The Exile

by James Patterson

  O’Grady rested his arm on the boy’s shoulder. With his other hand he pulled out his phone and dialed the emergency services.

  The boy shifted and groaned again.

  “You’ll be OK, son,” O’Grady said to him. “But maybe choose your friends more carefully in future.”

  Chapter 5

  “Well, O’Grady, you got away with it.” The plump man in the navy suit shook him by the hand. “Did you shoot to kill?”

  O’Grady shook his head. “I aimed where I meant to aim. I always do.”

  “The lad’s in hospital,” the man said. “The police have taken the other two into custody. They’re grateful for the arrests.”

  Philip Tracy, CEO of Headline Security, glanced out of the window at the morning rain, the view across the faceless office blocks with a glimpse of Tower Bridge behind them.

  He turned away from the window. “Though the shame is, they’ll get away with it. What can the courts give them? They’re kids, fourteen, fifteen years old. They’ll get a warning, back on the streets in no time. Would have been easier if you’d just shot them all.”

  O’Grady tensed. “It’s not in the job description to take life, Mr. Tracy. Is it?”

  “I suppose not.” Tracy gave a weak smile. “I just don’t like to think of those little gangsters out there, free to strike again. Surely as an ex-cop you feel the same.”

  O’Grady fixed him with a look. “I’m a security guard, Mr. Tracy. I’m not working for the law. There was kit to be protected. I protected it. The rights and wrongs of those three boyos, that’s not my job.”

  “But you were a law enforcer, O’Grady.”

  “That was then.”

  “So, as a cop—”

  “As a cop, I’d have brought those kids to justice. But that was my old life.”

  “Hmmm.” Tracy looked out at the wet streets, the pattering rain. He turned back. “Do you miss it, O’Grady?”

  “Well, I think justice is always worth fighting for, Mr. Tracy.”

  “Would you go back?”

  O’Grady picked up his jacket. “I learned a while ago, there are some questions that are best not asked.”

  “You Irish”—the thin smile again—“all born philosophers,” he said.

  O’Grady smiled back. “We’re called many things,” he said. “I’ve heard worse than that.” He turned towards the door. “Will that be all?”

  Tracy gave a brief nod. “That will be all. You did well, O’Grady. But maybe best to keep a low profile for a bit. The local coppers aren’t too happy about shots being fired. We don’t need you for a while—a paid holiday, let’s say. Find a nice warm beach for a couple of weeks.” He looked out at the rain. “It’ll make a change from London.”

  O’Grady walked out of the reception doors. He stood on the main road as the buses swished past him, their tires splashing in the gutters.

  A holiday, he thought. When did I last do that? And where would I go? A nice warm beach?

  He imagined himself sitting next to a deep blue sea.

  Wherever I go, he thought, I’ve still got to take myself with me.

  His phone trilled in his pocket. He snatched it out. Bridie. He clicked to answer.

  “Earth,” she was saying, her voice shaking.

  “What?”

  “Earth. The first one. Earth, air, fire and water.”

  “Bridie, what are you telling me?”

  She was shouting now, tearful. “It’s started, Finn. Mikey. Found this morning. Killed. By earth.”

  Her distress cut through the rumble of traffic.

  “Mikey?”

  “My brother,” she said. “He’ll come for us all, one by one.”

  “Bridie, it’s a fairy tale—”

  “Please believe me. Finn—I don’t know who else to ask. Mikey. He was shot, but he was alive when he was buried, the police reckon. That’s what I’m saying. Earth. He was found in a newly dug grave, a mask of leaves across his face. It’ll be air next, the next one of us to go.”

  “Bridie—I’ve had enough of these old Salter tales.”

  O’Grady watched a cyclist swerve through the traffic in a flash of lime green.

  A nice warm beach, Tracy had said.

  “Please help us,” Bridie was saying. “If not for me, for my little boy…”

  Someone else’s son. The thoughts rattled through O’Grady’s brain. Her brothers, who always despised him, always told Bridie she could do better than the O’Grady clan—wrong side of the valley…

  “Once you made me a promise,” she said. “A promise made from love. ‘If you ever need me,’ you said.”

  And if I don’t go, he was thinking, I’ll catch the bus. I’ll go back to my flat. I’ll sleep for the day, I’ll wake this evening. It’ll still be London. It’ll still be me, alone. And meanwhile…

  “I’m so scared,” Bridie said. “So terribly scared. I’m saying it, now. I need you.”

  I keep my promises, he thought.

  “Please,” she said. “You can book a flight. I’ve checked the timings to Dublin airport.…”

  He listened to her breathing. “OK,” he heard himself say. “I’ll be there.”

  Chapter 6

  O’Grady leaned back in his airline seat and sipped at his plastic cup of tea. He looked out at the blue sky, the clouds beneath the wings.

  Why am I going back? he asked himself.

  There were other questions too. Why did I leave?

  The answer to that question had always been clear.

  Ten years ago, Bridie’s little sister Maura was raped and murdered. She was seventeen. O’Grady was a detective sergeant at the time. The Príomh-Cheannfort, the Chief Superintendent, was a man called Brian Hawthorne. The case was never brought to court. There were mysterious bungles, evidence left uncollected, DNA samples mislaid, no witnesses found.

  Eventually a poor young man pleaded guilty, a haunted, wide-eyed lad who had recently begun a sentence for a killing in a pub brawl. He died in jail, about two years ago now.

  O’Grady was persistent. He attempted to chase up the DNA, storing samples where he could. He talked to locals who never quite believed that Betsy’s poor lad was capable of such a thing. The boy’s friend Aidan had given him an alibi but then retracted it, said he’d been threatened with arrest for illegal hunting; he was told he’d been sighted over on the private grouse moor, though he denied it.

  O’Grady didn’t give up. With his friend Ryan Fallon, a fellow detective sergeant at the time, they attempted to bring justice for the Salter family. And then came the day when O’Grady found someone who could point to the real killers of Maura Salter. Gregson Elliott. O’Grady arranged to meet him in secret to find out what he knew.

  The events of that night were seared into his soul. O’Grady knew Gregson feared for his life. “Don’t worry,” O’Grady had said. “You’re safe with me.” He was wrong. Gregson ended up with a bullet through his skull. And O’Grady was given a choice by Brian Hawthorne—to be framed for the murder of Gregson Elliott or leave the force. Hawthorne was powerful, the Chief, the Príomh-Cheannfort. Defeated, O’Grady agreed to go. Hawthorne had Fallon sidelined into a rural posting where he found himself investigating the theft of cows and litter problems in the local town. The day he left, Fallon shook O’Grady by the hand. “This is not the end, fella,” he’d said. “If you ever need me, call.”

  Brian Hawthorne was always ruthless. Particularly where his own interests were concerned. O’Grady recalled the smirk on Hawthorne’s face as he told him his time as a police officer was over. “I always said you didn’t have what it takes, O’Grady. And I was right.”

  Now, the soft Irish tones of the pilot informed the passengers that the plane would soon be coming in to land in Dublin.

  O’Grady thought about sweeping green fields, the soft Irish rain. He thought about home.

  He felt only a sense of dread.

  Chapter 7

  O’Grady was glad he’d upgraded his h
ire car to an Audi A3. The engine purred as he took the bends of the country road. He’d left Dublin and headed west. It was mid-afternoon, with birdsong and sunlight, soft autumnal red and gold across the fields.

  He turned off the Galway road, headed north towards Connemara. The countryside became more rugged, the branches of the ancient trees casting shadows across the roads.

  A mythical being with a tree for a face. Trying to imagine it amongst the City towers and London buses had been impossible. Now it seemed less preposterous.

  He descended the lane towards the town. There was the schoolhouse, closed down now, once ruled by the nuns of the order of St. Joseph. There was the church next door. His childhood home was out of sight, another mile or so across the valley. He wondered who lived there now.

  Then he saw the tiled roofs of the Salter farm. His breath quickened as it came into view, a tumbledown grouping of buildings, old barns, a derelict windmill. There was even an ancient waterwheel further down the hill where the river passed through the land.

  He parked in the cobbled yard and walked along the track to the house.

  The house was beautiful, just as he’d remembered it. A graceful, two-story building, carefully maintained. There was a rose garden. Pots of geraniums made scarlet splashes against the soft gray stone. A column of smoke was issuing from the chimney.

  He saw Bridie before she saw him. She was standing with a watering can, tending to her flowers. She wore a pale blue skirt, her auburn hair loosely pinned up, her lithe form unchanged.

  He could hardly breathe.

  She heard his steps on the stones and looked up. There was a flash of recognition in her green eyes.

  “Oh,” she breathed, dropping the watering can and stepping towards him. She grasped his sleeve. “Oh, Finn. Thank God you’re here.”

  She led him inside. The warm afternoon sunlight played against the hearth, the wide wooden fireplace. She went to the kitchen range, filled the kettle and placed it on the stove.

  Bridie turned and faced him. “Finn—I am so grateful,” she said.

  He shook his head.

  “You can’t know how glad I am you’re here.”

  He found his voice. “You…you haven’t changed. Not one bit.”

  “Nor you,” she said. “Nor you.”

  “Where’s…?”

  “Little Bobby? He’s out for a bit, with Vera. He needed some fresh air.”

  They gazed at each other. “A widow,” she said, suddenly. “On my own. After Stuart’s death.” She fell silent.

  The winter before last. The poor man had fallen ill with flu, a lung infection, a rare complication, fatal pneumonia.

  “I did hear,” O’Grady said. I thought of calling you, he was about to add, but then there were heavy steps, a clumping of boots. A large figure stood in the doorway.

  “Rick,” Bridie said. “My brother. You remember Finn—”

  The man was thickset, red-faced, with thin gingery hair and a stubbly chin. He slumped down into a chair at the table.

  Bridie placed a mug of tea in front of him.

  He took a slurp of it. “I remember O’Grady all right,” he said.

  “He’s come to help.” Her voice was tight. She stood over her brother, one hand on her hip.

  He pushed the mug towards her across the old oak table. “Sugar,” he said.

  Bridie stirred two spoons of sugar into her brother’s tea.

  O’Grady wondered how these boys had come from their parents. Their mother, Ellen, had been a graceful woman with a lively smile and a caring soul. The father, Richard Salter, had been a clever, bookish man. He’d started researching local history, working on Irish music and folk singing. It was he who’d taken up the Green Man idea. It had been mentioned from time to time by some of the old farmers. Richard never felt that he had a right to the land, and a kind of guilt had always haunted the family. This was made worse by the death of his wife from cancer, two months short of her sixtieth birthday.

  Bridie poured tea for O’Grady. They settled at the table.

  Rick fixed O’Grady with a glowering look. “So,” he said. “My brother’s body is in the Garda fridge. And you’re here to save us. Much good that will do.”

  “That’s enough.” Bridie’s voice was sharp.

  “Who’s next?” Rick went on, ignoring his sister. “That’s what I want to know.”

  “The old story,” she said. “It could be any of us.”

  “The story.” He gave a sneer. “Old James Salter, our granddad, took this scrub patch of land that no one else wanted and made a good farm and a working mill. The locals would never accept it. He was a clever man, that’s all. He made a living, a good living. And for some reason, our father chose to feel guilty, to carry a fool’s belief in ghosts.”

  O’Grady stared at the teapot, the dark brown china peeping out from the knitted tea cozy with its stripes of blue and cream.

  It was familiar, this leaching resentment. All to do with family inheritance. Richard had settled the farm and house on his daughter, sidestepping the traditional path that would have given it all to Rick, who had had to settle for a modern three-bedroomed semi on the edge of the town.

  Rick interrupted his thoughts. “If ghosts are to blame, maybe they’re hiding out in the ghost estate,” he said, mockingly.

  O’Grady looked up. “What estate?”

  Rick tilted his head towards the window. “Out there. The other side of our farm.”

  “There’s a ghost estate there?” O’Grady said.

  Rick nodded. “You remember it. Brand-new housing, built in the boom times. And then they couldn’t sell it. Like all these boom-time developments. Ghost estates. Fairy estates. They’re all over the region.”

  “But now the one across the way there has been bought up by a local company,” Bridie said. “They’re developing it again.”

  “Luxury homes,” Rick said. “They reckon there’ll be money. Rolling lawns. Golf courses, everything—”

  His words were cut short by a rush of feet and the sound of laughter. A little boy tumbled into the room and ran to his mother. He had thick dark curls of hair, soft brown eyes and was wearing a red hand-knitted sweater.

  For the first time Bridie smiled. She scooped her son up onto her lap and held him close.

  An elderly lady had appeared behind him, with a lined face, neat gray hair and a warm smile. “He wanted to see the visitor,” she said.

  “Vera, you remember Finn O’Grady,” Bridie said.

  O’Grady got to his feet. “Miss Joyce. Pleasure to see you again.”

  She smiled. “Of course I remember you,” she said. Her eyes were on him, her hand held out. She wore a long tweed skirt and lace-up boots.

  “You’ll know Vera used to teach at the old charity school here,” Bridie said. “Before she joined us.”

  O’Grady shook her hand.

  “A Garda, you were,” she said. “When did you leave us? Three, four years ago now?”

  “Three and a half years,” he said.

  She shook her head. “Ach,” she said. “One of the few honest ones. No wonder there was no room for you.” Her eyes were still fixed on him. “Shame they let you go,” she said.

  “And you worked with Mr. Salter,” O’Grady said, remembering, as Vera sat down at the table. “Richard Salter,” he added.

  Vera nodded.

  “She helped him with his editing,” Bridie said. “His folk-song research. He always said he could never have written his books without you.”

  Vera gave a smile, a dip of her head. Bobby jumped down from his mother’s lap and went to her, taking hold of her hand. “Nana Vee,” he said. “I want a biscuit.”

  Vera laughed.

  Rick stirred from his place. “At least Nana Vee has the sense not to believe in ghosts,” he said.

  Vera flashed him a look. “It’s not that,” she said. “All I said was that whoever’s done this has got it wrong. The Green Man tale is about redemption. He comes back
from the dead. Like the seeds sown in the fields, that rise up to be the wheat. In the old songs, he’s no killer. He’s the life force, the opposite of death.”

  Rick got to his feet with a scrape of his chair. “Well, whatever it is, man or ghost, it’s got to be stopped. If you’re here to save us, O’Grady, you’d better start now.”

  O’Grady stood to face Rick. “Sure,” he said. “I know where I want to start. Let’s go and see this ghost estate.”

  Chapter 8

  They walked up the hill, away from the farm, Rick striding ahead towards the new housing, Bridie and O’Grady side by side, slightly behind. The afternoon sun flickered through the trees behind them. O’Grady was struck by the barren land, the flattened plain before them. He could see pristine buildings, facades of brand-new brick, lifeless windows staring blankly out across the dried, cracked mud.

  “Who’s the development company?” O’Grady asked.

  “Quite a complex set-up,” Rick began.

  “There’s a group of company directors,” Bridie said. “My husband’s brother is involved.” She turned to O’Grady. “You remember Sean? He made a lot of money from the bookmakers—”

  “Sean O’Connor fixed the machines,” Rick interrupted. “Took easy money from brainless punters.”

  “He’s in property now,” Bridie went on. “We don’t see much of him.”

  “That’s where the golf course will be,” Rick said, waving his arm towards the expanse of clay. “My son Jason is working for them too.”

  “A family business, then?” O’Grady glanced at him, but he didn’t reply. O’Grady looked at the strangely parched earth. “They’ll need water for a golf course,” he said. “And this land has always been dry.”

  “They’ll get it,” Rick replied. “The old stream flows down the hill from here. But there’s all sorts of technology these days. Pumps and that.”

  “Dad.” The voice came from behind them. O’Grady turned to see a tall, sauntering young man in tight jeans and designer boots.