‘How’re you?’ Nicell said as we shook hands. ‘I got your call. I’ve been meaning to get back to you, but things are a little hectic at the moment.’
‘No hassle,’ I said.
We stood a little awkwardly on the incline. The hood of my waterproof kept flapping in front of my face as the rainwater dripped into my eyes from my hair.
‘So you found Lorcan then,’ Nicell said, gesturing towards the body.
‘Eventually.’
‘We thought this Rising crowd had driven him underground, to be honest,’ Nicell commented, stepping up towards the body.
‘He was underground all right,’ Patterson said with a smirk.
‘Almost. His body was put in one of the sarcophagi in the Abbey grounds. The rain flooded the place, burst the walls and washed the bodies down. If he’d been properly underground we’d never have found him.’
‘Foul deeds will rise, isn’t that the line?’ Nicell said.
‘So what brings you out to the arse end of Donegal?’ I asked.
‘Your Super asked us to put in an appearance, see if we can’t help out in some way.’ He glanced over his shoulder to where Patterson remained at the bottom of the incline, speaking to some of the council workers. Then he continued in a lowered voice, ‘To be honest, we’re so fucking stretched at the minute we’re just about covering the big players. Hutton’s name featured with us a few times, but he was small fry.’
‘Small fry? He’s been running drugs here for years.’
Nicell stopped and raised a placatory hand. ‘Sorry – I don’t mean it like that. It’s just, there are eight of us to cover the entire county. I know Hutton was a prick, but the actual figures he was pushing were relatively small. There are really only four big players in Donegal and they’re all further into the county. The borderlands have been left fairly much to their own devices. I think most of the big pushers didn’t want to piss off the paramilitaries who were running the trade in the North and over the borders for years.’
‘What about Martin Kielty?’
‘The guy who died?’ Nicell shook his head. ‘Never featured on my radar. I’d heard the name in dispatches. The drugs may have moved out of the cities, but the resources to tackle them haven’t.’
‘We’re looking at Irvine for the killing of Kielty. Seems possible he’s to blame for this one too.’
‘It does, all right,’ Nicell said. ‘Again, Irvine’s figured more in the North than over here.’
‘Kielty’s girlfriend told us that Irvine’s crew threatened him in a local pub and then sent him a death threat in the post. The barman in Doherty’s confirmed it was Irvine. Though he said that he picked on Kielty and ignored other pushers in the pub at the same time.’
‘Who knows what these fuckers are thinking?’ Nicell said. ‘Could be a private beef between the two of them. It sounds likely that he’s your man, though. I’ll keep an ear out and let you know what I hear.’
We reached Hutton’s corpse and Nicell knelt beside him to examine the wound to his head.
‘The ME hasn’t even arrived yet,’ I said.
‘Poor bastard,’ Nicell said. ‘Though the fucker had it coming to him if he was happy enough to keep peddling his shit.’
‘If he was small fry, what’s your interest?’ I asked. I’d already experienced the NBCI arriving halfway through an investigation and sidelining the locals in a previous case. I didn’t want a repeat performance from the county’s Drugs Unit.
‘Honestly? None. Your boss there wants us to show our faces at a press conference he’s organized to say that Hutton has been found. This Rising crew have him riled. I think he wants to reassure the public that the “Drugs Unit” is on the case. Pure bullshit, of course. Fucking PR exercise.’
‘What’s the story with The Rising?’
‘Fuck knows. The only thing it has done is drive a few of the dealers underground or out of the county. Hutton and Kielty are just two of a half dozen we know of, stretching to Inishowen, who have upped sticks and moved. Though in the case of Lorcan and Kielty, the move was more permanent.’
‘Do you know anything about a guy called Vincent Morrison?’
Nicell shrugged his shoulders. ‘Nothing, why?’
I explained my previous encounter with Morrison. ‘He’s a slick bastard and he got away with murder, quite literally. I’d swear if he’s involved with The Rising, there’s something else behind it. He’s not the community-minded type.’
‘I’ll ask around and see what I can find,’ Nicell said. ‘Though I’ve not heard his name in connection with anything. Whatever else I can do, just give me a bell,’ he concluded, handing me his card.
At that, John Mulronney, the ME, finally arrived. He stood at the bottom of the incline where Hutton lay and looked up to the body. Puffing out his cheeks and using his black medical bag for balance, he began his ascent. Halfway up, his feet gave out under him and he landed face down in the mud, his arms out to his side, one managing to hold his bag an inch off the ground.
‘Fuck!’ he yelled, while Nicell and I slid our way down to him to help him up as the others around us bent double with laughter.
Mulronney gave Hutton a cursory examination, signed the death certificate and left again with little conversation. Hutton’s body was not to be touched until the state pathologist arrived and did his initial examination. For my part, I had promised Caroline Williams that I would be at Peter’s funeral. I wanted to get home and showered before Debbie and I headed down. Before that, someone had to visit Lorcan Hutton’s parents and inform them of his death. I suggested to Patterson that he might want to do it.
‘Lifford is your station, Devlin. You can handle it.’
‘In that case, I need you to send a Forensics team to the house in Rolston Court. I also want a team to check Ian Hamill’s car. We found it last night on Barnesmore Gap.’
‘Yes, Inspector,’ he drawled. ‘Lucky I have you to tell me my job.’
Hutton’s father and mother sat together on their leather settee while I informed them that their son’s remains had been discovered and invited them to officially identify his body in Letterkenny Hospital.
Both had been doctors, which may have accounted for the clinical, professional manner in which they received news of their son’s death. Or perhaps, aware of the lifestyle he had been living, they had always expected such a visit.
‘How did he die?’ Mr Hutton asked, leaning back on the seat, stretching his arms across the back, crossing his legs as he did so.
‘That has yet to be established,’ I said.
‘You must have some idea,’ he snapped.
‘It would appear that he was shot, Dr Hutton. The postmortem will be more conclusive.’
Hutton nodded as if I had confirmed something for him.
‘I am very sorry. Would you have any idea of anyone who might want to hurt Lorcan?’
His mother looked at me, slightly bleary-eyed. His father, however, snuffed his indignation at the question.
‘Who didn’t want him dead would be easier to answer.’
‘You were aware of what your son did for a living?’
‘We’re not thick, you know,’ Hutton barked, only to be silenced by his wife laying her hand on his knee.
She looked at me plaintively. ‘I don’t know where we went wrong,’ she said.
I silently considered the fact that, for the past decade, they had bankrolled Lorcan’s activities and paid for the best legal representation for him every time he was arrested. Yet they were just another set of grieving parents, no different from Caroline Williams.
‘There was nothing you could have done to prevent this, Mrs Hutton,’ I said, truthfully.
Chapter Eighteen
The church in which Peter Williams’s Funeral Mass was conducted was huge, yet there were few empty seats by the time we arrived. The entire left-hand side of the main aisle was awash with the navy blue of the school uniforms worn by several hundred of Peter’s fellow students,
who stood to attention as his coffin was carried past. A Celtic football shirt had been placed over the coffin. On a table in front of the altar was a framed picture of Peter sat with a soccer ball and a games console beside it.
The school’s choir began the Mass and I watched as a number of the students wept openly, hugging their neighbours. At the front I could see Caroline and Simon Williams standing side by side in the front seat. Caroline’s parents sat in the next pew.
During his homily, the priest spoke warmly of Peter and referred to the tragic loss of his young life. He encouraged the other students to be careful in all that they did, and to always appreciate the gift of life they had been entrusted with. I could tell from the tone of his oration that he himself was being careful. He did not explicitly say that there had been something untoward about Peter’s death, or that it was anything other than an accident. Still, his admonition to the assembled children was evident.
As we processed from the church afterwards, marching silently behind Peter’s coffin, I noticed that the rain had finally stopped and the sun had managed to break out from behind a thick cloud bank to the east.
Caroline and Simon Williams stood at the church door while the mourners offered them their condolences. Caroline appeared to be holding together reasonably well, though her eyes were puffed and red. She was bent over slightly, as if the events of the week had somehow physically sucked some of her vigour from her.
In contrast, Simon Williams stood ramrod straight. As he thanked people for coming and agreed with them that Peter’s death had indeed been a waste, his gaze flicked towards Caroline, his hatred barely concealed.
After the burial, family and friends were invited back to a local hotel, for some lunch. We stayed long enough to see Caroline, having not had a chance outside the church. As we spoke to her, she seemed dazed. I couldn’t work out whether it was simply her brain’s manner of coping with the day’s events or if, perhaps, her parents had given her something to help her manage. Either way, she looked at us a little blankly while we talked. She thanked us for coming, thanked us for everything we had ever done for her.
‘Anything you need,’ I said, ‘just ask.’
‘That Guard, McCready, came to see us last night,’ she said. ‘He told us they’ve decided Peter’s death was suicide. Is that right?’
I nodded, unsure what to say. ‘He . . . the pathologist thinks that it might have been. You had mentioned he was depressed. I thought . . .’
‘Do you remember what I said about being punished? That’s why he did it,’ Caroline said earnestly. ‘He’s punishing me.’
‘That’s not true,’ I said, placing my hand on her arm.
‘The selfish little fucker did it to punish me. But he never thought about me, did he? He couldn’t forgive me.’
I tried to think of some way to convince her that she had made no mistake, but I could find nothing to say that might penetrate the aura of detachment that surrounded her.
On the way home, I caught the end of Patterson’s press conference on the radio. I recognized Rory Nicell’s voice as he reassured the public that An Garda had a handle on the drugs trade around the border. It was possible that the deaths of Martin Kielty and Lorcan Hutton were connected but, at this stage, he said, we were not looking at the involvement of any other persons.
‘That’s bullshit,’ I said to Debbie, turning down the volume slightly. ‘Hutton was shot in the head. Kielty was stabbed in the chest and burnt. They couldn’t have killed each—’
Debbie interrupted me, turning the sound on the radio back up. ‘There’s your friend,’ she said.
The interviewer was now speaking to Vincent Morrison. Did he feel in any way guilty about the death of Lorcan Hutton? she asked.
‘Not at all,’ he replied. ‘Why would I?’
‘An Garda did suggest that vigilante actions from groups like The Rising would simply force dealers underground. Might the actions of The Rising not have contributed to Hutton’s disappearance and death?’
Morrison responded that the group were simply ‘voicing frustration’, and led the interview in a different direction by taking umbrage with the ‘vigilante’ suggestion. He reminded the interviewer that he was a community activist, not a member of The Rising.
‘That must make you happy,’ Debbie said, turning the volume down. ‘The chance for a public smack on the wrist for Morrison.’
I shook my head. ‘Morrison’s not responsible for Hutton’s death. He was killed weeks ago, judging by the state of the body.’
‘I’m sure you’ll find some way to pin it on him anyway,’ she sniped, undoing her seat belt as we pulled into our driveway.
‘What have I done now?’ I asked, though the slamming of the door was the only response I got.
When I went into the house, Penny was sitting at the bottom of the stairs. My parents had been watching the kids for us so we could go to the funeral. I knew, from both the expression on her face and the fact that she was awaiting our arrival, she had a request to make.
‘Daddy, can I go to the cinema tonight with my friends?’ she blurted before I’d even managed to close the front door.
I knew that Debbie’s anger with me was due in no small measure to my refusal to allow Penny to go to the disco.
‘Of course, sweetie. I’ll drop you round and collect you again, though.’
Penny flashed me a smile, then turned and thudded up the stairs to her room, from where, a few seconds later, we heard the bang of her wardrobe door being flung open and the first of many clothes hangers hitting the floor.
My father was putting on the kettle to make us some tea. Debbie tried hard to maintain her anger but had clearly overheard my conversation with Penny.
‘Don’t think this makes it all all right,’ she muttered as I passed her.
‘Not even if I pay for her popcorn too?’
I collected Penny’s two friends from their respective homes and drove the three girls down to the cinema. The twilight sky was still an inky wash over the horizon. The girls chattered happily in the back seat, whispering conspiratorially to each other then erupting into gales of laughter when I glanced at them in the rear-view mirror. On one such occasion I caught Penny’s eye and she smiled mildly in a manner that reminded me of Debbie.
We stopped at the cinema and I gave Penny twenty euros to pay her way in and buy some popcorn and drinks for the three of them. When they got out of the car she waved in the window happily, though I noted that she did not give me her customary kiss on the cheek.
I watched until the girls had disappeared inside before pulling off. As I approached the car park exit, a large black 4x4 drove past me. The driver glanced in my direction as he drove by me, raising his hand in salute. In the seconds of his passing, I recognized Vincent Morrison. In the passenger seat sat his son.
I stopped at the exit, wondering whether to go back and collect Penny. I knew that, to do so, in front of her friends, would not improve my relationship with either her or Debbie. In the end, reluctantly, I drove on.
Chapter Nineteen
I reached Letterkenny before 8 p.m. and headed straight to the station. Irvine’s rally was due at eight thirty in the town square. Patterson had arranged for two squad cars of Guards to be on site, ostensibly to marshal, though the numbers attending were unlikely to be high enough to justify such attention.
‘Intelligence tells us The Rising has an active membership of only a dozen or so. Hangers-on might make the numbers up to twenty. Don’t take any shit,’ Patterson told me before we left the station. ‘Bring Irvine in on anything. Be creative,’ he added.
The rally had begun by the time we arrived in the town centre. Someone had brought along a small amplifier to which was attached a single microphone. Irvine stood on a set of concrete steps leading up to the cathedral. Intelligence may have suggested twenty in attendance: in reality the figure was closer to fifty, amongst whom I recognized a few faces from the protest at Hutton’s.
Irvine was
shouting into the microphone in order to be heard but held the mike so close to his mouth that his words were lost and fuzzy with static. Still, the sentiment behind them was fairly obvious: drug dealers deserved no mercy; someone had to protect the local community.
The crowd in front of him clapped at each statement, some more enthusiastically than others. Patterson’s deployment seemed to be having some effect, for some of those gathered twisted their heads occasionally to see if we were still sitting on the roadway watching them. One or two of the younger fellas at the front pulled scarves over the lower halves of their faces.
Eventually, Irvine addressed our presence directly.
‘It’s good to see An Garda protecting the community. Maybe they’re afraid someone’s going to sell drugs here.’
The crowd laughed as required.
‘They know what would happen to them if they did. We’re not taking their shit any more. If the Guards won’t do anything about them, we will. The Rising shows the people of Donegal aren’t prepared to tolerate any more drugs on our streets. We have a voice, which is good. Sometimes, though, you need more than a voice to deal with the scum that sell drugs to our kids.’
Applause here. Some of the more militant turned towards us, slow clapping in our direction. Other members of the crowd, though, seemed less comfortable with Irvine’s sentiments.
‘The only good drug dealer is a dead one,’ Irvine shouted, his front-row acolytes raising a cheer of approval.
‘That’s enough for us,’ I said into the radio transmitter in my car. ‘Incitement to violence. Let’s bring him in.’
The two teams of Guards began to move up through the crowd, heading towards Irvine. I noticed some of the people at the back begin to peel away, sensing something was about to happen. Others not only stood their ground, but seemed to swell slightly, as if this was the real event of the evening, the reason they had come in the first place. I noticed one or two of the youths who had covered their faces reach into coat pockets. I whistled across to two of the uniforms on the far side of the grouping and pointed to the youths. ‘Blades!’ I shouted.
The Rising The Rising (Inspector Devlin #4) Page 10
