The R734 took him through the main street of Fethard. The proximity to the coast and a number of beaches, the area was a favourite amongst tourists, judging by the number of holiday parks and accommodation on offer. Passing beyond in a matter of minutes, he progressed through Yoletown before the road cut right and he pushed straight on, towards Baginbun. The display indicated he’d reached his destination and Caslin pulled the car to a stop. The road bore a left, directly towards the sea. Presumably that was where he’d find the beach, signposted ahead. Opposite him was an un-adopted road, little more than a farm track, lined with hardcore. It was also gated.
Consulting the map Hanlon had given him, Caslin found where he had stopped and saw a property circled a short distance away. Figuring the road to be significantly quiet enough he could abandon the car, he stepped out and took his bearings. Ahead of him, the land rose away in a shallow incline. Over the wide ridge in front of him, it dropped away again, down to the sea, forming a small peninsula. It was here where Hanlon indicated he’d find McArthur. Glancing behind him, in the direction of Fethard, he saw there was only one road in to this point. Carnivan Bay was to the right and Baginbun, to his left.
Tucking the map into his back pocket, he went to the gate. It was secured with a hefty padlock and chain, neither of which appeared to have moved in quite some time. Caslin cleared the gate with ease and set off, up the track. Reaching the ridgeline after walking a hundred metres, he stopped alongside a small copse of trees as the Irish Sea came into view. The sun had risen, burning away the coastal fog in no time at all. From where he stood, the panoramic view from west to east was awe-inspiring.
“Not a bad place to drop out for a while,” Caslin said to himself. Looking down the track and off to the left, he noted a small single-storey cottage, nestling amongst a collection of tress, offering some protection from the elements. No vehicle was parked outside, providing justification for the state of the padlock nor was there any evidence to suggest the cottage was occupied.
Descending towards it, Caslin heeded Hanlon’s advice and kept his wits about him. Approaching, it was clear the gardens were barely tended without even a cursory attempt at cultivation. The building itself had missing slates, rotting window frames and the front door was peeling its outer layers of paint. Doubting the accuracy of the Gardaí’s intelligence gathering, Caslin made it to within thirty feet of the building before the sound of a shotgun blast came to ear. A tree, two metres to his right, took the brunt of the damage, showering branch and bark, into the air. Caslin dived to his left, rolling on his shoulder before throwing himself flat to the ground.
“Hold your fire!” he screamed in a mixture of authority and sheer terror. Daring not to move, he tilted his head in the direction of the house but all he could see through the long grass and bushes, was the roofline.
“Who are you? What do you want?” a voice barked at him. Caslin was unable to see from who or where it originated.
“I’m looking to talk to Dylan McArthur…” Caslin shouted back, in a strained voice, threatening to crack, “just to talk…that’s all.” Silence followed. Caslin’s eyes furtively flicked from left to right, vainly trying to judge whether he was more likely to be shot if he made a run for it or if he remained where he was. “You don’t need your gun. I’m unarmed.” Again, there was silence. Taking a deep breath, Caslin slowly raised himself up, into a kneeling position. Not easy to do with both hands raised in the air, in supplication.
“Who are you?” the voice came again, only this time Caslin could see a figure stepping out from behind the rear of the building, to his left.
“I’m here to talk,” Caslin repeated, noting the shotgun still levelled at him as McArthur approached. He was limping, as if his knee was put out, the bodyweight borne only by the right leg. “I’m not a threat.”
“You’re English,” McArthur stated.
“On my father’s side, yes,” Caslin acknowledged. “Would you believe Lithuanian, on my mother’s?”
“What do you want?”
“Ten minutes of your time,” Caslin said slowly. “May I?” he indicated towards the inner pockets of his jacket. McArthur nodded but as soon as Caslin moved, he visibly tightened his grip on the double-barrelled shotgun. Caslin carefully took out a folded piece of paper and using exaggerated movements, to reassure his captor, opened up the photo, Reece had left him. Holding it out in front, he said, “Ten minutes. Then I’m gone.”
“What do you want?” McArthur asked again, only this time less aggressive in tone as he scanned the photograph.
“Someone’s taking out your friends, Dylan, and I want to know why?”
Chapter 23
Caslin entered first, unsettling, bearing in mind a loaded shotgun was brandished towards his back along with an apparent willingness to discharge it. The inside of the cottage was as well-kept as the exterior. The small windows protected the house from losing heat in the winter but let little light in, for the entire year. Looking around, McArthur seemed to understand.
“Don’t be looking for the light switch. I don’t have any power,” he said, limping past and seating himself at a dining table, resting the butt of the weapon on the floor and cradling it between his legs. They were in one room which collectively made up a living, dining and cooking area. A large Rayburn stove stood near to McArthur, presumably servicing all heating and cooking requirements. Another door, set over on the far side, Caslin presumed gave access to a bedroom and a bathroom. The accommodation was dilapidated, cramped but suitable for someone living alone, albeit with fewer of the comforts the modern world had to offer. McArthur stretched out his left leg, bringing forth a grimace as he did so.
“Hurt your leg?” Caslin asked, eyeing the shotgun. McArthur noticed.
“A long time ago. Don’t worry. If I was going to shoot you, I’d have done it outside. I wouldn’t want to mess up my house.”
Caslin glanced around, spotting another chair nearby, “May I?” His host indicated he could. Caslin pulled it over and seated himself, a few feet away.
“What brings you here…?” McArthur said. “What did you say your name was?”
“Caslin,” he said, “and I’m trying to find out about the people in this picture.” He passed it across to allow him a closer look. “I’m police but I’m not here to make trouble for you. Everything in the past can stay there. I know Sylvia is dead and to be honest, I’m interested in Paraic Nelson, in particular.”
“Ahh…Sylvia…” McArthur whispered under his breath. “Yeah, I miss her, very much.”
“Do you know how she died?” Caslin asked, McArthur shot him a look.
“What’s it to you?”
“Just piecing things together. People coming across Nelson often turn up dead, sooner or later.”
McArthur locked eyes with him, “I take it this isn’t an official visit?” Caslin shook his head.
“I know you’re not a fan of the British,” Caslin replied. “Especially the police but I had the thought that, regarding Nelson, you might feel like talking.”
“And what gave you that idea?” McArthur said scornfully.
“He did,” Caslin stated, jabbing a finger against Reece’s image. McArthur looked first at the picture, then back at Caslin.
“I’ve not seen him in years-”
“No, because he’s been in hiding.”
“I figured he was a goner,” McArthur said. “Buried in a field someplace or weighted down at the bottom of the Irish Sea. The Orangemen were after him.”
“They didn’t get him,” Caslin said, “but I reckon Paraic Nelson did.” At the mention of that, McArthur bristled but didn’t speak. However, Caslin sensed he was itching to. “He came across Nelson again, recently. He’s doing well for himself, a senior executive with what is to all intents and purposes, a mercenary enterprise.”
“Doesn’t surprise me.”
“There’s also some evidence to suggest that Nelson was involved in Sylvia Marshall’s murder,” Caslin li
ed, necessitated by his need to loosen up McArthur’s memory. The way his gaze lingered on Sylvia’s picture suggested a fondness one doesn’t lose, despite the passage of time.
“That was pinned on the loyalists,” McArthur argued unconvincingly.
“It doesn’t seem like it, to me. Your friend here, wasn’t so sure,” Caslin countered, pointing to the picture, still in McArthur’s hands.
“It was sad what happened to Sylvia, what with the baby and all.”
“Baby?” Caslin asked.
“Yeah, she got herself out for the sake of the kid. Then, to go as she did and leave it to be brought up in care…was tough on her, what with Conor leaving and all. Conor didn’t trust Nelson, either.”
“Conor?” Caslin asked, immediately regretting it.
“Yeah, her boyfriend,” McArthur stated, eyeing Caslin with a suspicious look. “Why, is that not his name?”
Caslin thought fast, “He was living under the radar, wouldn’t give me his name. I’ve come to understand why. I didn’t know Sylvia had a child.” He was left unsure whether or not the recovery was convincing enough.
“Yeah, little girl. Poor cow,” McArthur continued, breaking the eye contact. “To think, being brought up not knowing who murdered your mother and thinking your father abandoned you?”
“Conor was her father?”
“Aye, don’t your eyes work, man,” McArthur said, passing the picture back. “She’s pregnant in the bloody photograph.” Caslin looked and cursed himself for missing it. Sylvia was probably four months gone.
“Conor knew?”
“Don’t see how he couldn’t, do you?”
“I reckon Nelson killed Conor, probably for talking to me.”
“That’d be rich, Nelson taking someone out for being a grass.”
“Why do you say that? It’s what he was tasked with, after all.”
McArthur sat back in his chair, taking the picture back and tossing it onto the table beside him. “Once, yes but people talk, you know?” Caslin forced himself to relax a little, remaining silent in the hope his patience would encourage further elaboration. As it happened, no encouragement was necessary. “He pointed the finger at me, one time.”
“Who, Nelson?”
“Yeah. Singled me out when an op went bad. The fucker. I knew then there was something wrong with that guy. I threw myself out of a second-storey window to get away from that bastard. Smashed my knee to pieces in the process,” he said, rubbing absently at his leg, for emphasis. “I swear it was only because it was a Saturday night, in the middle of Belfast, that I managed to crawl away from there. Made it over to…” he paused, remembering who he was talking to, “…managed to plead my case.”
“How’d it go?”
“I’m still alive,” he stated with bitter regret.
“You don’t sound like that was much of a result.”
“They already had their doubts,” McArthur went on. “About Nelson, I mean. Many of us thought that he wasn’t really one of us.”
“Meaning?”
“His heart wasn’t in the cause,” McArthur said, leaning forward. “He was never a true Republican. Don’t get me wrong, he loved the action, the violence…thrived on it, even…but his cause was his own, not ours.”
“What did he want?”
“Power, money…notoriety…all of the above,” McArthur said. “I reckon he was skimming, so did the leadership.”
“Why did they take his word over-”
“They didn’t!” he snapped back. “Some of us suspected what had, until that point, been unthinkable.”
“Which was?”
“That Nelson was working for you,” he said, the cold stare of a focused man turning on Caslin.
“The British?” Caslin queried, raising his eyebrows in surprise. “That’s news to me.”
“Yeah, you can deny it all you want but I’m not the only one who thought so. Sylvia agreed. First, Nelson suspected Conor, then me…”
“You took it to the leadership?”
“Of course, I did. By that point, my life depended on it. Turns out, they already knew. Not that they’d tell me so.”
“What happened?”
The indignation was written across McArthur’s face as he replied, “I was granted a stay of execution, just enough time to pack a bag and leave, on the proviso I never came back.”
“And Nelson? If what you say is true, why isn’t he dead?”
“Oh, man. How could they? It was the same reason they wanted me gone. Burning him would’ve exposed themselves.”
“How do you mean?”
“They’d have to admit they’d put a British agent in charge of internal security for the entire Belfast Brigade. Think about it. That’s knowledge of all our operations, our membership, the vetting of new members. No…they’d have been finished. Without trust, we’d be looking at each other, our friends, our neighbours. One wrong word here, a sideways glance we didn’t like the look of…there’d be blood on the streets within weeks. Our blood. They needed unity to deliver the peace. Better that those in the know play the game, keeping the rest in the dark. They struck a deal with him.”
“Who, Nelson?” Caslin asked.
McArthur nodded, “Must have. A neat contract of silence. Nelson leaves, no-one openly discusses it. The problem goes away. Despite what they want us to believe, Mr Caslin, there’s a phrase we have, in Belfast. The dogs in the street know. Trust me, they knew…like I knew.”
“What of Callum Foley?” Caslin asked, chancing it.
“The Reverend Father?” McArthur replied. “Now there’s an unholy alliance between the almighty and a hypocrite, if ever I saw one.”
“Sorry, what did you call him?” Caslin pounced, in case he’d misheard.
“The Reverend Father. That’s how he was known to us, ever since we were children.”
“R F,” Caslin muttered. “Of course.”
“What’s that you say?”
“Foley,” Caslin pressed, “what was his role in everything?”
McArthur fixed him with another cold, hard stare but after a moment, he relented, “I guess it doesn’t matter. It’s history now. The war’s over.”
“Not for everyone,” Caslin said. “Foley?”
“What better cover to have than in the house of the Lord.”
“Foley was in the IRA?”
“Not officially but many weren’t. There were a lot of people who didn’t actively participate but headed the call, in other ways.”
“Sympathisers?”
“Exactly right,” McArthur confirmed. “The Reverend Father allowed us to use his churches as rallying points, safe spaces for meetings and the like. I seem to recall we had weapons stashed under the floorboards of several churches, at one point.”
“The Lord works in mysterious ways,” Caslin said softly.
“Not ours to judge,” McArthur added. “Father Foley will stand before the gates, for his reckoning, the same as the rest of us.”
“Do you know what happened to Conor and Sylvia’s child?” Caslin asked.
“As I said, the last I knew she went into care.”
“How old do you think she would be now?”
McArthur looked to the ceiling, calculating in his head, “Early twenties, I should figure. Why?”
“Early twenties,” Caslin said softly, unable to shake the feeling he’d found yet another piece of the puzzle but couldn’t quite slot it into place. Standing up, he glanced down towards Dylan McArthur, mumbling, “It’s time I….”
“What is it?”
“I have to go,” Caslin said, walking to the front door. Stopping as he opened it, he glanced back, over his shoulder, “Thank you.”
Once outside, Caslin started the short walk back the way he’d come. Taking out his phone he cursed at the lack of signal. Picking up the pace, he trotted up the incline to the top of the ridge, holding his phone aloft. Managing to locate a solitary bar, he put in a call, back to the UK. Muttering under his
breath, he encouraged the recipient to pick up.
“Hello.”
“Jimmy. You told me Emily Coughlan’s mother died in a car accident, on her way to work.”
“She did, yes,” Sullivan replied.
“How old was Emily?”
“Oh…five, maybe six…why?”
“You were her Godfather, right? Talk to me about her parents, you didn’t really mention them.”
“I was at school with her father. Where are you going with this?”
“Emily was their daughter?”
“Yes.”
“Their daughter…their biological daughter?”
“Well, no. Jacob and Bernadette couldn’t have children. Emily was orphaned as a wean and they adopt-”
“Fuck, Jimmy!” Caslin said, hanging up. Breaking into a run, he picked his way down the track, back to the car, nearly losing his footing on the loose stones several times. Clambering in, he started the car, slamming it into reverse and accelerating back to the junction. Tyres squealing, he turned the car and took off, heading for Rosslare. With a bit of luck, he could still make the 9:15 crossing, back to the UK.
Chapter 24
Approaching the small detached cottage, Caslin’s footfalls crunched on the gravel, lining the driveway. The nine-hour journey did little to curb his determination to uncover what he saw as the final deceits, in this case. Reaching to knock on the door, a muted whistle came from behind, an attempt to draw his attention. Caslin turned to find Hunter jogging towards him, a silhouette before the setting sun. Easing her pace as she came to him, he read her mixed expression of confusion and anger.
“Sir. What are you doing here?” she hissed at him, under her breath.
“I could ask you the same thing,” he replied, refraining from lowering his own voice.
“Broadfoot said-” she stopped as the front door opened. Father Foley stood in the hallway of his home, a bemused look on his face.
The Dogs in the Street Page 19
