Trespass

by Anthony J. Quinn

  ‘They told me they had a contact in the police force who would let them know if I told you about the meeting.’

  ‘Most likely a scare tactic.’

  ‘I wasn’t willing to take that risk.’

  In the circumstances, a desperate mother would do anything her child’s kidnappers wanted. It was pointless to add to her stress by making her feel at fault. She stared at him with a calm, resolute gaze. A thought occurred to him.

  ‘You’ve been very composed in spite of everything that has happened,’ he said. ‘How did you know the traveller was genuine? What proof did she give that she was holding Jack?’

  ‘They sent me an email though his own account. Jack and I were the only ones who knew the password.’

  ‘You believe that only Jack could have given them access to it?’

  ‘I think so. Someone could have hacked his account, but our home computer has all the latest protection.’

  Daly nodded. It seemed unlikely that the travellers had penetrated the family’s computer. They had connections everywhere in the real world, but he doubted that they extended to the internet.

  ‘What about your husband? Any word from him?’

  ‘Nothing. Not even a text message.’ Her voice grew more earnest. ‘You have to understand, Inspector, this was the first time I felt I could do something since Jack disappeared. It gave me strength. I wanted them to see how determined I was to get him back.’

  Daly noticed how quickly she had changed the subject away from her husband.

  ‘I need you to tell me more about Harry. Anything unusual about his behaviour. Any sudden show of anxiety or annoyance over a topic of conversation.’

  She shrugged and fidgeted with her handbag.

  ‘I need to know the real Harry Hewson. What is there about him that you haven’t told me?’

  ‘What makes you think there’s another side?’

  Daly wondered if he should tell her about his discovery of Harry’s possible links to Special Branch, but thought better of it. The revelation might plunge her into a darker territory of worry.

  ‘I have a right to know if you suspect my husband is behind Jack’s disappearance.’

  ‘Why did he leave immediately after coming back from the police station?’

  ‘I’ve already told you. I don’t know.’

  ‘Did he ever mention the names Samuel or Alistair Reid?’

  She pulled a face. ‘Are the names important?’

  ‘They might be.’

  ‘Tell me more about them.’

  ‘Samuel Reid was an elderly pig farmer who lived along the border. He died in mysterious circumstances a few days ago. He is survived by his brother Alistair, the politician.’

  She nodded. ‘I remember now.’ She paused for a moment. ‘I think he found their names on a list of directors for a property company.’

  ‘What sort of property company?’

  ‘You should talk to his work colleagues.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I heard him talking about it on the phone.’

  ‘I’m finding it hard to trace anybody who worked with your husband,’ said Daly, wondering if Hewson’s phone calls had been to his handlers in Special Branch. ‘What did you hear?’

  She vacillated for a moment. ‘The organization was called the Strong Ulster Foundation. Harry was obsessed with it. He discovered that it relied on funding from people’s wills and political parties. Since the property crash, it went on a spending spree, buying hundreds of empty farms along the border, but it had no office or contact number. The only details registered with Companies House were the names of its directors.’

  Daly made a mental note of the details. ‘Any more phone calls for your husband? What about the woman called Caroline?’

  ‘She rang again this morning. I didn’t answer so she left a message. She still didn’t say why she wanted Harry.’

  ‘And the traveller woman? Has she called again?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We’re going to place a tap on your phone to help us trace any calls that come through. It’s important that you cooperate with us and let us advise you if either of the women ring again.’

  ‘Of course. All the traveller would tell me was that Jack’s alive and being looked after, and that they had taken him because of something that happened in the past. They said my husband would explain it.’

  He considered carefully what they had told her. ‘They’re keeping you in a state of suspense by acting in this mysterious way. It’s their way of manipulating you into becoming more compliant.’

  ‘But what they could possibly want from me?’

  ‘Only your husband can tell us, I’m afraid.’

  She caught a glint in Daly’s eyes. ‘I don’t know what he has been keeping secret. But what about you? Do you know more than you’re letting on?’

  Rather than answer, Daly stared at Rebecca, throwing the question back at her.

  ‘I’ve been telling you the truth,’ she said. ‘I have no idea what is going on with my husband and the travellers.’

  ‘If the travellers try to get in touch in any way, you must contact me immediately. Understood?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘At some point they are going to start making demands, for money or for whatever else it is they believe they can use Jack as a bargaining tool.’

  ‘What should I do in the meantime?’

  ‘Sit back and wait. Trust us on this, Rebecca; we will get your son back, but you have to cooperate with us and be patient.’

  She nodded resolutely. However, her determined expression began to dissipate when she saw the shadows of worry on his face. ‘Do you really think my husband could be behind all that’s happened?’

  He stared at her unblinking eyes. ‘It’s a strong possibility,’ he said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  As soon as Daly returned to his car, he rang Inspector Fealty. However, the Special Branch inspector was in an important meeting and would not be free until lunchtime. Daly sighed. He felt uneasy about what lay ahead. He asked the secretary to pass on an urgent message requesting a meeting with Fealty as soon as possible, and then drove back to headquarters. When he returned to his desk, he was surprised to see Fealty standing there, waiting for him.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ asked Daly. ‘I thought you had a meeting.’

  ‘I got your message and decided to pop down.’

  Daly briefed him on what he had discovered about Hewson’s background, and the news that he had disappeared from his family home. He handed Fealty the printout of the redacted police file.

  Fealty glanced at the pages, pulled a face, and slipped them back into the cover.

  ‘I understand that the full report on Hewson is confidential,’ said Daly, ‘and that ordinarily its details can’t be shared with other police teams. However, given that the man is the father of a missing son, and can’t be traced at the current time, I thought you might be able to share the details informally.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Fealty. The coldness of his stare reminded Daly of a bird of prey. ‘Everything relevant in terms of Hewson’s background is already available to you.’

  ‘But that’s not the full story, is it? The boy’s disappearance has turned a spotlight on Hewson, on all that he knows and did, whether Special Branch like it or not. I need to know if he was on your payroll.’

  Fealty stared at Daly’s face with a look of annoyance that transformed itself into a glare of hungry fascination. ‘Listen, Daly, you’re currently under internal investigation, suspected of helping a dangerous spy escape the clutches of the police. You’ve also been accused of potentially destabilizing the political settlement and bringing Special Branch into disrepute, and now you want to access secret intelligence reports to satisfy your curiosity about a person who happens to be the father of a missing child?’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘I can’t show you them.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘That would b
e breaking the rules.’

  ‘I’ll swear I never saw them.’

  However, it was clear from Fealty’s attitude that he was not going to volunteer Daly any further information on Hewson’s secret life.

  ‘Let me educate you a little on the territory you’re threatening to tramp all over,’ warned Fealty. ‘While you’ve been stumbling around your farm and hiding in the local courthouses, Special Branch have been waging a secret war with dissident paramilitaries linked to smuggling and organized crime. For the first time in Northern Ireland’s history, we have national crime agency officers on the ground unravelling their networks, following the cash trails, unpicking their secret bank accounts. This file on Hewson you’re requesting is sensitive to the highest degree.’

  ‘I have been out of touch,’ said Daly. ‘But you should have informed me of Hewson’s role with Special Branch. I believe he has forged some links with dangerous individuals. I had been working on the theory that he might have been complicit in the boy’s disappearance, but this revelation raises the possibility that the kidnapping was a warning or a form of retaliation.’

  ‘What makes you believe that Hewson’s links with Special Branch had anything to do with the disappearance? I’ve already checked with your colleagues, and they say there are no grounds for this line of inquiry. In fact, they tell me you’ve yet to make any significant progress in the investigation.’

  ‘That’s not entirely true. I’m investigating the suspicious death of Samuel Reid, which may or may not be connected to the same travellers behind Jack’s disappearance. There are also links with a missing person case from the 1970s. A traveller girl called Mary O’Sullivan, who her family believe was murdered.’

  ‘What sort of links?’

  Daly thought of explaining one of the theories he had formulated, but decided against it. ‘Links we have yet to understand fully.’

  ‘You’re not making much sense.’ The increasing proximity of Fealty’s body intensified the criticism in the words. ‘Let’s start with what you do understand.’ Fealty’s face broke into a sneer. It was almost an involuntary reflex. Daly thought of walking away, but stood firm. He would not lose his sense of calm. He was determined because he believed Fealty was counting on him losing his temper.

  ‘I don’t know how you manage it, Daly. You take a clear-cut abduction case and with a bit of clumsy detective work you turn it into some sort of political conspiracy. I’ve already had a phone call from Alistair Reid, objecting in the strongest possible terms to your line of questioning.’

  ‘Has he lodged a formal complaint?’

  ‘If he had, we wouldn’t be having this chat. You’d be at the sharp end of an internal inquiry.’

  ‘His brother was fearful for his life. He made several complaints to police officers that the travellers were menacing him, prying into his private life.’

  ‘Close the Reid investigation.’ Fealty gave Daly a cold look with his controlling grey eyes. ‘If the travellers drove the poor old bastard to a fatal accident, they succeeded. There’s no way we can prove it in a court of law. Work on the missing boy. His life is at stake. Not to mention your reputation as a detective.’

  ‘Driving someone to kill themselves is not accidental death.’

  ‘Let’s try to keep the politicians happy, Daly, and work on this one together. In the past, you’ve shown an unpleasant talent for embarrassing and compromising your Special Branch colleagues. You should think of us as a valuable asset to have at your side, rather than dreaming up links to the past and itching to get your name in the newspapers.’

  Daly flinched at the last remark. Getting his name in the news was the last thing he desired. He found himself doing exactly what he had intended not to do, getting angry with the Special Branch inspector, and that made him angry with himself.

  ‘Trust me on this, Daly. If Hewson’s involvement with the security services was relevant to your investigation we would let you know.’

  ‘His involvement is relevant if it turns out he was out of control, a rogue agent. What role did he play and what influence did you have over him?’

  ‘He provided information on an ad hoc basis. Sometimes it was useful; sometimes it wasn’t. In return, we fed him stories that were of use in firming up the peace process. However, the details of that information are too sensitive to divulge at this current time.’

  ‘If you won’t let me know informally, then I’ll have to make an official request to see Hewson’s full file.’

  Fealty stood so close that Daly could feel the hot breath of his nostrils. ‘You’ll need to be given special security clearance to see it. This will have to go to the highest levels of the police service.’

  ‘Tell them it’s urgent.’

  ‘It will take several days at least to get the relevant clearances.’

  ‘And while you’re at it, tell them I want a copy of the file you’re keeping on me.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Yes. I’m sure you don’t need me to spell out my name.’

  Fealty’s expression was a blank, and then a makeshift grin formed on his lips. ‘I have to warn you that it might be uncomfortable reading.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I believe the last entry was an observation about you following Rebecca Hewson into church yesterday.’

  Daly’s face froze.

  ‘What were you doing there, by the way?’ asked Fealty.

  ‘Observing my Lenten obligations.’

  ‘Whatever that means.’

  ‘It means none of your business.’

  ‘Has she caught your eye?’

  Fealty’s line of attack was getting too personal, and Daly felt his temper bristle. He had been keeping their voices low but the intensity of the conversation drew looks from a group of officers passing by the door. Detective O’Neill appeared amid them, waving a sheaf of papers in her hand. Fealty backed away a little and some of the harshness in the air dissolved. The Special Branch inspector’s face relaxed, grew less ravenous.

  ‘Very well, Daly, I have to go now,’ said Fealty. He nodded at O’Neill, and then turned back before leaving the room. ‘Remember, this missing boy is your chance to rehabilitate yourself and get back into the force’s good books. Don’t muck it up.’

  After Fealty left, O’Neill handed Daly the sheets, which were printouts of the calls that had been made to Rebecca Hewson’s house over the past week.

  Some of the numbers belonged to friends and relatives of Rebecca. Other calls were from her firm of solicitors and Jack’s school.

  ‘There are two numbers that are of interest,’ said O’Neill. ‘One of which was from a pay-as-you-go mobile which can’t be traced. The other is a Belfast number, which rang the Hewsons’ home several times over the past month, including twice since Jack’s disappearance. It belongs to a government office. Unfortunately, we can’t find out the extension number that rang or the staff member who made the call.’

  Daly’s eyebrows rose when he recognized the number.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  From under the camouflage of shadows, the black hen’s eyes glinted at Daly when he arrived home that evening. He did not glance in her direction as he inserted his key in the door. He knew that she was waiting for him to turn his head, rustling her wings slightly, begging for his attention. She gave a little cluck and challenged him to approach. However, he was reluctant to spend another evening cursing and chasing after her, afflicted by the worry that she might come to harm flapping over the muddled fields and ruined hedges. Resolutely, he refused even to look at her when the key shifted, and he slipped into the house.

  He switched on the lights and lit the fire. He listened to the silence of the rooms, waiting for the ghosts of the past – his dead mother and father – to join him from the cottage’s nooks and crannies, but there was no trace of either, and the place felt empty and cold. A lingering sense of guilt and loneliness made him check through the window for the hen’s huddled form, but she had vanis
hed from the porch. He felt bereft, like an old woman unable to accept that her children had finally left home.

  Eventually, he went back outside and scanned the unruly garden for the bird. He stood waiting to hear a cluck or scratch or catch a glimpse of her beady eyes. Where was she? Was she behaving in this way because he did not give her enough attention? In the chill of the early spring evening, with dogs howling on the neighbouring farms, his guilt over the hen’s welfare intensified. He checked the roof to see if she had returned to her roost there and to his annoyance saw that several more tiles had slipped from their places, hanging over the edge and ready to fall on an unsuspecting head. The moon came out from behind a floating cloud, and lit up the broken tiles, giving Daly the impression that the roof was tilting and about to collapse on top of him. He forgot about the hen and hurried back into the cottage.

  He opened the phone book and contacted the first building contractor he came across. This was the house he had been born in, and it was time he started taking care of it, even if it meant moving out for a while. He gave the builder the details and asked him to come out as soon as possible and organize a complete renovation of the cottage. Afterwards, Daly realized he had forgotten to ask him for a quote.

  In the bathroom, he was able to shave fully for the first time since the attack in O’Sullivan’s mansion. His eyes peered back at him from a shifting landscape of plum-coloured bruises. The swelling around his cheeks and jaw had gone, and he was able to close his lips without smarting with the pain. He would miss his suffering visage, he thought. Its pattern of injuries had been a mask to hide his vulnerabilities.

  He went to bed and lay awake for a while, waiting for the rain to come, listening for it dripping through the holes in the roof, but it was a still, frosty night, and all he heard was the flapping of birds’ wings and the cluck of his hen merging with the sounds of other creatures settling down for the night.

  He felt a pang of jealousy at the freewheeling existence of the travellers, playing musical chairs with their lives and wandering from place to place in their caravans. Here he was, desperately trying to maintain his dignity and place in the world, the trapped custodian of a crumbling cottage, struggling to fall asleep beneath a roof that let in the wind and the rain. Perhaps he should embrace the house’s ruin, and glory in it, rather than empty his bank account to prevent it from melting back into the earth. He had always been at odds with the idea of being its owner. Better to hand the place over to the snails and mice, the bats and birds, the ivy and nettles, which were always trying to poke and burrow their way through the damp walls and mouldy window frames. A brand-new caravan might prove to be a less squalid and cosier abode. He could even pitch it up in a field with a better view of the lough, or move it from corner to corner of the farm, as his whim dictated. The rest of the world might judge that he had come down in his fortunes, but what difference would abandoning the property really make to his self-esteem?