Trespass

by Anthony J. Quinn

  Daly stared at Barclay’s impassive profile. Why was he disclosing this? Out of professional courtesy or something else? Barclay turned and looked at him sympathetically. Daly felt furious but also disorientated. In the past year, he had never felt so ill at ease with his fellow police officers and superiors, and it was an even longer time since he had felt able to make a personal friendship with another officer. He retreated from Barclay’s friendly smile.

  ‘What other stories has he been saying? Who else has he told these lies to?’ He felt stirred into launching an all-out fight for justice, to clear his mother’s name finally, but he also felt a wave of revulsion at the underhand manner in which the Special Branch detective was undermining his reputation.

  Barclay averted his gaze. ‘I’m just letting you know what I’ve heard.’

  Daly wondered if this was the reason why so many of the Special Branch team had been eyeing him suspiciously. He wanted to vigorously defend his mother’s name, tell Barclay about the woman she really was, a hard-working nurse devoted to her family, that she had been targeted because they had been a Catholic family planning to build a new house, that their dreams for the future had stirred mean little jealousies in their neighbours, but that was something he had wanted to forget. He remembered how his father had told him that his mother’s death was over and in the past. That had been on the day he joined the police force, long before he discovered the carefully concealed truth about her murder. If only it were that simple to forget. Now he had a sour taste in his mouth.

  Barclay watched Daly closely. ‘Irwin is a police officer and has to observe the rules of conduct. He’s not free to say anything he likes about a colleague.’

  Daly nodded. He did not know whether to despise Irwin or to pity him.

  ‘You should ignore him,’ continued Barclay. ‘He’s just one police officer who can’t control his tongue.’ He rubbed his neck. ‘Right now, both of our reputations are under more serious threat.’

  Barclay was right, thought Daly. He had been stirred with anger and ready to tackle Irwin, but he had more pressing problems to deal with.

  ‘I hear that Thomas O’Sullivan has changed his approach,’ said Barclay. ‘All of a sudden he’s turned into a perfectly reasonable negotiator.’

  ‘What have you heard?’

  ‘That the travellers are so keen on kidnapping that they abducted the same boy twice.’ Barclay laughed cynically. ‘A rival family member took the child by force with the intention of ransoming him back to the original kidnappers.’

  ‘Whatever the truth, time is the most important factor now. We need to track down McDonagh using all available resources.’

  ‘But in spite of our surveillance on the travellers we’ve got very little to work on. The investigation is mired in confusion. You’re annoyed over your colleague’s bad behaviour and I’m scratching my stupid head over how we allowed Jack Hewson to disappear right under our noses in the first place. None of this is helping the investigation.’ He stared meaningfully at Daly.

  ‘What are you suggesting?’

  Barclay hunched his shoulders. He stared at Daly as though he badly wanted to share a secret with him. ‘Jack’s disappearance was not a random incident,’ he said. ‘It’s part of a deeper pattern of criminality within the travelling clans. It’s time someone was brave enough to crack their wall of silence.’

  ‘How do we do that?’

  ‘First we need some leverage.’

  Daly reverted to his usual silence. He had no idea what Barclay was hinting at, but he was intrigued.

  ‘O’Sullivan isn’t going to volunteer the whereabouts of McDonagh, Celcius. He’ll divert blame from his own people, but he’ll never willingly help the police arrest another traveller. Whether you’re investigating drug smuggling or searching for a missing boy, you have to apply pressure to the correct people. Disgruntled business associates, angry spouses, nosy neighbours, to name but a few.’

  ‘And how do you apply pressure?’

  ‘Look, I never had the temperament of detectives like you, Celcius. Patiently questioning one suspect after another, teasing out the leads. But in my own way, I can be very persuasive.’ Barclay gave Daly more eye contact, level and sustained.

  ‘You’re still not making yourself clear. What are you proposing we do to the O’Sullivans?’

  Barclay flashed Daly a delayed grin. ‘When it comes to the border you’re an outsider, Celcius. You don’t know what policing the place is like. Don’t make the mistake of thinking that it’s easy to reason with people like the O’Sullivans. If you’re not prepared to take measures into your own hands and use some force, you’ll never find that boy. What I propose is we should invent some charges to do with drug dealing and use that as leverage.’

  Daly felt a measure of disappointment in Barclay and also distrust. Why was he brazenly suggesting they should break police rules? ‘I prefer to make my own judgement as to how the investigation should proceed.’

  Barclay was distracted by a column of fresh-faced police officers moving down the corridor. He turned sideways into the sunlight and shadows scooped at his bony face. He looked back at Daly and tipped his head closer with a confidential air. ‘I like how you operate. I’ve seen how you deal with the top brass. You don’t talk the bureaucratic crap of all these new officers eager for promotion. What do they know about policing? Their heads are filled with all these fantasies of a new Northern Ireland. They can’t see the truth, even though it’s staring them in their faces.’

  ‘And what is that?’

  ‘That political power and justice come from physical force. Look at all those politicians and their advisers in our government. How many of them have blood on their hands?’

  Barclay’s eyes widened, as if he were remembering the grisly past. Daly knew that Barclay had started in the police reserve, and had moved around a lot between stations along the border. He would have had to tough it out before rising to the rank of detective. Daly sighed. How had they got on to the contentious subject of the past when they had more pressing problems to deal with?

  ‘I’m heading to O’Sullivan’s camp right now,’ said Daly. ‘I’ll let you know how I get on.’

  ‘I’ll follow you. We’ll take him by surprise. That’s halfway to winning the battle.’

  ‘No. I’d rather go alone.’

  ‘You don’t know O’Sullivan.’

  ‘I’ve known dozens of men like O’Sullivan, sitting on secrets all their lives. If he hasn’t told the police anything up to now, the two of us barging in and trumping up charges is not going to make any difference.’

  ‘Is this about territory? You don’t like me muscling in on your investigation, is that it?’ Barclay grinned. Almost everything Daly said seemed to make him grin. Not because he somehow saw the funny side of their conversation, thought Daly. More that Barclay was trying to lighten the mood, and convince him they were immersed in a light-hearted caper instead of a serious investigation veering towards disaster.

  ‘Look, let me talk to him,’ said Barclay.

  ‘No. This is my investigation.’

  ‘He’ll tell me everything. Who knows, maybe he’s been waiting for someone like me to appear. Someone who knows how to bargain and haggle over the truth. Maybe you’ve never raised the stakes with him. I know how to do that. I know how to get the answers.’

  ‘What if the truth cannot be told? At least not to you or me?’

  ‘What do you mean? Of course the truth should be told to us. We’re police officers. We uphold the law. We are beyond reproach.’

  ‘What if O’Sullivan is keeping silent not because he’s afraid of incriminating himself but because he’s protecting a family secret, one that has been hidden for decades?’

  Barclay took a few steps backwards. His voice went flat again. ‘OK, Celcius. Have it your way, but you’re at serious risk of getting yourself into a tangle again. I heard about the near riot you caused the last time you went looking for O’Sullivan.’ He took o
ut his mobile phone and began punching in a number. ‘I’m going to inform Special Branch and have them monitor your progress with O’Sullivan, whether you like it or not. The stakes are too high to let you risk doing this on your own. Detective Irwin will give you back-up on the ground, should anything go wrong.’

  Daly sighed. ‘Fine with me,’ he replied, forcing aside his earlier antipathy for Irwin. ‘But make sure he keeps at a discreet distance. I don’t want anyone spooking O’Sullivan while he’s this close to helping us.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Jack awoke from a half-slumber to the sound of metal scratching against the window. He pulled back the curtains and saw that the girl had returned. Her nose and cheek were pressed against the glass, her skinny arms wielding a crowbar, which she had wedged into the tiny gap between the pane and the window frame. She was strange and feral-looking, forcing the window open in the moonlight, but somehow alluring with her black plait and large eyes, which immediately cautioned him to be silent. She strained and pushed, using the weight of her body, and eventually one of the window locks snapped, creating a gap large enough for him to clamber through by twisting his body sideways. He dropped to the ground with a grunt. Immediately, she slipped her cold hand into his and held it there as they crouched in the darkness beneath the caravan.

  They hunkered lower as a group of men carrying heavy cans lumbered towards them. Fearing capture, they crawled to the other side of the caravan. They listened to the men whispering, a period of silence, the hoot of an owl, and the sound of a liquid sloshing against the sides of the caravan. The acrid smell of petrol coiled up their nostrils. They rubbed their eyes, which wept in the fumes. He felt his throat choke and he tried to stifle the noise, but it came out as a broken cough.

  The men stopped moving. There was a tense hush. The pair lay still and closed their eyes in the cramped space, barely breathing, and then the sound of someone flicking a cigarette lighter made them desperately drag themselves from beneath the caravan and run for cover. He heard what sounded like grim laughter, mirth incorporating a murderous delight, and then the licking roar of flames taking hold, engulfing the caravan in a ball of yellow and orange hues.

  Jack’s father had told him there were different types of travellers, and not all of them belonged to the same road: some had settled in houses and stayed put for generations. But in most cases they were a proud and insecure people, their loyalty centring on their extended family. The men who had doused the caravan with petrol were different, however. Their hair and moustaches were matted and greasy, and they seemed to spend most of their time arguing drunkenly among themselves. They had shown contempt for family bonds. They were not travellers; they were thieves and criminals.

  Black fumes of smoke and a trapped violence burst forth from the caravan’s shell, as though it had been harbouring weeks of pent-up rage. The windowpanes splintered and their frames melted in the heat.

  They kept moving, glancing behind every now and again. The burning caravan grew brighter, their only landmark in the darkness. Then an explosion filled the air. They ducked for cover and for several moments they stared back, entranced by the blaze, the wind and flames opening the guts of the caravan to a howling roar. Even from this distance, they felt a heavy blanket of heat roll over them. What had prompted such murderous violence? wondered the boy. Was it his fault or his father’s?

  Then they were running again. He allowed her to keep possession of his hand. In the circumstances, it was all he had to give. Beyond the glowing encampment, the forest was filled with mist and faint blue starlight. They scurried into the trees. The sense of a new adventure, private to just the two of them, filled him with a sense of relief and excitement. However, as the pine branches swept over them, she slowed, tugging him back.

  ‘Am I going too fast?’ he asked.

  ‘No.’ She withdrew her hand and pulled away from him. ‘It’s time you told me what you’re keeping… secret.’

  A pale light seemed to emanate from her face, a light without any warmth, her eyes like ice.

  He grew exasperated. ‘Don’t you think if I knew, I would tell you?’ He felt anger rise in his throat. ‘You know something I don’t,’ he shouted. ‘What makes you so certain I have a secret?’

  ‘All I know is you’ve gotten me into a lot of trouble.’

  ‘I didn’t ask you to help me.’

  The shouts of men began to draw near with the searching beams of torches.

  ‘Jesus and Mary look after us,’ she said, gripping him by the hand, and then they were off again, running with one mind, fending off the branches and briars with their free arms. They paused for breath and heard the voices grow louder, torchlights wavering in the darkness. One of the beams glanced across her face, lighting up the tiny cuts on her cheeks from the briars. Her eyes gleamed with the sheen of a wild animal. She made a sign of the cross, and dragged him after her.

  The trees grew thicker, the terrain more uneven. Branches seemed to spread and solidify all around them, their gorged roots rising up from the slimy ground. Sweat poured from him and the muscles of his legs burned with exhaustion. Eventually, they broke from the forest on to a grassy bank that ended abruptly in a deeper darkness. Are we free? he wondered, staring back at the trees. Where were their pursuers and which direction should they take now? What about the girl, was she his ally or his captor, leading him on to a darker trap?

  They stood apart, contemplating their next move. A cold wind buffeted their bodies. Was it a river or a silent road that stretched before them? It was so black, he could not tell. She turned to him with a smile, and then she climbed to the edge of the bank and leaped into the well of darkness. Without hesitating a moment, he ran after her and jumped.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The traveller camp was a fairground of discordant noises, doors banging on the caravans, brakes squealing as children rode round on rusted bikes, babies wailing from battered prams pushed by girls laughing and talking in high-pitched voices. Daly could feel the adults watching him surreptitiously through the caravan windows as he made his way along the muddy paths. He spied a drunk-looking man sprawled on a set of steps, bent over and gulping. He was unsure if the man was laughing to himself or vomiting. A magpie flapped away, sharing the detective’s look of unease.

  Daly tried not to attract too much attention. He wanted to wander and poke around a bit. However, the children began to follow him around, drawing closer to satisfy their curiosity. He turned upon them and asked for Thomas O’Sullivan’s whereabouts.

  ‘What do you want him for, mister?’ they asked.

  ‘I’m here to do business.’

  A horse and rider emerged from between the trees. A large piebald mare with a touch of Irish draught, and seated on top was O’Sullivan, bare-headed and grinning, taking a leisurely tour around the margins of the camp. He urged the animal towards Daly and circled the detective, his bearing radiating authority.

  ‘I hope you haven’t come to arrest us, Inspector. Or chase us away.’ His eyes were challenging, and in the wet dusk, his drooping moustache looked even more impressive. His darkly haired hands, covered in gold rings, held the reins loosely.

  ‘I’ve come to warn you that everything has changed.’

  ‘Has it?’ replied O’Sullivan. He seemed more focused on his horse and the fading light. ‘How has it changed?’

  The children swarmed around them, and the horse shivered, taking several steps backwards. The light thickened into darkness.

  ‘Whatever reason you had to take the boy, it no longer holds.’

  ‘Why do you think that?’

  ‘His father was murdered. Another man has died in mysterious circumstances. Who is there left to apply pressure on?’

  ‘You’re missing the point, Inspector. The motive for taking the boy still stands.’

  ‘Then tell me what it is.’

  O’Sullivan reined the agitated animal to a stop and stared towards the entrance of the camp, distracted. Had he seen Irw
in’s back-up car or was he just checking if Daly had come alone or not? He turned his attention back to Daly.

  ‘He was taken to apply pressure on you, Inspector.’

  Daly stood in the deepening gloom as children on bikes and pushing prams ran and played around them as though they were both invisible. What did the traveller mean? O’Sullivan slid from his horse and plonked his considerable frame beside Daly. What the detective saw etched in his face was worse than animosity. It was triumph.

  ‘We took Jack to see how you and your colleagues reacted.’

  ‘Which colleagues?’

  ‘Senior detectives in Special Branch.’

  ‘Who are you talking about? Irwin or Fealty?’

  ‘That’s still the problem; we don’t have a fucking clue who they are.’

  ‘But they know you. You’ve been a person of interest for a long time. For the past six months, an extensive surveillance operation has been focused on you.’ Daly considered O’Sullivan’s grinning face. ‘Is that why you took Jack? To divert police attention away from your criminal activities?’

  ‘The people most anxious to find Jack are the ones with the biggest secrets to hide,’ said O’Sullivan.

  What sort of conspiracy was he hinting at? What links and secret associations lay at the heart of the case? Daly thought of Special Branch’s interest in the case right from the start and their recruitment of Harry Hewson. To the foreground loomed the figures of Irwin and Fealty, police officers whose main skill and rigour lay in concealment. The journalist had been sitting on a very large story involving travelling families but also secret smuggling routes, politicians, business companies with a special interest in property, and a woman who had disappeared a long time ago at the heart of it all. Did the story also include police officers working in a conscious effort to hide a crime?

  A look of concentration settled on O’Sullivan’s face, as though he had finally made up his mind about something important. ‘I’ve nothing else to tell you, Inspector. Other than it’s time you met the boy.’