beaten her frequently. Only the intervention of our old boss, Superintendent Costello, had convinced Simon to leave Caroline and Lifford.
‘Maybe Peter will think better of me if he knows I called his father.’ She looked up into my face hopefully, as if the act of contacting Simon Williams might in some way precipitate the return of her son.
‘Maybe,’ I said. We walked in silence for a few more minutes, scanning the ground around us.
Then she spoke again. ‘I told him not to come back,’ she said, matter-of-factly. It took me a moment to realize that she was talking about Peter again rather than Simon. ‘That was the last thing I said to him: “If you go camping, don’t bother coming back.”’
‘We all say things, Caroline.’
‘I told him not to come back, Ben. That’s what I’m being punished for.’ She stopped walking and looked directly at me. ‘What if I deserve it?’
As the sky darkened we headed back to the hotel where the manager had offered tea and sandwiches to all involved in the search. The hotel itself was quiet, operating with a skeleton staff throughout the winter to cater for the handful of tourists and surfers who visited the beach this early in the season.
Caroline and I were standing at the table of food, when Joe McCready approached us. Removing his cap, he nodded to Caroline. ‘Ma’am,’ he said. Then he turned to me. ‘I spoke to the boys again, sir. After their parents arrived.’
I glanced at Caroline, who was listening intently. ‘Grab yourself something to eat, Joe.’
We took a seat by the bay window facing out on the shoreline. During our conversation I could see Caroline’s attention shift if she saw some movement along the beach. On several occasions she stood and stared out of the window, squinting into the middle distance every time a figure moved along the beach.
‘Anything of any use, Joe?’ I asked.
‘The same story as before, sir. They claim they came here for Murphy’s birthday party.’
Caroline turned from the window. ‘Peter told me they were going surfing,’ she stated.
McCready looked at his notebook of notes, then looked up at her blankly. ‘Neither of them mentioned that,’ he said.
‘What else?’ I asked.
‘Murphy admitted they’d had a can or two each. When I told them I’d found fourteen he denied it. Said they’d not had as much as that.’ He glanced at Caroline again. ‘He said that Peter had drunk the most. He’d been angry about something . . .’ He glanced again at Caroline, then at me.
‘Go on,’ I urged him.
‘He and his mother had had a row, he claimed.’ I noticed that Caroline did not turn round at that point, but maintained her silent vigil at the window.
‘Heaney continued to deny he’d been drinking at all. Though I . . .’ Again he glanced at Caroline, coughed, then continued, ‘I told them both that when we find Peter, we’ll find out the truth anyway.’
I could understand the delicacy of what he had said. If Peter turned up alive, he could tell us himself. If not, toxicology results would reveal traces of any alcohol taken prior to death.
‘Did he mention running away from home?’ Caroline asked, turning her body towards us but remaining where she was, her back against the window, her arms folded across her chest.
‘None of them said that as such, ma’am,’ McCready said.
‘Caroline,’ she corrected him, before returning her gaze to the shoreline.
I left for home at around seven thirty that evening, once the twilight had deepened to night. The road to Lifford takes you through Barnesmore Gap, between
Croaghconnelagh and Croaghonagh. On either side of the road, you are enclosed by the sheer climb of the mountainsides, their ridges marked with angular dark-brown boulders, jutting through the soil, their sides flanked with sparse forests of fir trees. The thin black shadows of the trees were elongated by a heavy moon that clung close to the mountaintop.
Just as I was passing through the lowest point of the valley, where the river snakes along the base of the mountain to the left of the road, my mobile rang. It was Caroline.
The proximity of the mountains affected my reception and her message was broken. Yet there was no denying the changed tone of her voice. Between the static and the breaks in reception, I was able to decipher that she had received word from Peter.
I stopped in Ballybofey once I’d made it through the Gap, and phoned her from the car park outside Jackson’s Hotel.
‘He’s OK!’ she said, her voice buzzing with elation, as soon as I answered the phone. ‘He’s in Dublin.’
‘That’s fantastic news, Caroline. I’m delighted for you. What did he say?’
‘He . . . I didn’t talk to him. He sent a text message. He’s in Dublin.’
‘He didn’t say why he’d gone?’
‘No – that’s it. He’s in Dublin somewhere. Not to worry about him.’
‘That’s good news, Caroline.’
‘I’m heading down to Dublin, now, Ben. I just wanted to let you know. I . . . Thanks for your help.’
‘Not at all, Caroline,’ I said. ‘It was good to see you, despite the circumstances. I’ll contact someone in Dublin – get a bulletin out to the uniforms.’
‘Simon is meeting me there,’ Caroline said. ‘Look, I’ll be in touch,’ she said. ‘Thanks again.’ Then the line went dead.
As I drove back towards Lifford, I was a little ashamed to realize that my relief at Peter turning up alive was tempered by the knowledge that I would now be unlikely to see Caroline Williams again.
Chapter Eight
As I passed through Castlefinn on the way back to Lifford, I noticed a number of squad cars parked along the main roadway. An unusually large number of people were walking along the pavements, spilling onto the road as they made their way towards the entrance to Rolston Court, a cul-de-sac of thirty or so small council houses. Several of them had banners and placards. Pulling in, I approached a group of squad cars and was more than a little surprised to see my superintendent, Harry Patterson, standing with some of the men.
‘Where were you?’ he said.
I explained that I had spent the day in Rossnowlagh with Williams looking for her son.
‘How is she?’
‘Better now,’ I said. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Anti-drugs demo.’
‘What are they doing?’
‘Someone told them that Lorcan Hutton operates out of one of the houses up in Rolston Court. They’re going to protest outside his house.’
‘Why?’
‘That fucker on the local radio named him at lunchtime as a suspect in the killing of Kielty. This Rising crew held a meeting about it this afternoon and arranged this.’
‘How the hell did the media know? We haven’t even got official confirmation that the body is Kielty’s.’
‘God knows,’ Patterson said. ‘Your station leaks like a sieve. Speak to that fat sack Burgess about it, find out if he told anyone.’
Your station.
‘Is Hutton there?’
‘We’d better hope not,’ Patterson said, then turned and walked away from me.
After putting on one of the fluorescent vests being handed out to Gardai by two uniforms, I walked back up towards the gathering crowd. I called Debbie to tell her I’d be a bit late home. I’d missed dinner and the kids’ bedtime yet again, she observed, before hanging up.
As I was putting my phone away, our desk sergeant, Bill Burgess, approached me. He was usually good-humoured, if not a little sarcastic, but it was clear that Harry Patterson had said something to him regarding the leak of Lorcan Hutton’s name.
‘I tried calling you several times today,’ he started, clearly believing the best form of defence to be attack.
‘I was busy. Harry spoke to you, I take it.’
His expression softened a little and he nodded his head. ‘Ignorant bastard,’ he murmured. ‘He accused me of letting slip about Lorcan Hutton and Kielty to the press.’
‘Did you?’ I asked. Burgess was reliable but was so used to doing things his own way and in his own time, he could have said something carelessly in earshot of the wrong person.
‘I did not,’ he said, indignantly. ‘I don’t know who told them, but it certainly wasn’t me.’
‘Then forget about it,’ I reasoned.
‘But Harry said—’ he protested.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ I said. ‘There’s no harm done.’
I was fairly certain it hadn’t been Burgess who’d leaked the news. But I had lied when I’d said there was no harm done. It had alerted Lorcan Hutton to the fact that we were looking for him, which would probably mean that he’d go underground for a while.
Satisfied that I was convinced, Burgess wandered off, trying to look busy. I followed suit.
I scanned the crowd in front of me as I walked. There were upwards on one hundred present. Two press photographers skirted the body of people. One of them climbed up onto the pillar of someone’s garden wall in order to get a shot encompassing the whole crowd. I climbed up on the wall beside him to get a better view of proceedings myself.
‘All right,’ he said, nodding, his camera poised in front of him. I suspected he thought I was going to tell him to get off the wall.
‘What’s the story?’ I asked, gesturing towards the front of the throng.
‘You tell me,’ he shrugged. ‘We just got word that this Rising crowd were protesting tonight. Do you think there’ll be any trouble?’
‘I doubt it,’ I shrugged.
‘Pity,’ he replied, then continued taking his shots.
I thought of something and, checking my jacket pockets, found the pictures Jim Hendry had given me the day previous.
‘You couldn’t do me a favour,’ I said, handing the images to the photographer. ‘Would you let me know if you spot any of that crew?’
He glanced down at the pictures, flicking from one to the next, committing the faces to memory. At the third he stopped.
‘Jimmy Irvine?’
I nodded.
‘Shouldn’t be too hard to spot that baldy bastard,’ he said, handing me back the pictures I’d given him.
I scanned the gathering myself, looking for familiar faces. To the front of the crowd, a cameraman and interviewer were moving slowly backwards while they interviewed someone at the head of the mass of protesters. The cameraman had a light attached to the top of his camera, which silhouetted the heads of those in the front rows, making it difficult for me to see who the interviewer was speaking to.
The lights went out suddenly, as the crew finished filming, and flickers of white light dazzled my eyes as I adjusted to the darkness again. Someone at the front had produced a bullhorn and was starting a chant of ‘What do we want? Dealers out! When do we want it? Now!’ The gathered crowd soon took up the mantra, their chants growing in intensity.
Finally, the shouting began to quieten and I realized someone at the front had started to address the crowd. It was difficult to hear exactly what was being said, though I could hear something about ‘peaceful protest’. I saw, from my vantage point, a figure break from the protesters and walk up to the door of Lorcan Hutton’s house. He stopped at the door and pushed a white envelope through the letter box. The crowd cheered and the man with the bullhorn started another chorus of chanting. The crowd stood like that for a further fifteen minutes before those gathered at the rear, disappointed not to have witnessed a lynching, began to break away and make their way back out of the court.
As they did so, the photographer I’d spoken with earlier nudged me. He poi
nted to our far left, towards a group of men standing distributing leaflets.
‘That’s the crowd you were looking for,’ he said. ‘Irvine’s not there though.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, palming him twenty euros.
I made my way over to where the men stood. Some of those they had given leaflets to passed me, dropping the green flyers on the ground as they went. I stopped and lifted a copy.
Under the heading, ‘Taking Back Our Community’, the flyer boasted a photograph of a man, tarred and feathered, tied to a lamp post. Around his neck hung a sign, though the reproduction quality was too poor to be able to read clearly what was written on it. Under the picture was a lengthy piece of text about the rising drugs problem and the lack of response to it from the police and politicians. It called for ‘a new Rising to reclaim our streets’.
As I approached the group, the older man – Armstrong, Hendry had called him – stepped forward, a leaflet held towards me.
‘I’ve seen more than enough already.’
‘We’re just saying what needs to be said. Someone has to take a stand against the dealers poisoning our children.’
‘Fascinating,’ I said. ‘I’d like to speak with Mr Irvine.’
‘He’s not here.’
‘Where is he then?’ I asked.
‘Fuck business is that of yours?’ Armstrong asked with sudden aggression.
‘Someone murdered Martin Kielty. I’ve been told that your outfit are likely to blame.’
‘Then you’ve been told wrong. We’d nothing to do with Kielty. We’re a legitimate, peaceful community organization.’
‘Distributing images of fascist street justice?’
‘Still justice though, innit?’ Armstrong leaned slightly forward on the balls of his feet as if trying to emphasize his point.
‘Tell Jimmy Irvine we’d like to speak to him when he has a chance. He can find me at Lifford Garda station any time he feels like talking.’
‘We’re holding a rally in Letterkenny on Thursday night,’ Armstrong sneered. ‘You want to hear Jimmy talk, you can come along to that, same as everyone else.’
The Rising The Rising (Inspector Devlin #4) Page 4
