The two detectives stiffened in surprise. The man Murphy had identified was the last person they expected.
Irwin leaned over Murphy’s desk, his bulk solidifying, shoulders hunched. He slapped his two hands upon the paper-strewn desk. Pages flew up like fluffed feathers around Murphy’s frightened face.
“Try again. And this time take it seriously. This is a murder investigation, remember.”
Murphy spoke slowly and carefully.
“The man who gave me the obituary is the gentleman kneeling down. Second from left.” He looked up, clearly hoping that Irwin would back off, but the detective loomed closer, his face splashed with patches of red.
“You’re lying. That’s the victim. Joseph Devine.”
“What I’m telling you is the truth.” Murphy’s eyes turned hard and bright, his teeth set in a mocking grin. “Do the brainwork. You already know the obituary came in before he was murdered.”
Irwin straightened up, perplexed. “That suggests something very elaborate and”—he searched for the right word—“deranged.”
“Hard to believe, I know,” said Murphy.
His attention was deflected by a phone call. He covered the mouthpiece and turned to the two detectives.
“Look. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help. If I think of anything else, I’ll let you know.”
Daly spoke, half to himself: “No need to apologize. You’ve told us what you think is the truth, which makes a pleasant change, for a reporter.”
As they walked back down the stairs, they could hear the vigorous rattle of Murphy’s keyboard start up again.
“Bet you he’s typing up his next big headline. Murder victim predicts own death,” remarked Irwin.
“Let’s hope not.” Daly’s voice was thoughtful. “Somehow Devine must have known he was about to be killed.”
“Sounds like he was unhinged. If I suspected I was about to be murdered I wouldn’t waste time and money writing my own obituary. That’s something only a madman would do.”
“Or a spy. Perhaps it was a message to someone. Devine would have been paranoid about being watched. His telephone calls and letters might have been intercepted. Writing that obituary was something he did with a lot of careful thought.”
Irwin studied Daly’s face. “I’m beginning to see a motive now,” he said. He licked his lips before continuing. “Devine wanted to fake his own death. He submitted the obituary and then planned to make his escape. He wanted to be clear of his enemies. To live the life he always dreamed of. Somewhere sunny with a view of the sea, perhaps. While everyone back home thinks he’s been killed or abducted.” Irwin grinned. “This is good. Working together. This is a breakthrough. Right?”
“Except that he never got clear of his enemies,” said Daly. His words chased all the liveliness from Irwin’s hopeful face.
15
Overnight, workmen had begun dismantling the steel fence surrounding Derrylee Police Station. It was the first stage in removing the building’s military-style fortifications and presenting the new face of civilian policing. Like stripping a soldier of his weapons, right down to his flak jacket and helmet, thought Daly as he surveyed the builders’ mess.
He found the old steel gates blocked by a pile of building material. When he tried the intercom at the new public-friendly entrance there was no answer. He felt a mood of frustration overtake him as he toured the perimeter. He contemplated negotiating the scaffolding and wire screening erected by the builders. Instead, he retraced his steps and tried the intercom again. Still no answer. He banged the metal door and shouted out the names of the officers who should have been on duty. He was furious. “What the hell is going on?” he snarled, looking up at the security camera.
Eventually the electronic door swung open at a snail’s pace, and he was greeted by a grinning Officer Harland putting out a cigarette with his boot. Daly was about to deliver a lecture, convinced that a breach of security had occurred but then he stopped himself. More a case of an excess of security, he realized.
“I thought we were supposed to be a more accessible police force these days,” he grumbled.
As soon as he walked into the building, there was a call for him at reception. He picked up the phone. The voice was low and furtive. At first, he didn’t recognize who it was
“I’m not catching you in the middle of something?”
“No, not at all.”
“I’ve been thinking. I want to give you something on Devine that might help you.”
It was Ginger Gormley. Daly waited, but nothing was forthcoming.
“Can you remember anything in particular?”
“Not really. I don’t think anyone really knew Devine. He was a very private person, and secretive. He was always looking over his shoulder.”
Daly hunched over the phone, trying to keep the hungry impatience out of his voice. “Did he ever tell you why he behaved that way?”
“No. But one memory does stand out. It’s not much, though.”
“Tell me.”
“It was about ten years ago. A few of us had been at a hide near Oxford Island. The wind was high that day, and the ducks were nervous. We managed to shoot nothing. It was dark and we were heading back to our cars at the marina. Someone came running up to Hughes and made him jump out of his skin. It was Bosco Devlin, a local boy, and a bit of a simpleton. ‘Mr. Devine,’ he said, ‘Mr. Devine, the Searcher sent me.…’ Joseph turned ’round and his face was white with anger. ‘Piss off!’ he shouted at the boy. But Bosco didn’t budge. Devine was shaking with rage at this point. ‘Screw the Searcher!’ he roared, spitting at the ground. Then he lifted his hand to hit the boy. A few of us had to hold him back while the boy ran off as fast as his legs could carry him. There wasn’t a word out of Devine afterwards, he just scowled the rest of the trip home.”
“Tell me more about the boy.”
“Not much to add. A few months afterwards, Bosco stumbled upon a group of IRA men in a hedge, preparing a gun attack on the RUC. He was supposed to have shouted at them, ‘I’m going to tell on you.’ Shortly after that, he disappeared. His body was never found.”
“I appreciate your help.”
“So what are you going to do now?”
“That depends. Maybe we can figure out what your story means.” Then, as an afterthought, he asked, “Is there anything more you can tell me about Devine’s collection of decoys?”
Gormley gave a soft laugh. “Those decoys were retired. They were too valuable to be put out on the lough. But Devine still used them for hunting. On the Internet, that is. He posted photos of them on a website to lure in decoy collectors. Americans mostly, excited about finding the next treasure. Some of the decoys were real works of art. Antique shops couldn’t get enough of them. The good ones fetched as much as a thousand dollars. Devine had this saying: If only this old bird could talk, imagine the stories it would tell.”
Daly’s grip on the phone tightened. It was the same saying Hughes had quoted on his postcard. For a moment he had a clear sense of Devine outmaneuvering everyone completely, even in death, his enemies condemned to floundering in his wake. Like ducks that cannot fly. A line from the obituary chimed in his memory. His spirit that could never take flight in life, has finally taken wing. A decoy was a bird that could never take flight. It was also a snare, a thing used to lure someone into a trap. He tried to hold on to the sense of clarity, that he was staring at a vital clue, but the feeling deserted him. His mind returned to the phone call.
“Have you heard anything about David Hughes?”
Gormley snorted with amusement. “Grandda still giving you the runaround?”
Daly heard himself sigh. “I’m glad you called, Mr. Gormley. Ring again if you think of anything else.”
But the line was already dead.
He had a lot to think and talk about as he walked through the station. He tried without success to find Irwin. O’Neill wasn’t in either. He leafed through his messages and saw with surprise a meeti
ng with the chief inspector was penciled in for ten a.m.
“Any word of what that’s about?” he asked the officer who had taken the call.
“Some restructuring to the investigation team. That’s all I’ve heard.”
He sat back at his desk and waited, going over in his head what Gormley had said. No concrete information had been supplied, but Daly was beginning to develop a clearer sense of the type of man Joseph Devine had been. O’Hare had led him to believe there was nothing remarkable about Devine, that he had led a very dull life. However, that was barely the beginning of the story. The deeper he dug, the more he realized there was nothing dull about Devine. It was just that he had allowed very few people the chance to know him.
Then there were the connections to Hughes. They had known each other and hunted together. Both led isolated lives and were preoccupied with the past. In the background of their lives was the tragic story of Oliver Jordan. However, as far as the investigation was concerned, there was still a chasm between the two men’s lives. What else did they have in common? An image kept working its way to the forefront of Daly’s mind. Hughes’s postcard of an old man wading out as far as possible to set a dozen duck decoys floating into dark waters.
He got up and looked for Irwin’s report on the firm of solicitors but found nothing. All the time he was listening for the sound of his colleagues’ footsteps in the corridor. It irritated him that Irwin wasn’t there. His annoyance turned to wariness when he saw Donaldson’s gold Audi pull up outside with Irwin sitting in the passenger seat. He realized he was going to be the last to find out what changes were in store for the investigation team.
His fears were confirmed when Irwin sauntered in and flashed Daly a knowing smile. As if he was a confidant to some private conspiracy. The detective began packing items from his desk into a brown box.
Daly got up to make himself toast and a cup of coffee. He had just sat down when Donaldson walked into the room. The chief inspector reached out to shake Daly’s hand with a perplexed expression on his face.
“Just wanted a quick word with you,” he said. “I’ve recommended Detective Irwin for a transfer to Special Branch. A vacancy has arisen there that needs to be filled immediately.”
Daly did not feel like finishing his toast. “What about the murder investigation?” he asked. He had a sensation of being wrenched off course. Like a ship that had hit a rock.
“He’s still assigned to the case. But he’ll be reporting to Special Branch from now on. You won’t need to keep tabs on him. It’s a joint investigation now.”
Donaldson looked at Daly. The chief’s expression froze, and Irwin stopped packing. His body seemed to freeze too. The way people freeze when they think someone might jump from a ledge.
“I expect your full cooperation, of course,” said Donaldson. “This will give us extra manpower and the special expertise of Special Branch. They have a historical interest in the case, after all.”
Daly paused, trying to work out what Special Branch was up to.
“What about the report on O’Hare’s firm?”
The chief cleared his throat. He was the quintessential old-time RUC commander, displaying an iron resolve to ignore what shenanigans were going on around him. “As far as I understand, that report is now in the remit of Special Branch.”
Daly found a string of curses in his mouth. Fortunately, they came out under his breath. His face reddened, and he felt the moorings of his self-control begin to loosen.
“This is purely an operational matter,” Donaldson explained. “I had to let Irwin go.”
He pretended to be oblivious to the emotions working through on Daly’s face. He turned to Irwin and then shot a glance back at Daly. “Everyone happy?” he snapped, more in the form of a command than a question. Then he left the room.
Daly watched Irwin continue to pack his things. Donaldson’s shadow still hung in the room. His departure had been so abrupt it had been left behind, caught between the door hinges.
“Off to the collusion factory, then,” said Daly, unable to keep the goading out of his voice. His toast was cold but he still bit a lump out of it. He was anxious to convey an attitude of cheerful cynicism.
“There’s nothing I hate more,” he continued, chewing with relish, “than a detective who prefers to pay criminals and recruit them as informers rather than catch them.”
Irwin turned his back to Daly and began rummaging through his drawers. The skin on the back of his neck was mottled red like a goose plucked for cooking. Daly wondered, Had he managed to annoy him?
“Donaldson’s right, of course,” said Daly, opting for a different tack. “This is a complex case. Your appointment might help us move the investigation on.”
“How so?” Irwin turned. The liveliness was gone from his eyes, his face a blank. Special Branch had taken his soul already.
“Now that you’re working for Special Branch, you can get me the contact details of the detectives who worked on Jordan’s abduction. And find out why no one was ever charged.”
Irwin said nothing. Daly’s requests were withered by his steel-blue eyes and the volume of cold air that now flowed between the two of them.
“Do you know what the first criteria for forging a career in the police force is?” asked Irwin. “Loyalty. A concept that seems to have bypassed you. You think that one dead informer is more important than the future of policing in this country. People like Oliver Jordan were the lowest of the low, double-crossing everyone and taking the queen’s shilling. That’s the way you have to treat them, Daly. Not like you do. Digging into their pasts like they’re a long lost part of your family tree.” He folded the lid of the box. “By the way, an Inspector Fealty in Special Branch asked me to keep an eye on you. I told him you were getting nowhere.”
Daly leaned back in his chair while Irwin remained standing.
“In every police force there are those with a blind faith in the system, and then there are the suspicious ones,” said Daly. “I belong to the latter. I believe there’s more to Jordan’s abduction. I want to reexamine the investigation, go over the statements taken by the detectives at the time, and whatever leads they followed.”
“It’s too late. From what I’ve been told, the investigation was a complete dog’s dinner.”
“How’s that?”
“I told you. A dog’s dinner.” Irwin’s face was deadpan. “A pair of police dogs tore up all the evidence one night. The Kennel News carried a story on it. The animals had to be relocated to Kent for fear of reprisals.”
Daly blinked. “Well then you can tell Inspector Fealty I want the contact details of the detectives who were so careless with the evidence in the first place.”
“You’ll have trouble finding them. By the way, if you’ve such a suspicious nature why are you babysitting Jordan’s son on Monday? Or don’t your suspicions extend to Catholics and the sons of informers?”
Daly felt his temper begin to smolder.
“Getting emotionally involved with a victim. I thought policemen weren’t supposed to do that,” continued Irwin. “I should warn you there’s more to Tessa Jordan than meets the eye. She’ll want more from you than a comforting shoulder. You’d better watch yourself.”
“Is that a tip-off?”
Irwin smirked. “It’s the only one you’re going to get from Special Branch.”
16
The man with the gun in his jacket was instantly aware of any departure from the harmony of the expected. He had been trained to spot any deviation from the normal, and already a string of peculiarities about the hastily arranged rendezvous point was causing him concern. It was not just the heavy mists. From a safety point of view, he disliked this part of the lough shore, the solitude of the forest reaching down to the water’s edge, and the road lost to view, and with it any signs of civilization. Pleasant enough for tourists and fishermen, but a treacherous location to meet David Hughes and his kidnappers.
Special Branch Inspector Ian Fealty
had followed the directions set out in the postcard. They had wanted him to come alone to the isolated headland. Neither was he supposed to be carrying a weapon. They had told him they wanted to talk, to share information. They wanted to discuss different courses of action before deciding what to do with Hughes. Other than that, he had no idea what to expect.
If they were looking for privacy, they had chosen the right location. It was late afternoon, and already the mist was beginning to swill in from the lough, sprawling over the rocks and tangled branches of the storm beach. He remembered that he was supposed to look as though he was out on a stroll. He picked his way over the debris of winter gales and threw a few stones into the water. The honking of a flock of geese out on the water sounded muted, ghostly. He was far from help. Somewhere out there, the kidnappers were probably watching him.
Special Branch had been in a stir since Hughes’s disappearance. They had discussed what needed to be done for days and nights. But no one could reach agreement, except that they all agreed they were possibly facing a doomsday scenario. It was only when the strange postcard arrived out of the blue that they were able to put a plan into action. The details of which were passed onto the special committee, which had given the green light and assigned him his current mission.
Fealty tried to reduce the rising tension by doing deep-breathing exercises. However, they didn’t work. His instinct was to turn back and wait for a further message from the kidnappers. Let them sweat a little, he thought. He consoled himself by feeling the dead weight of the Browning in his pocket. The kidnappers had promised to bring Hughes along to the meeting as proof the old man was still alive. They would not be expecting a Special Branch operative to endanger his life.
Unfortunately for Hughes, the committee had decided that drastic action had to be taken if Special Branch were to prevent its whole network of spies and informers from collapsing.
The mist thickened and grew oppressive. Fealty reached out with his gun and pointed it at the fragments of dark rock and trees revealed fleetingly. He did not like his situation. Visibility was down to an arm’s length. People made mistakes when they could not see clearly. They misread what they did see, or saw what was not there. He had only studied photographs of Hughes, never having met the man. The committee had warned he might be deranged or suffering from some sort of memory loss. It struck him that the location suited the old man the most. He had lived all his life along the lough shore and would know the place like the veins and knuckles on the back of his hand.
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