Taking a breath and looking up, he gazed at a view of Lough Neagh that eased his heart. Low clouds were shifting over the expanse of water, the waves swelling against the shore, their flanks dark and foaming. The hen’s wings flared over the top of a bush, the wind dragging her ungainly form to the far side of the thicket. He felt transported by the sight of her. If his troubled spirit could take form, it would be in the shape of this bird, broken-feathered and unbiddable, reverting to wildness within the blackthorn trees.
CHAPTER FIVE
Next morning, Daly returned to his usual berth alongside the prosecutors in Armagh courthouse. He had only one case to cover, but not knowing when the judge would call it, was unable to escape until lunchtime. Raindrops pecked against the high skylights, and then began falling in earnest, drumming against the glass, adding to the weight of the mood within the room. Daly wondered if his hen had found a comfortable roost at the bottom of some hedge. Perhaps she had dragged herself back to the safety of the porch, and was sheltering there right now, safe from the attention of foxes. Either way, he was not looking forward to another evening stumbling through shrubbery in the near darkness, trailing in her wake.
The atmosphere in the courtroom grew stifling, the hands of the clock above the exit barely seeming to move, the judge squinting at him from time to time with barely concealed scorn, as if waiting for him to make another wrong move. He was glad, therefore, when a note, passed along the bench and addressed to him in hastily scrawled handwriting, offered him an excuse to leave.
‘Please, Celcius, I need your help, urgently’, it read, followed by a signature, ‘Rebecca Hewson’. It was the young solicitor in bright red shoes, who had flashed him a sympathetic look the previous day. The familiar tone of the note surprised him. Within the confines of the court, solicitors tended to refer to police inspectors by their surnames, fellow lawyers by their first names, and the defendants by their first and last names, usually reversed. Such were the hierarchies of the justice system. He had never spoken to the solicitor, and here she was sending him a pleading note hinting at dark legal undercurrents. He grew cautious. He read the note again, and slipped it into his pocket. He looked up from the shadow of the witness box and saw her standing next to the public gallery.
She concentrated her gaze upon him, and he frowned in response. He was at a loss to fix a context for her request. It might have been something to do with a case he was covering, which made him dubious about her motives. He glanced at her again, feeling drawn to her pretty face, her glittering eyes. He detected something speculative and defiant in her stare and the way she eventually moved towards the doors, confident she had reeled him in.
He waited for the judge to stop speaking, her mute appeal intensifying in the air like a suffocating gas. When he rose and awkwardly excused himself before the judge, she flashed him a triumphant little smile and slipped into the public waiting room. He barely raised his eyes as he followed her out, feeling slightly embarrassed at the impropriety of a middle-aged detective running after this attractive-looking young solicitor. He thought he was dashing to her assistance, but in reality, it was his own no man’s land he was fleeing. The note and her eyes had formed the basis for his rescue. They were the first signals of the deliverance he had been longing for since uncovering the truth about his mother’s murder.
Rebecca Hewson leaped forward as soon as Daly entered the waiting room, dragging him to a corner where her client, a distraught young woman, was trying to comfort a crying baby. She began talking quickly about her client’s predicament – a single mother, brought to court on charges of shoplifting, who had been unable to find a minder for the infant. Daly followed the story bit by bit, focusing on Hewson’s pretty face in order to better tolerate the impact of the baby’s crying on his eardrums. To sum up, the woman had appeared before the judge with the baby in her arms. In a fit of irritability, the judge had immediately adjourned when the baby started wailing, warning the mother that bringing a child to court was not a get-out-of-jail card. Unless she found a babysitter, the judge threatened to cut short the hearing and punish her with an immediate custodial sentence.
Daly stopped the solicitor, without looking directly at the mother or her child. ‘What do you want from me?’ he asked.
‘We need someone to hold the baby while I defend my client. It will only take a minute.’
Daly reddened slightly, his expectation and curiosity changing rapidly to discomfort. He hadn’t expected such a request. He looked at the mother. Her face was young but her hands holding the infant were lined and chapped. Her stricken eyes disturbed him. ‘Why are you asking me?’
‘Because this woman needs help. She’s at risk of going to jail rather than getting a community service order, the usual punishment for a first shoplifting charge.’
Daly shook his head. It had been a week of strange humiliations.
‘Can’t you see how distraught she is?’
‘Is there no one else?’ He was not used to dealing with children, and the fact that he had responded so heedlessly to her request for help made him feel foolish. He glanced at the forlorn crowd in the waiting room, the grey-faced defendants and their relatives, hardly the pool of people from whom you’d recruit a reliable babysitter. ‘What about the father of the child?’
‘I’m sorry we don’t have time to go through all the options. The judge has just recalled the case.’
A security guard opened the court doors and called the mother’s name in a stern voice. She turned to Daly with imploring eyes.
‘Don’t worry, Inspector,’ said Hewson. ‘The mother is much more likely to go into hysterics than the child.’
Seeing how defenceless the young woman looked, how she lacked the confidence or strength to persuade him, he reluctantly agreed and took the baby into his arms. Ignoring her plight would have been churlish of him. Better to risk his own discomfort than appear rude, he reasoned, even if it meant looking ridiculous in front of his colleagues. The mother thanked Daly, while Hewson leaned against the doors, pushing them open for her client and ushering her through. Daly glanced at the solicitor’s bouncing dark hair and the neat curves of her dress. She flashed him a smile, her eyes shining, and disappeared into the courtroom.
Not knowing what else to do, Daly held the infant against his shoulder and patted its tiny back. Almost immediately, the wailing increased in intensity. Daly clenched his jaw, praying that the judge would give the case a quick hearing. He was a complete stranger to the child and there was nothing personal in its reaction to his clumsy attempts at soothing it, its rigid limbs and its hideously loud crying. He walked in small, anxious circles, feeling concerned for the baby’s welfare but impotent to help it in any meaningful way. He glanced around the waiting room, catching sympathetic but futile looks from the security guards.
He groaned in exasperation. The solicitor’s request had jarred him, thrown him back upon himself with nothing to hold on to, nothing to assert his role as a senior detective, a professional with more than twenty years’ experience in the police force. He had never before considered what happened to the babies of shoplifting mothers. It was unexplored terrain. The only skills he had were measured in terms of the cases he had solved, and the bitter mistakes made along the way. If he had a talent, it was in his stubborn and diligent approach to detective work, but was this any qualification for the task at hand? He put his head to one side and tried to communicate with the child’s angry face. His stubbled chin brushed its cheek, setting off another protracted wail, which echoed through the waiting room and along the corridors of the courthouse.
Trying to coax some sound other than crying, he asked the baby questions, but its tongue jutted out of its mouth, its distorted forehead bulging like that of a gargoyle. Out of blind reflex, its fingers clung on to Daly’s jacket, fastening on to him with a surprisingly ferocious grip.
Daly caught a glimpse of his reflection in a glass door, a suited detective holding a distressed baby with a solemn, regretful
air, as though he had just broken terrible news to it. He retreated to a less conspicuous part of the court, walking along the public information shelves, trying to distract the baby with the colourful leaflets.
Miraculously, the baby began to settle in his arms, its wet face nestling into his neck. He rocked the infant back and forth, and little by little, it edged towards sleep.
The minutes ticked by, and the warmth of the baby’s body and its soft damp cheeks released a tangle of feelings that lay knotted in Daly’s chest. He thought of his deceased mother. Not the remote, almost fairytale figure from the time immediately before her murder, but a physical memory, thrusting up from his earliest days, the smell of her freckled skin, the closeness of her breath, her mouth humming with happiness as she swung him in the air.
An image of his father’s last days also sprang to mind: the old man’s arms folded across his narrow chest as he rocked himself into emptiness, the sunspots on his yellowed flesh, and the frozen grey of his eyes, a final barricade against human interaction. Daly had loved them both, but they had been taken from him. He realized that since his father’s death he had not loved or cared for another human being. If he could have lived his life differently, he would have had children with his wife Anna, but it was too late now to have such thoughts. It would take a miracle for them to resume their relationship and start a family and he did not believe in miracles. Just as he did not believe in fate or destiny. Nevertheless, he shivered at the thought that he might be destined to roam his father’s farm for the rest of his days, burning with loneliness and guilt. What age was he? He was broaching his middle forties, so didn’t he still have lots of life to live, more opportunities to fill the cramped rooms of his cottage with the sounds of family life?
He should renovate the place completely, he thought, put on a new roof and insulate the walls, drive out the primeval damp that seeped up from the floorboards and the ghosts of the past that followed him through the tangle of tiny rooms. The cottage needed bigger windows that he could open fully to the lough-shore air, and noisy children clattering in and out of the doors. Such were the thoughts that ran through his mind as he watched the baby settle into a deeper sleep. He gazed at its still face, entranced. So focused was he on tiny events – the flutter of the infant’s eyelids and the rasp of its slow breathing – that at first he was not aware of the shadow looming beside him.
Hearing a chuckle, he looked up and gazed blankly at the face of Special Branch Detective Derek Irwin.
‘What’s up, Celcius? Interrogating your prime suspect? Or have you been keeping something secret from us?’
Daly felt as though he had been woken from a reverie. He bowed his head, and considered the baby lying defenceless in his arms, its mouth slightly agape.
‘It’s a professional matter,’ he said gruffly. His voice sounded pompous and tense.
The Special Branch officer watched for several moments, marvelling at the sight of the solitary and childless detective holding a baby with such solicitude. Some colleagues swanned past. With a jerk of his head, Irwin drew their attention to Daly’s arms, and they clocked the baby with bemused grins.
‘How old is it?’ asked Irwin.
Daly said nothing.
‘No, seriously. I’m interested. How old?’
Irwin was grinning. It was clear to Daly that he was not serious at all.
‘Come on, at least tell me its name. Is it a boy or a girl?’
Daly knew none of the answers. He grew tense staring at Irwin’s mocking features.
‘Strange to have known you all these years,’ said Irwin, ‘and not realized you were keeping such a cuddly version of yourself secret.’
‘What is it that you want to talk about?’
Irwin stepped forward and adopted a more confiding tone. ‘You’re hiding here, aren’t you?’
‘Hiding?’
‘Yes. That’s why you’re down here every day. Pulling stunts like this. For Chrissakes, you’re a fucking detective, you should be solving cases and catching criminals.’
‘What makes you think I’m hiding?’
‘Don’t pretend you’re not.’ Irwin was enjoying his discomfort, his grin widening.
Daly could not deny the truth in what the younger detective was saying. The courthouse had become a refuge, while police headquarters felt more like a front line, a place where colleagues and enemies, the past and the present converged dangerously. Neither of the two men spoke. The only sound was the rasping of the baby’s breathing.
Still Irwin lingered. Whatever the reason, he was not staying to be companionable.
‘You can’t hide here for ever,’ he warned, staring intently at Daly. This time the words felt more like a threat than a jest.
Daly stared back with a steely gaze. He has come with his sardonic grin to test me, he thought. He’s here to gauge my innermost thoughts and feelings. He must think that because I look ridiculous with this baby, I have become vulnerable. And now he is threatening me; he wants to see me flustered and uneasy so that he can exert professional pressure and gain an advantage over me.
Irwin leaned closer. ‘Here’s a word to the wise, Daly. We’re following up every lead on Hegarty. We’re sniffing round everyone who had contact with him before he disappeared. We’re very efficient in that regard.’
‘Does that include his former handlers in British Intelligence? I could help you out with some names.’
‘No need for that. There’s been enough scandal dredged up by that old bastard already. Look at the mess he entangled you in.’
Finally, Irwin’s words snagged and caught something in Daly. His irritation rose to the surface. ‘Are we talking about policing or are we talking about politics? Call me hopelessly idealistic but I thought our job was to protect the public, rather than the reputations of former commanders and security chiefs.’
‘You’re not idealistic, Daly. Far from it. Just dangerously stupid. Regardless of the meddling of traitors like Hegarty, this country is going to have to find some accommodation with its past. It’s the only way to avoid a return to violence.’
‘Wrong. All you want is what’s best for the top floor in the security services.’
However, Irwin was already backing away. The fun had gone out of the exchange. ‘Some day, Daly, you’ll realize we’re on the same side. We should be working for the future of that baby in your arms rather than creeping about in the shadows of the past.’
Daly watched Irwin disappear into the foyer, feeling something very dangerous surge from deep within his chest. Irwin had given his loneliness a terrible new edge. Suddenly he did not want to be in the courthouse holding this stranger’s baby. He shut his eyes, craving darkness or some sort of refuge, a secret hiding place in his father’s fields. The baby started crying again, and he stared at it with unblinking eyes. He wanted to be kind and patient to it, but his kindness and patience were nothing but a veneer hiding his raging frustration. The baby cried louder, its face burning with anger. The vulnerable lightness of its body set against the heaviness of Daly’s chest made him feel dizzy. He shut his eyes again, his mind full of darkly swaying blackthorn hedges. This is insufferable, he thought, I can’t do this. I can’t handle this baby’s anger and mine combined. We are heading towards disaster.
A woman appeared and gently prised the baby from Daly’s arms. He looked up, breathing hard. It was the mother returned from court. She gazed at Daly with grateful eyes, while the solicitor surveyed the handover with a victorious smile. Judging from their happy demeanour the case had gone in the shoplifter’s favour. Daly nodded curtly at them, unwilling to share in their relief. He resisted the attempt to make an admonishing remark to the young woman and did not look again at the baby. He walked away and felt a surge of release tinged with melancholy.
He slipped back into the courtroom, grateful to return to its long silences and his scripted role in the witness stand. Later, he realized that it was no accident that the solicitor had sought him out with her implori
ng eyes that morning. Not that it was fate or destiny either. It was something darker and more profound, a rite of initiation for the disturbing drama that was about to unfold between them.
*
The next morning the winter darkness lifted along the shore of Lough Neagh. Daly’s nearest neighbour, Nora Cassidy, woke to the sight of the hedges filled with shining white blossoms. The first tentative signs of spring had arrived and the hard-cornered fields seemed to swell and shimmer into softer, more mystical dimensions. She walked around the cottage enjoying the changed patterns of light, the new rhythms of life. Still curious about her lonely neighbour, she stepped out and walked up the lane to Daly’s cottage.
It had been a long, dark winter, with barely a glimmer of the sun, and the arrival of the blossom in such profusion felt like a miraculous intervention. A white wave of flowers surged along the lane, rising as though to drown the thorn thickets, leaving the detective’s cottage stranded like an island surrounded by a sea of blossoms. She saw his figure standing at one of his usual spots, dressed in his black coat, half-camouflaged by the drifts of light and darkness. She drew level with him and saw that he was staring at the horizon, his eyes full of glittering light. However, on this occasion, he was smiling. There was no urgency or restlessness about him this morning. He looked refreshed, without a worry, as though the arrival of the blossoms had insulated him from all harm and death. Perhaps there was no need for him to find a girlfriend or a wife, after all, she thought. During a lough-shore spring, men like Celcius Daly could live as though they were just floating, so weightless that not even the terrible crimes of the past could hold them down.
CHAPTER SIX
After his visit from the journalist, Reid had tried to put the folder of photographs and news clippings out of his mind. He had hidden them in a bottom drawer in the kitchen, but they were like a stash of whiskey to an alcoholic, impossible to leave alone. In an attempt to gain some form of mental equilibrium, he had returned to the drawer in the early hours of that morning.
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