Trespass

by Anthony J. Quinn

  ‘Is this a confession?’

  ‘No,’ said O’Sullivan. He led Daly to a van, and opened the passenger door. He waited for the detective to climb in. ‘I’m providing you with some secret information. I want to see what you think about it. But first, you have to trade a secret with me. It’s the traveller way.’

  ‘I have no secrets,’ said Daly cautiously. Nevertheless, he wanted to keep the line of communication open. ‘What secret are you talking about?’

  ‘The one involving police officers and the Strong Ulster Foundation.’

  Daly stared at him with growing interest.

  O’Sullivan grinned. ‘To help you make up your mind, I’m going to trade you another secret. I’m going to double the stakes by telling you who blew Harry Hewson’s cover.’

  The only good thing about O’Sullivan’s face was that his thoughts and emotions played so clearly on it. He seemed to be taking pleasure in administering the truth in neat little portions like pieces of bait.

  ‘It was his son,’ said O’Sullivan. ‘Hewson should have kept the boy completely in the dark, like he did his wife. Jack was old enough to ask questions but not old enough to understand the great danger his father was in. That morning in the courthouse, he climbed willingly into the van and blew apart all his father’s carefully laid plans.’

  O’Sullivan gestured at Daly to climb into the vehicle. ‘I can tell from the expression on your face that you know all about the Strong Ulster Foundation. You can take your time and share your secrets with me. We have a long journey ahead of us.’

  Daly had little choice but to clamber into the seat and buckle in. The engine of the van sounded suspiciously souped up as O’Sullivan revved it into life. As Daly took in the view from the windscreen, the rain-glistening path of the road winding through the trees, the wing flashes of birds diving for cover, he felt completely in the dark. However, he decided that not being in the know was fine for now, that a new perspective awaited him at the end of this journey. Besides, he had Irwin following behind. He could see the headlights of the detective’s car swing out on to the road behind them. The car hung back and followed at a discreet distance. Things were set in motion and O’Sullivan seemed ready to explain or confess his role in the kidnapping.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  In the darkness of the passenger seat, Daly concentrated on arranging what he knew about the travellers, the Reid brothers and the Strong Ulster Foundation, and why O’Sullivan was taking him on this road trip. He tried to bring order to the unanswered questions, the coincidences that linked the different protagonists in this complicated tale. He tried to project O’Sullivan’s intentions on to the circle of darkness that lay ahead of the headlights’ beams. The traveller was a lot more intelligent than he seemed. He was the head of the clan, one of the richest travellers in the country. He could have vanished over the border but he had remained at the campsite in full view of the police. There was still something he was overlooking.

  ‘Where’s Jack?’ he demanded.

  ‘Travelling.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In the old country.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Just wait and see, Inspector.’

  Daly reached into his pocket and took out his phone, but O’Sullivan reached across and deftly removed it. ‘I’m dealing with you and no one else,’ he warned.

  ‘These travellers who took Jack, I need to know what they want,’ said Daly.

  O’Sullivan took a tricky corner in fourth gear, the force propelling Daly against the passenger door, the front tyres whining with the strain.

  ‘Don’t you get it, Inspector? There are no fucking demands.’ O’Sullivan expertly changed gears.

  ‘Then why kidnap him in the first place?’

  ‘Because there’s a price on his head.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  O’Sullivan flashed him a grin broader than his usual one. Travellers were professional spinners of riddles, and he seemed pleased with Daly’s confusion. He took the next corner at even greater speed.

  ‘That was a bad bend,’ said Daly.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll go easier on the next.’

  Daly worried that there might not be a next time. He glanced in the wing mirror for a sign of Irwin’s car, wondering if O’Sullivan had spotted the tail. The traveller braked sharply and swung on to a side road. He ignored Daly’s questions and began talking about the secret roads and border crossings the travellers had been using for generations, the old cart tracks, the green ways, the hare paths and the high-sided lanes so deep and dark they felt like tunnels into another world. He told the detective stories about the charmed lives of smugglers and vagabonds, who spent their lives criss-crossing the border and camping in the wild. Then, during the Troubles, how the criminal enterprises of paramilitaries began to intertwine with the wilful wandering of the travellers, murderers and fugitives mingling with his people along the ghost roads of the border. A brigade of broken men had found a temporary home along the old traveller halting sites, he told Daly, but they did not really belong to the road. Living rough was not in their blood and they could never be trusted.

  Daly suspected at first that O’Sullivan was trying to trick him with his openness. He was used to sullen hostility from travellers, not this earnest gabbling from behind the wheel as they sped towards the border.

  ‘Tell me this, why did you build such a grand mansion and then abandon it?’ asked Daly.

  ‘I haven’t abandoned it.’

  ‘But my officers were able to enter it without setting off any alarms. It’s no secret that you choose to live in a caravan instead.’

  O’Sullivan’s eyes glittered. ‘For all the money I’ve poured into that place, I could never love it like the open road. It is a grand and sturdy house, but it always felt strange to me. Houses are dead places and the people who live in them are stuffed dolls. There’s nothing natural about a man and a woman trapped by the same four walls year in year out.’

  ‘Don’t caravans have four walls, too?’

  ‘But caravans are more like living things. They have their own personalities and quirks.’

  Houses, rather than caravans, were where the heart of the mystery lay, thought Daly. Houses and the people rooted to them, pottering about their possession-filled rooms, nurturing evil thoughts of revenge and betrayal, rather than the border roads winding before them and the traveller’s primitive way of life. A more sophisticated mind had been at work, plotting the murders of Samuel Reid and Harry Hewson. A mind locked down and deepened by greed and the fear of a decades-old secret being exposed to the light.

  The van rolled and bounced over the potholed road, splashing and rocking from side to side. The lights on the shaking dashboard caught the gold jewellery on O’Sullivan’s hands. His eyes were hooded and evasive as he glanced at Daly.

  ‘If you settled people really knew the dark thoughts in my head, you’d lock me up without question,’ he told the detective. ‘You’d lock all the travelling people up, if you could only read our minds. That’s why we keep moving on.’

  Daly frowned. O’Sullivan was revealing something true and personal from deep within, and he believed he understood something of the traveller’s inner torment. Thoughts welled up and prodded at his conscience: his mother’s murder, his divorce, his father’s silence and all the things that had been left unsaid between them. What would it be like to leave behind everything that reminded him of who he was? To join the travellers on the open road, to lead a life uncluttered by the baggage of the past, to stop stumbling in the darkened interior of his cottage and step into a simpler, clearer story, one made up of roads, forests, the moon, and a winding border?

  ‘We’re not that different from you,’ murmured Daly. ‘We lock ourselves up for the thoughts in our own heads. We hide ourselves away in brand-new houses we can’t afford, or old cottages falling down around us. We even trap ourselves in relationships and jobs that we hate because of the dark tho
ughts inside our heads.’

  They lapsed into silence, as though too much had been said. After a few miles, O’Sullivan swung the van back on to a main road. Daly glanced in the mirror and saw what he hoped were the headlights of Irwin’s car following them.

  ‘This price on Jack’s head, was it set by a criminal gang?’ asked Daly.

  ‘Correct. The same gang who murdered Mary O’Sullivan.’

  The car swerved through a puddle, smearing the windows with a suspension of mud. O’Sullivan did not bother to use the wipers. They were travelling blind now. Daly could feel the exhaust pipe thumping upon the uneven terrain as the vehicle clattered along the lane.

  ‘By holding on to Jack, we wanted to send the murderers a message. Come after him if you think the price is worth gambling everything for.’

  He swung the car violently into the overgrown mouth of a hidden lane. They were on a muddier, more slippery surface. The pale trunks of pine trees flashed by.

  ‘Turns out, the price was even greater than we suspected. The camp is close by.’ He gave Daly a cold glance. ‘Everything will be made clear when we get there.’

  He switched off the headlights. The lane ahead was barely visible, wriggling into the darkness, but O’Sullivan increased his speed. ‘Are you Special Branch?’ He glanced at Daly again.

  ‘No. Did Hewson say I was?’ Daly wished O’Sullivan would stop looking at him and concentrate on the road.

  ‘He swore you weren’t Special Branch. But if you aren’t, how do you know about the Strong Ulster Foundation?’

  Another thread to clutch at. They were ransacking each other for hidden information, peeling away the shadows. Their eyes met again, challenging the other for some secret that could not be disclosed.

  ‘What I find more interesting is how you know about the foundation,’ replied Daly. ‘It’s a secret organization, known only to a chosen few.’

  ‘Hewson gave me the whole story in exchange for permission to travel with us. He said he did not want any payment, just our company on the road. I thought he wanted to leave behind his settled life, but that wasn’t the case at all. He made it sound as though all he wanted was a nostalgic holiday, spending time in the camp, he and his son in their camper van, enjoying the traveller way of life.’

  ‘What did he tell you?’

  O’Sullivan leaned very close to the windscreen, cradling the steering wheel in his hands as he concentrated on the dim track ahead. ‘Nearly there,’ he said, his drooping moustache almost brushing the windscreen. He wound his window down and drove so slowly they could hear the chittering sounds of birds disturbed from their roosts in the overarching branches. He leaned out of the window and shouted something incomprehensible. From the depths of the forest, a light blinked, once, twice, and then vanished. O’Sullivan braked and stopped the van with a jolt. He stared attentively at Daly, as though he was trying to read his thoughts. Daly looked back at him, unsure of what to do or say.

  ‘I’ll make this easier for you, Inspector,’ said the traveller. There was a slight change of tone to his voice. A hint of urgency, perhaps even fear, as though time was running out for them. In the corner of his eye, Daly could see a set of headlights appear in the wing mirror.

  O’Sullivan told Daly everything that Harry Hewson had discovered about the Strong Ulster Foundation. It was a complicated story to do with control and money and sectarianism that revealed a world of invisible political forces operating at the heart of society. According to O’Sullivan, the reporter had heard rumours from other journalists, and picked up information from disgruntled estate agents and his police contacts. He found out that the foundation had been collecting donations from wealthy Protestants as well as illegally diverting political and church funds to build up a vast war chest of cash. The money was used to buy up abandoned farms along the border in order to keep them out of Catholic hands. It was all done very discreetly, through different holding companies with separate boards of directors. The foundation began to accrue large amounts of land in the run-up to the property crash in 2008. To the casual observer there had been no signs to suggest that the organization was acting through this host of property companies. The business of bidding on properties was done stealthily, and the buyers were at pains not to attract attention. Once bought, the properties were kept vacant. The foundation had large reserves and did not need to rent them out.

  One of Hewson’s contacts had gone so far as to reveal the foundation’s secret list of directors. One of the names on the list was Alistair Reid.

  ‘When the property crash came along, Reid was bankrupted by some bad investments,’ explained O’Sullivan. ‘His creditors began to sniff out his involvement in the foundation. The whole house of cards threatened to fall down. Reid had to resign his directorship.’

  ‘What did that mean?’ asked Daly.

  ‘It meant the story didn’t end there. His stake in the foundation was signed over to someone else.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘There was a shadowy group controlling the foundation from behind the scenes. Reid had been running the show, but he was acting on behalf of someone who wanted to remain invisible. To keep up the secrecy, Reid’s directorship had to be transferred to someone trustworthy, someone who had not been personally exposed to the property market collapse. The circle of silence was closed again, and the foundation continued its secret business.’

  When O’Sullivan had finished he stared at Daly with glinting eyes. ‘Have you worked out who that person was?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Think about it.’

  The pieces of the puzzle finally fell into place. ‘Samuel Reid.’

  O’Sullivan grinned. ‘You can draw one more conclusion.’

  ‘His death was not an accident.’

  ‘And the individual who pulled the strings in the background, who is he?’

  O’Sullivan stared hard at Daly. ‘He’s the reason we kept Jack. He’s the reason you and me are taking this journey.’ He pulled a rifle from the back of the van and, pointing it at Daly, ordered him out of the vehicle.

  ‘What about Jack Hewson?’ asked Daly. ‘You told me you knew where he was.’

  O’Sullivan pointed with the gun towards a dim set of lights flickering through the trees.

  ‘The rescue party are waiting in the forest for you. Go to them and they’ll give you the boy.’

  Daly clambered out. He glanced along the forest road. He did not see anything that might have signalled Irwin’s presence, nothing that resembled another vehicle. He peered in at the traveller.

  ‘You’re not coming?’

  ‘For what? The case is almost solved. Harry Hewson was Samuel Reid’s son and Jack is his grandson.’ He waved the rifle at Daly. ‘Go up to the lights and you will find the boy. Don’t be expecting me to hold your hand the entire fucking way.’

  A set of headlights flickered further down the road. Daly hoped that it was Irwin coming with reinforcements. Strangely, the approach of the vehicle seemed to settle O’Sullivan, almost reassure him. He levelled the rifle at Daly and told him to hurry.

  ‘I can see now how good a detective you are,’ he said.

  Daly took the flattery to be a sign of deep mockery. The investigation had been a catalogue of failures and delays, with not even a sighting of the missing boy, only a landscape of empty farms and roads, and dead bodies.

  ‘You’ve helped me crack a forty-year conspiracy of silence,’ added O’Sullivan. At this, he raised his rifle through his window and fired it, as if in celebration. Daly had the strong sense of a deal going sour and that he was expendable. The worst sign was the look of manic satisfaction on O’Sullivan’s face. Earlier he had been uncertain around Daly, veering between suspicion and trust. This elation was a more dangerous state altogether, one in which the faculties of reason were suspended. Men quickly turned to violence when high emotion took over.

  ‘Don’t fail Jack Hewson now, Inspector,’ shouted O’Sullivan. ‘You’ve worked hard to find the
right track, now go and get the boy.’ He fired the gun again.

  Daly made a break for it. He plunged into the forest towards the light of the camp, his arms raised before him. At first, he stumbled through the darkness, and then as his eyes adjusted to the lack of light, he broke into a bent-over run. When he looked up, he was relieved to see that O’Sullivan had not moved from the van. However, the lights of the camp had drifted to the side. He adjusted his direction, panting heavily as he negotiated the almost invisible terrain of fallen tree trunks, upended roots and trenches of water. Soon traveller voices began to waft through the trees. A child’s voice called ‘Daddy, Daddy’ from the somewhere close by, adding urgency to his run.

  ‘All is ready,’ he heard O’Sullivan shout. ‘The bait has been set.’

  Silence fell. Daly made long zigzagging sweeps, trying to keep the camp in sight. He had no guide left, or tracks to follow, but he was sure he was nearing the end of his journey.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  The scene that Daly stumbled into was empty of life apart from two grey horses standing statue still in the light of the roaring campfire. The only other sound as Daly approached was the rippling of the wind through the pine trees. However, the air felt charged with the static of danger. He scanned the shadows cast by the flickering firelight, wondering where were the traveller youths waiting to pounce and harry him. He stepped into the undulating light of the flames, feeling a sense of suspended animation. The horses bolted at his presence, taking off with the minimum of effort in a long flowing movement, a wave of pale shadows silently dipping and rising into the darkness. Their synchronized flight intensified the air of unreality.

  When the horses had gone, Daly saw him, hunkering by the fire on his own. A skinny pale-faced boy shuffling his hands over his ears. He walked up to him and touched his head.

  ‘Jack Hewson?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Daly noticed he was wearing the same clothes as on the day of his disappearance. His hair was matted and curly, and his trainers filthy wet.