Bleed a River Deep (Inspector Devlin Mystery 3) Page 7

  Penny was trying on an outfit when my mobile rang.

  ‘They’re bringing that bog body back to Orcas this evening, ahead of the Hagan visit,’ Harry Patterson said, without introduction. ‘Get over there and show your face.’

  ‘I’m on my day off, Harry,’ I said, raising a hand to placate Debbie.

  ‘You tell me that like I’d give a fuck. Get out there, Devlin.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked, refusing to be drawn into a swearing match while Penny and Shane were standing in front of me.

  ‘Because I’m telling you to,’ he replied, then hung up.

  When I reached the main building, a museum truck was parked at the front doors, the hum of its air-conditioning unit audible. Fearghal Bradley and Linda Campbell were in the foyer of the main reception area when I arrived. John Weston was speaking on his phone near by.

  Fearghal was not as effusive in his greeting this time, merely nodding and winking once as he worked the electric controls on a glass presentation case that sat in the centre of the area. The box was perhaps five feet long, sitting atop a mahogany plinth.

  The workman I had seen on my first day out at the mine was standing nearby, fixing up the frame on a noticeboard, inside of which was a hastily produced poster about the bog body and its discovery. The rest of the building was in darkness.

  Weston snapped his phone shut and came over to me, smiling expansively as always, hand outstretched. ‘Good to see you, Ben. Out on a Sunday – that’s above and beyond the call of duty.’ He paused for a beat. ‘Tell me, did your wife like the gift?’

  ‘She did, sir,’ I said, earning a glance from Linda and Fearghal, who then went back to their work. I gestured towards the truck outside with a nod. ‘So you managed to get a loan after all,’ I said.

  ‘More than that, Ben,’ he said, smiling, then placed his manicured finger against his lips and motioned towards Fearghal’s back, intimating that I shouldn’t say anything more. I suspected it was a sore point with Fearghal.

  When Fearghal was finally happy that a constant temperature and humidity level could be maintained inside the case, he asked for our help carrying Kate in.

  She lay on a plastic board, clay and browned leaves cushioning her body. She was much lighter than I had expected and smaller than I remembered. Her skin shone now, as if polished, and her hair’s redness was more vivid than before. We carried her as one might a coffin, each taking one corner of the plastic board on which she lay, shuffling sideways through the main doors and into the reception area.

  We positioned her on the plinth and Bradley lowered the glass cover and pressed a small button to the side. Air hissed as the body was sealed in a vacuum and several small spotlights within the unit flickered on. Then all the lights in the reception area went out and I became aware that Weston was standing at the switch by the wall, gazing in wonder at his newest acquisition.

  The spotlights threw shadows upwards on our faces and I wondered if it were that, or something else, that made Fearghal’s mood seem so dark. The thought registered only for a second, though, and then was gone. He laid his hand on top of the case for a moment, then wiped away his handprint with a cloth.

  After they had completed the necessary paperwork, Fearghal announced that he was hungry. I suggested getting something to eat. Though none of us had extended an invitation, Weston excused himself on the grounds that he had too much to do to prepare for the following day’s visit but insisted that dinner would be on him, handing Linda Campbell a hundred-euro note.

  ‘Bon appétit, folks,’ he said. ‘See you all tomorrow.’

  We drove back to Lifford to the Old Courthouse, beneath which is an Italian restaurant, built in the converted cells where criminals and lunatics were detained side by side centuries ago.

  Fearghal ordered two bottles of wine for the group along with our meal. I added a soft drink to the order, on the grounds that I had to be up early the following day in preparation for Hagan’s visit.

  ‘Speaking of which,’ I said, ‘you didn’t happen to mention the visit to anyone, did you?’

  Fearghal was stuffing a chunk of ciabatta in his mouth and attempting to down a glass of red wine simultaneously. ‘You didn’t tell me not to,’ he said defensively, when he had swallowed his food.

  ‘I know I didn’t, Fearghal. Just the same, did you tell anyone?’ I persisted, smiling as best I could.

  He shook his head sulkily.

  We sat in silence for a few minutes.

  ‘So, how did you two know each other?’ Linda asked finally.

  ‘We lived near one another. Then we were at college together,’ I said. ‘University. We were both doing Politics modules in our first year. We became drinking buddies.’

  Bradley seemed to warm to the recollection. ‘Our kid brothers were friends once too. Then at uni, Benny was doing English or something; I was doing History. We were arrested together,’ he stated. ‘Benny Devlin in handcuffs.’

  Linda laughed lightly. ‘What for?’ she asked, directing the question to me.

  ‘We broke into one of the admin offices for a sit-in protest,’ Fearghal said. ‘In protest at – what was it, Benny?’

  ‘The university refused to recycle paper,’ I explained, aware of how ridiculous it sounded. ‘They said it was too expensive to separate all its rubbish. We were part of an Environmental Club. Five of us got drunk one night and thought it would be very clever to break into the admin building. We thought the press would cover it and highlight the travesty.’

  ‘Instead,’ Bradley continued, ‘they called the cops and had us all lifted. We had to pay a fine and they wouldn’t let us graduate.’

  ‘Seriously?’ Linda said, her face bright with smiling, looking from one of us to the other.

  I looked at Fearghal and smiled at the memory, though for long enough it had not been a particularly happy one.

  ‘You wouldn’t think it to look at him now,’ Fearghal said, ‘but he used to be a bit of a rebel. He used to give it to “the man”. Now he’s paid by him.’

  The comment hurt more than I would have thought, but I tried to brush it aside with a laugh.

  ‘Not you, though, Fearghal, eh? Always the rebel!’

  ‘Do you think?’ he said, a little sadly. ‘Not these days. Do you know how that fucker Weston got Kate back? He sponsored an entire wing of the museum for five years.’

  I figured this wasn’t the first time Fearghal had mentioned it, for as he spoke Linda Campbell placed her hand on top of his in reassurance.

  ‘What can you do, Ben, eh? Refuse the man and a whole wing of exhibits closes.’

  ‘It’s a tough one, Fearghal,’ I agreed.

  ‘It shouldn’t be,’ he said, spitting bits of bread on to the tablecloth. ‘We wouldn’t have taken it when we were youngsters.’

  ‘The price of growing older, Fearghal,’ I said, smiling a little uncertainly. He seemed to be getting drunk very quickly. His face was flushed and red, and beads of sweat were visible at his hairline.

  Linda squeezed his hand in hers and, with her free hand, rubbed his shoulder.

  ‘Fearghal argued against Kate being brought up here. He was overruled. Threatened with the sack if he didn’t get behind the management.’

  ‘I know how he feels,’ I said, as if he wasn’t sitting in front of me.

  Fearghal looked at me pathetically, his head hanging slightly, flecks of bread drying on his lips.

  Chapter Nine

  Monday, 9 October

  I was sitting in a squad car at the border at 10.30 the following morning. Hagan was due to cross the border near 11. I had asked Helen Gorman to accompany me and we spoke briefly about the events of Friday night. I could tell she was uncomfortable with the situation. Perhaps she resented me for involving her in something that had gone so badly wrong. I assured her that I had made no mention of her involvement when I reported back to Patterson.

  I got out of the car and smoked a cigarette as I leant on the parapet of the bridge over the c
onfluence of the Foyle, Finn and Mourne rivers. Several men were fishing further upriver, one wading in the depths. I recalled Janet Moore’s attire on Saturday and the damp on her boots. She must have been wading in the Carrowcreel, I guessed. She didn’t strike me as someone likely to go prospecting, and it made me wonder what she and Coyle had been discussing.

  Below me a heron was stepping cautiously across the stones on the riverbed, his neck craned, his beak poised several centimetres above the water’s surface. Two seagulls circled around him, attempting to chase him away. He held his stance, his eyes fixed on the water, then in a fluid movement his beak dipped just beneath the surface and he lifted off with a single beat of his massive wings. A fish curled in his bill, its skin glittering.

  I made to flick my cigarette butt into the water, then thought better of it, crushing it out on the metal railing and returning it to the packet.

  Hagan’s jeep turned the bend at the metal sculptures on the border just shy of eleven o’clock, sandwiched between two PSNI cars, which drove as far as the restaurant before the border then pulled in.

  I drove out in front of the jeep and turned on my hazard lights. I was aware of our other unmarked car pulling out behind it. Then we set off for Orcas.

  A small crowd had gathered by the time we arrived. A group of thirty or so primary-school children lined the driveway, waving small plastic American flags as if the President himself were passing. Their teacher stood at the top of the line, smiling at her children and encouraging them to cheer at the darkened windows of the jeep.

  I became aware that the distance between my car and the jeep behind me was widening, and realized that Hagan had asked his driver to stop and was out on the roadway, speaking to the children. Ahead of us, a similar-sized group of adults stood, some on tiptoes, some with cameras, clearly hoping that Hagan would extend the same courtesy to them when the time came.

  After a few minutes he made his way up to the teacher. He placed his hand on her elbow and leant in to kiss her cheek. She turned her head and he ended up kissing her hair. She apologized and attempted to move her head the other way. They both laughed good-humouredly. Hagan waved to the children once more, then stepped back into his jeep.

  Around a hundred people now stood outside the main building. Considering the mine only employed a dozen or so, I guessed most were invited guests, any one of whom could have revealed details of the visit to the press. Near the front was our local councillor, Miriam Powell. She smiled coldly at me as I drew up alongside her and parked the car. Harry Patterson and John Weston came forward to the kerb to welcome Hagan officially.

  Cameras clicked and flashed as they shook hands. I spotted Janet Moore out of the corner of my eye and she smiled and nodded at me. Several plain-clothes officers mingled with the crowd and a number of uniformed men stood on the roof, with binoculars.

  Hagan made his way through the crowd, slapping backs or clasping hands with each person to whom he was introduced. He came to Miriam Powell and called her Miriam without being introduced. They kissed like old friends, and stood conferring while the next in line rubbed the sweat from the palms of his hands on his trouser legs.

  Hagan himself was not what I had expected. He was smaller in stature, standing just over five and a half feet tall. His hair was thin and grey, brushed back sternly on to his scalp. His eyes were magnified by thick glasses that sat on a long, hooked nose. He wore a grey suit and starched white shirt, with an emerald-green tie. His manner was easy; his handshakes firm; and his jokes deeply funny – or at least that was the impression given by the raucous laughter of those around him.

  Just behind him, to left and right, walked the two Secret Service agents, who had travelled in his jeep with him, though ‘secret’ seemed a misnomer. Both were the size and shape of gorillas and were crammed into black suits. Both wore sunglasses and earpieces, but since there were only two of them there, and they were walking side by side, I couldn’t see the need for earpieces.

  Hagan’s first official engagement was to draw back a small blue velvet curtain from the case in which ‘Kate’ had been placed. In so doing, he said, it gave him great pleasure to officially open Orcas Mine. Applause and the whirr of cameras accompanied the action.

  Then he was taken to a lectern, placed at the bottom of the staircase that led up to Weston’s office. A bench had been set behind, on which sat Miriam Powell and Harry Patterson. There was a space between them, presumably for John Weston.

  Weston approached the lectern first, inviting guests to take their seats. I had arranged for Janet Moore to get two seats near the front, but the seat beside her, which I had assumed was for her husband, was empty. Further back I could see Linda, and beside her Fearghal, who looked decidedly uncomfortable.

  When people had settled, Weston began. He thanked all who had come, then spoke at some length about the various difficulties he had overcome in setting up his mine. He spoke of Cathal Hagan and his relationship with his father. He spoke of his fondness for his ‘old country’ and his hopes that he could put something back into the local economy. Then he welcomed Cathal Hagan to the lectern.

  Hagan likewise went through the formalities and required thanks. Then, leaning one arm on the lectern and loosening his tie, he adopted a more conversational tone.

  ‘Despite the talk of recession, the Celtic Tiger’s roar has been heard across the globe,’ he began. ‘You folks gathered here today represent the best of it, the strength behind the tiger. You know,’ he leant further forward, ‘it’s strange to think that, a hundred-odd years ago, the people of this great island – this whole island – came to my country looking for shelter, looking for work. They came in their thousands, braving the most adverse conditions to start a new life in the US. And what a great contribution they made, in all areas of life.’

  Several people applauded lightly at this point, allowing Hagan to pause, take a sip of water from the glass on the lectern and lean his weight on his other arm.

  ‘It seems to me that Ireland is now affording that opportunity to other countries. During my visit to Dublin I met many immigrant workers, grateful for the succour Mother Ireland has given them. It seems you have become a mini-America – a land of the free, a land of opportunity. Heck, you folks even have your own gold rush, I believe.’

  There was more applause and laughter, the loudest coming from behind the lectern, where Weston was clearly relishing his moment in the spotlight.

  ‘That’s an awesome responsibility, folks,’ he continued. ‘But places like this, built on Irish-American finances, represent all that’s good about the dream of wealth and prosperity; the pursuit of happiness. We will help you rise to the challenges that that responsibility brings. Hand in hand, we face a golden future. God bless you all.’

  At this, as if by some signal, all those in attendance rose to their feet in applause, though I noticed Fearghal was the slowest out of his seat and the least enthusiastic. The standing crowd blocked the view of the two security men for a few seconds, but it was all that was needed.

  At first I thought the man was returning to his seat, but he kept moving forwards. He was a crusty, one of those from the camp by the stream, and I recognized him as the one with whom Moore had been speaking the day I met her there. He glanced to the side, caught someone’s eye, smiled. I followed his gaze to Fearghal Bradley, who stood quite still, his expression frozen. I read his lips as he mouthed his brother’s name: ‘Leon.’

  Then Leon Bradley raised the gun.

  His face was contorted in pantomime concentration as his hand held the gun steady. I followed his gaze, followed the aim of his weapon to where Hagan stood, his face drawn in terror.

  I pushed through the crowd towards him, my hand raised, my shout of warning caught in my throat. Then I heard the shot, glimpsed the muzzle flash, even as Leon was grappled to the ground by the two Secret Service agents, attempting too late to compensate for the inadequacy of the protection offered by An Garda. The gun, knocked loose from Leon’s gri
p, fell on to the floor, where it lay glinting in the autumn sunlight that streamed through the windows.

  In the panic that ensued, Patterson and Weston bundled Hagan away, while several other Guards assisted Hagan’s security agents in subduing Leon Bradley. I went over and lifted the gun Leon had dropped, carefully holding it by the muzzle. I realized quickly that it was no more than a starter pistol. Hagan might be shaken up, but he wouldn’t be hurt. Checking that Leon was cuffed, I made my way over to where Hagan was standing surrounded by well-wishers.

  I didn’t make it that far, for Patterson blocked my way, his face red with anger.

  I held up the gun. ‘It’s a starter pistol—’ I began, but Patterson grabbed me by the collar and shunted me against the wall.

  ‘You useless prick,’ he hissed through clenched teeth, then he shoved me once and stalked back through the crowd.

  Several onlookers glanced in my direction, then turned away and spoke among themselves as the gunman was bundled away.

  Chapter Ten

  Monday, 9 October

  By six o clock that evening Hagan had left for his next engagement and Patterson had spent the best part of three hours apologizing to both him and Weston. Leon Bradley had resolutely refused to reveal how he had gained access to the main reception area. CCTV footage from the main gate showed him entering through the front and presenting a ticket. My initial thought had been that his brother had given him it, but on checking, it appeared that Fearghal had only been given two tickets, one for Linda and one for himself. Then I followed a hunch. The first time I had seen Janet Moore, she had been talking with Ted Coyle and one of the crusties, whom I now suspected to be Leon Bradley. A quick check confirmed that, despite her husband’s absence, both of Janet Moore’s tickets had been presented at the gate.