‘Jack’s a shy boy. He doesn’t engage with anyone he doesn’t know.’
‘But think carefully. Did anyone look at him or seem interested in him that made you hesitate, even for a split second?’
Rebecca sat upright but said nothing. They were uncomfortable questions, asking a mother to rake over the happy hours of family life, searching for a sinister shadow in the background. He ran through in his head reasons – other than the one most feared – why the occupants of the van might have abducted the boy. The fact that the mother was a solicitor involved in criminal cases might be a motive. Perhaps she had made enemies among the travelling community.
‘Have you had any trouble with travellers in the past?’ asked Daly.
‘What do you mean, Inspector?’ said Harry.
‘I mean have you been involved with them in any legal cases?’
‘Who hasn’t?’ she replied with a helpless shrug.
‘What about travellers behaving suspiciously around you or your home?’
She took a deep breath and glanced at her husband. The look of panic returned to her face.
‘We and our neighbours have been having a little bit of bother recently,’ intervened her husband. ‘A small group of travellers camped illegally on land next to our housing estate.’
Something seemed to pinch Rebecca’s throat as she struggled to say something.
‘At the start no one was bothered by them,’ continued Harry. ‘But then they began gathering scrap and more caravans arrived. There were rumours they were involved in illegal activities, possibly cigarette smuggling. Eventually the police moved them on. Really, they didn’t bother—’
This time it was Rebecca’s turn to interrupt. ‘I found them in my back garden one morning. They were talking to Jack.’
‘Those were just children, Rebecca. They didn’t mean any harm.’
‘Can you describe them?’ asked Daly.
‘The oldest was about thirteen or so. He had a horrible look on his face. When I asked them to leave he shouted an obscenity.’
Harry shifted his chair slightly. ‘Jack said they were just looking for old bikes,’ he told Daly. ‘Look, Inspector, we’re not sure they were from the camp. They might not even have been travellers.’
‘But they knew my name. And they knew you were away,’ said Rebecca, turning to her husband. ‘They’d been watching our house. I was concerned they were going to come back and look for us.’
Her husband placed a steadying hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off.
‘Tell me about the traveller camp,’ said Daly. ‘Which clan did they belong to? Do you know where they moved afterwards?’
‘I think we need to stick to what’s relevant, Inspector,’ said Harry, a note of anger covering up his anxiety. ‘My son is missing and my wife is clearly distraught. She’s not capable of thinking straight at the moment.’
Something in his manner suggested to Daly that he’d had dealings with the police before, and not all of them had been amicable. He made a mental note to check the details of the traveller camp afterwards. The police and council agencies would have taken an interest in the movements of the clan. He hoped they would be able to give him something to work on.
‘We’re trying to work out what happened to your son, Mr Hewson,’ said Daly. ‘Unfortunately, we have no CCTV footage of the car park, which means I’m going to have to ask questions to find out what happened.’
At that point, Detective O’Neill popped her head round the door and beckoned him.
She spoke to Daly in the corridor outside. ‘We’ve got the details of the van’s owner, but I’ll bet he’s in hiding now.’
‘What do you mean?’
She had conducted a computer check of the vehicle registration and traced it to a Thomas O’Sullivan, from 6 Dunmanagh Drive in Dungannon. Daly raised an eyebrow. The name and address were familiar to him. O’Sullivan was the head of a local traveller trading empire that imported cheap furniture from Eastern Europe. He had made his fortune during the Celtic Tiger years when the country was awash with cash, rich pickings for door-to-door sellers like O’Sullivan, whose astute investments in property had also helped fund the building of a lavish mansion in Dungannon and a brand-new fleet of Mercedes vans. However, like the majority of his clan, O’Sullivan was usually nowhere to be found. His Dunmanagh home might be his official address, but his true home was on the road. The mansion was merely a bolthole, a place to stay while he buried his dead, organized family reunions or celebrated Christmas and Easter.
‘I’ve sent two patrol cars to check the address,’ said O’Neill.
‘Send out an alert to all mobile patrols and the ports and airports to be on the lookout for the van,’ replied Daly. ‘Let me tell the Hewsons what we’re doing and then we’ll pay a visit to O’Sullivan’s house. Let’s hope we find a trail there.’
CHAPTER TEN
The suspect’s address took Daly and his colleagues to one of the strangest ghost estates he had ever seen, with its avenues of lavish-looking mansions in the sort of tree-lined setting dreamed up by a high-end architect yet not a single soul in sight. A granite plaque with silver lettering on a gatepost told Daly he had arrived at number 6. He pressed the buzzer next to the electric gates but nothing happened. He sounded the horn of his car as officers from the patrol cars lined the black railings. The place seemed unnaturally quiet, but unlike the many ghost estates dotting the countryside, this one had no for-sale signs or unfinished buildings. Daly stared at the three-storey mansion at the end of the drive. It was utterly still, deserted. In fact, the entire estate had the air of a place where all the inhabitants had fled some impending disaster.
For travellers there was death and then there was settling down, hence the gloomy, unused feel to the houses. O’Sullivan and his relatives had built these dwellings as temporary refuges in times of celebration or uncertainty, locking them down for the rest of the year while they took to the open road, travelling between Ireland and Britain, and into Europe, doing business, laying tarmacadam, ferrying cheap cigarettes, or selling furniture and electrical goods at knock-down prices. The extravagantly designed houses had statues on gate pillars, high-security fencing, stone cladding and garages with double electric doors, but they existed as grandiose fragments, without any connection to the town or ordinary settled life. They were trophy properties, as extravagant and empty as the monuments the travellers erected for their departed in graveyards.
Through the gates, Daly saw a manicured garden adorned with life-size marble statues of children playing, while next door’s had a bronze boat with sailors holding up spyglasses. He felt as though he had been sidetracked, misdirected into a labyrinth of frozen figures and enchanted houses, while the real action was taking place elsewhere.
Impatient for some clue to O’Sullivan’s whereabouts, he clambered on to the gates, wedging his shoe in a gap in the metal bars and pulling himself up to the spikes, which were more decorative than burglar-proof. He paused for breath and lowered himself to the other side, half expecting a dog to come barking at him, but the house and garden remained silent. The gate shook with the efforts of the other officers following his example.
A cold wind, a remnant of the winter just past, stirred the shrubbery in the garden. A flock of sparrows flitted over the high evergreen hedge, settled for a moment on the ghostly white garden statues and then scattered. Daly’s feet crunched on the gravel as he approached the front door. He rang the bell and knocked on the door loudly, but there were no signs of life from the house. He stared through the large windows and rapped at the glass. Still no one appeared.
‘O’Sullivan’s hit the road. What does that say?’ said O’Neill, joining him in the shadow of the house.
‘Only the guilty run,’ replied Daly. But then, travellers were always hitting the road. ‘We’ll have to get a warrant for his arrest and put a stop to him using his passport.’
They walked round to the back, O’Neill gesturing towards the
garden statues, which, according to rumour, had been erected in honour of O’Sullivan’s offspring. ‘They say he has a few more rows hidden behind the rhododendrons for his illegitimate kids.’
On a whim, Daly tried the back door and was surprised to find it unlocked. He pushed it open and stepped inside.
‘Wait. Don’t we need a search warrant first?’ said O’Neill.
Daly barely paused before answering. ‘I heard someone shouting for help inside,’ he lied.
She frowned, but followed him into the silence within. For half an hour, they searched for any signs of the boy or clues to his abduction. They found nothing at all. What they saw was a pristine interior far removed from the untidy jumble of the traditional traveller’s caravan, but one that had been drained almost completely of any sign of habitation or personal touches. Daly made a mental inventory as he moved from room to room, the marble tiles reflecting the weak evening light, the solid oak doors closing soundlessly behind them, the kitchen looking as abstract as a laboratory with its smooth floor and empty worktops. A nauseating smell of bleach hung in the air. They walked into a number of sitting rooms that resembled large white cells, filled with spotless furniture and rugs. The most striking theme of the interior design was its blandness. Glittering ornaments and crystal decked the glass cabinets, but not the type Daly would ever wish to see on his own shelves. The walls of the rooms echoed as they searched for some sign of O’Sullivan or the boy’s whereabouts. With every step he took, Daly felt the air grow colder and emptier. The sense of abandonment grew oppressive.
The only hints of a family life were the photographs in heavy silver frames, mostly of weddings and christenings, filled with pneumatic young women in puffed dresses and false tans. O’Neill pointed out O’Sullivan to Daly, a moustachioed figure in the centre of the photographs, usually in an open-necked white shirt, a big black-haired man, who looked as though he enjoyed eating and drinking as much as wheeling and dealing.
They went upstairs and checked the bedrooms, which again looked barely lived in.
‘This place doesn’t feel like a home,’ said O’Neill. ‘It’s a show house. There’s nothing secret here. Not even a locked door or safe.’
Daly nodded. ‘The boy’s not here. Perhaps he never was.’
They were about to leave when his phone buzzed into life. Daly listened as the voice of Commander Sinclair drifted in and out. The reception was weak and he had to walk to a corner of the kitchen to get a clear signal.
‘I’m sorry, Daly,’ Sinclair was saying. ‘Turns out only the chair of the panel can authorize your return to normal duties. If we’re going to put you in charge of this case, we’ll have to do this through the proper channels.’
Daly frowned at the phone. ‘What are you saying?’
‘I’m taking you off the search.’
He went quiet.
‘It’s not up to me. Internal Affairs have insisted only they can decide if you’re fit to conduct this investigation.’
‘But the inquiry has been dragging on for months.’
‘They’re close to making their decision.’ Sinclair’s voice seemed to be suppressing something. Daly wondered about the meetings that had taken place to discuss the future of his career. Meetings that Sinclair must have attended.
‘Should I assume the worst?’
‘Not necessarily.’ There was a change in his tone. ‘For one you have my support. Give me an hour or so to discuss this with the relevant people.’ Daly heard paper rustling. Sinclair was searching through his notes.
‘OK.’
‘Don’t do anything until I call you back. In the meantime it would be best to let O’Neill run things.’
Daly didn’t reply. He felt the silence of the house tower behind him, room after room of mocking stillness.
‘Anything you’re not clear about?’
‘No,’ replied Daly. ‘I’ll await your call.’
O’Neill looked surprised when he told her she was in charge until further notice. The expression on his face must have betrayed his embarrassment and irritation.
‘What should I do now?’
‘Check all the usual traveller haunts. Someone must know where O’Sullivan has gone to ground.’
She promised to keep him informed and then she left. Daly stood in the house, watching the other officers follow O’Neill, unable to join them. He felt angry and restless, like a bear that had been dragged back to its cage. He prowled from room to room as though he might find some refuge in the stone-cold emptiness of the house from the indignity of deferring to a junior officer. He should really have returned to police headquarters and awaited Sinclair’s response but he lingered in the mansion, feeling protected and isolated within its sterile silence. He wondered what it would be like to live in such a dwelling, a brand-new building with all the mod cons, spotlessly clean and bright, rather than his cramped dark little cottage, its geometry twisted out of shape by his family’s tragedy, its windowsills mouldering in the damp lough-shore winds, and plaster crumbling in its walls.
He perused the rooms again, carefully opening and closing the doors. Was it his instinct as a detective that kept him there or something more flawed, a voyeuristic curiosity that he could not shake? It was an untouched house, in whose crypt-like rooms nothing changed, and through which visitors wandered like impostors or ghosts. He tried to understand O’Sullivan’s relationship with the house. Had he abandoned it because inevitably every refuge begins to feel like a prison after a while?
The quality of light through the tall windows changed, grew heavy, soothing his mind. He stood in a kind of trance, suspended by the silence of the rooms. He still worried about the fate of Hewson’s son, but it was mainly the behaviour of travellers like O’Sullivan that occupied his thoughts. Did they lead happier lives with the escape route of the open road always at hand? Without the grind of a fixed work routine, their world was bigger than his, more expanded in space and time, but did that make it more comprehensible or less? Daly knew so little about their lives. He remembered as a child his father referring to them as tinkers and lamenting their plight. They were a race left over from another time, uprooted during the years of the Great Famine and forever doomed to walk the roads, their status debased, their lives rendered mean and pointless by their lack of belonging and their broken attachment to the land. During the Troubles, both sides of the community had regarded them with deep suspicion so that they were often caught in the crossfire between warring factions. Daly had heard the reports of brutal attacks by the old police force, the B-Specials, as well as by paramilitaries and vigilante gangs, who were keen to expel travellers from their turf or exploit them for their own purposes. During the darkest days, Unionist politicians had openly called for them to be incinerated, while Republicans intimidated them into smuggling explosives and collecting intelligence information. Even after the ceasefire, traveller families were likely to be firebombed from their illegal campsites.
He kept searching the rooms for clues about the elusive O’Sullivan. Men like him were impossible to pin down, wandering the dangerous territory of exile and homelessness. They belonged nowhere. Was that why they were always viewed with such suspicion? Was that why they needed huge houses like these, places in which they might feel safe for a night or two, where they might take respite from the suspicions of society, the interrogating gaze of police officers, where they could prove they belonged to a place like everyone else, even though deep down they knew they would always be strangers?
What unsettled Daly was the realization that these were the same reasons he kept himself confined to his father’s dishevelled cottage. His fear of uprootedness and not belonging; his inability to shake off the notion that deep down he was a stranger, too, in a society emerging from a long and bitter conflict into peace, and that he could never belong anywhere if he did not feel at home in his childhood berth. Such was his dread of displacement that he had not spent a single night away from the cottage in more than seven years. Other peo
ple changed homes, jobs, and loves with easy regularity, but he had tenaciously held on to the same four walls, the same piece of ground and dwindling set of opportunities, a prisoner who thought he had found refuge in the farm’s bleak geography of thorn trees and hummocky fields, while a widening gulf slowly separated him from the rest of the world. Who would he become if he left the cottage and abandoned the farm? Would he be able to reinvent himself if he moved to the city? The questions tantalized him.
In a drawer in one of the bedrooms, he found a hardback history of the Irish travellers, consisting mostly of old photographs. Wrinkled men and women with suspicious frowns next to their high-wheeled caravans. And children. Many children. Grinning with their grown-up faces and heavy stares. He flicked through the images. Straggling families cast adrift on muddy lanes, camping at the edge of towns and villages. A lost tribe emerging from darkness, carrying and hauling their cumbersome burdens, moving slowly on an endless road to a destination they would never reach.
In one of the pictures, the hooves of the horses pulling the caravans were padded with straw and bound with strips of red flannel. Men with furtive faces posed alongside the animals, guiding the caravans along secret paths in forests. In the caption, Daly read of the long stealthy marches the travellers made across the border during times of heightened suspicion, when they had to muffle the sound of their horses’ shoes to avoid the detection of the settled population. He wondered if that was what O’Sullivan would do now: creep away into the darkest reaches of the old border roads, making himself invisible between the jurisdictions of the two different police forces? Even if he had not abducted the boy, O’Sullivan would still run; it was the traveller instinct to avoid police attention at any cost.
But this was the past he was contemplating, not the modern-day world. Travellers were no longer invisible, transient visitors beyond the reach of the law. There were no secret roads left for fugitive souls in present-day Ireland. The law of both jurisdictions would not relax until they had found O’Sullivan and his van, pinned him down in whatever corner of the country he was hiding.
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