The Nameless Dead (27 page)

‘You’re wrong. Those children died in birth.’

‘Not all of them. One of them was murdered. A girl. When we found her remains there were a series of fractures around her neck and throat. She was strangled. Someone killed her.’

Clark opened her mouth to speak, but made no sound.

‘Someone murdered her and buried her among the other bones on that island. And Declan Cleary ended up there, too.’

‘You’re wrong,’ she managed. ‘No one killed any of the children.’

‘The post-mortem doesn’t lie,’ I said. ‘The girl was killed.’

Her eyes began to moisten, the skin around her mouth tightening. I began to suspect that, despite her crimes in selling off the children she had been smuggling into the country, she had spent so
long justifying her actions to herself that she truly believed she was helping the children involved.

‘I don’t think that you killed her,’ I said. ‘But I think you know who did. It was one of the Martins, wasn’t it?’

She shook her head.

‘If you really do love these children, you can’t cover for someone murdering a baby,’ I said.

Clark shook her head. ‘Dominic,’ she said. ‘Dominic Callan did it, then O’Hara buried him. He must have done it.’

‘Not Declan Cleary or Niall Martin?’

‘Declan went to the RUC about the whole thing, for God’s sake,’ she snorted, before realizing she had gone too far.

Her brief, on the other hand, laid his hand on her arm. ‘I need to speak to Miss Clark,’ he said. ‘Alone.’

Patterson and I stood outside the station door for a few minutes while I had a smoke, grateful for the break.

‘So Declan Cleary went to the RUC about the children, rather than to tout on Dominic Callan,’ Patterson said.

‘Maybe they figured, when Dominic Callan got hit, they could use it to their advantage. Finger Declan Cleary for an informant and let the Provos do the rest.’

‘Callan’s father said he didn’t kill Declan Cleary, though, back then,’ Patterson said.

‘Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t,’ I said. ‘But I think the only people who had something to lose in this coming out now are the Martins. If O’Hara started talking to
Sean Cleary recently and told him the truth, the Martins were the ones most likely to want them silenced. Sean goes to Jimmy Callan, who denies everything. Then he goes to O’Hara, who tells
him what we know now; Sean challenges Niall Martin – we know he phoned him – Martin kills him. Martin realizes there’s only one place Sean could have got his information from
– O’Hara. So Martin pops him, too. Martin Senior is in no state to be going around shooting people: it must be the son.’

‘So, Niall Martin, then?’

I nodded.

‘We’ll never get a warrant to bring him over for questioning,’ Patterson said. ‘We’ll call the North and have them pick him up if she names him.’

‘What about the child? The nosy neighbour in Drumoghill saw a couple waiting at the house, then later a woman collected the child from the house. It was locked when I arrived, so it was
someone with a key. I think Clark missed the people who were meant to take the child; I’d bet the woman who came and got it was Martin’s partner, Maria. Clark must have phoned him when
we were after her and warned him. I’d bet the child is with him.’

‘Call your friend in Strabane. Have them chase it up.’

I dragged a final few puffs from my cigarette, then nicked it and returned the stub to the box for later.

When we returned to the interview room, something had changed. The brief sat erect now, Clark herself slumped in her seat, as if the physical weight of her memories had worn
her down.

‘My client will assist you in your enquiries about the children you found on Islandmore,’ he said. ‘Obviously, to do so will require some form of recompense with regards to the
issue of the adoptions mentioned.’

It was not a good deal to make. The children on Islandmore had been found during a dig for the Disappeared; the chances of any form of prosecution were small. But connecting Martin to those
deaths would help establish a motive for the shootings of Sean Cleary and Seamus O’Hara.

‘We’ll see what we can do,’ I said. ‘It depends how useful the information she gives us proves to be.’

‘We need to be sure she’ll receive some form of quid pro quo for her help in this.’

‘That depends on what we hear,’ Patterson said. ‘Now start talking.’

Clark clasped her hands together in front of her on the table. ‘Alan Martin supported St Canice’s with drugs and supplies for years. He had been adopted himself and he felt a degree
of affection for the work we did. We never refused anyone’s help.’

She preened herself, patting down the wild tangle of her hair.

‘The summer Niall started working with us they offered us a skin cream for treating acne. A lot of the girls suffered horribly with it. They had approval for testing. It wasn’t
unusual in the homes for pharmaceutical companies to try out new drugs. We allowed the girls who suffered very bad acne to use the cream.’

‘When did you know something was wrong?’

‘The first birth following the start of the medication was okay, though the girl had started using the cream very late in her pregnancy. The next one was born with defects.’

‘Jane Hillen’s child?’

Clark shrugged. ‘Maybe. I don’t remember the names.’

‘She kept the child.’

‘She did,’ Clark agreed. ‘That’s right. Her father wanted her to put him up for adoption, but she stuck with him, even with the . . . problems.’

‘He’s still with her,’ I said. ‘And he still carries those problems.’

She nodded, clearly not wanting to be drawn on any culpability she might feel for Christopher Hillen’s condition.

‘The next one was born the same way, but was already dead,’ she continued. ‘From then onwards, they were all stillborn.’

‘All but the girl,’ I added.

She swallowed dryly. ‘We thought it would die when it came out, but it kept fighting. We could hear its cries. Dominic Callan took it out of the room, pushed it out in a little clear
plastic trolley. He didn’t come back. I thought it had died naturally, but . . . maybe not. Dominic and Seamus O’Hara buried it. Seamus said he knew where they could rest without being
disturbed.’

‘Without being found, you mean? So what happened with Declan Cleary?’

‘His own partner got pregnant and he started to get squeamish about what was happening. We’d already told Alan Martin about the reactions to the drugs and he’d stopped the
girls using them, but Declan wasn’t happy with that. He went to the Martins about it.’

‘The only one with a conscience,’ Patterson commented.

Clark snorted derisively. ‘He was trying to blackmail them. He needed money for his own kid coming and tried to get it off the Martins. Then when the army shot Dominic, the word went round
that Declan had gone to the RUC and touted on him for money.’

‘You don’t believe that, do you?’

Clark shrugged. ‘I don’t know what happened.’

‘Niall Martin killed him,’ I suggested.

She shook her head.

‘If he didn’t, he at least put him in the frame for it.’

‘Possibly,’ she said. ‘I stayed clear of that. The Martins arranged for children to be brought in from a home in eastern Europe that they supported, to cover up for the seven
children who had died. It meant that there would be a paper trail.’

‘But the mothers knew that their children had died already,’ I said.

‘The girls in those homes were usually told their children had died,’ Clark said. ‘Even when they hadn’t. It made it easier for them to move on and forget the child. If
they knew it had lived, they’d have gone looking for it. If they thought the child was dead already it would make the parting easier.’

‘You really don’t understand grief, do you?’ I said.

‘Grief is the cost of having loved,’ Clark repeated. ‘If they didn’t know the child, they couldn’t have loved it, so their grief would be easier.’

‘All these platitudes about the cost of loving. You have no children of your own, have you?’ I said.

She shook her head. ‘Only the children I’ve helped to find new homes. And new parents to love them. I think of them often.’

‘And the seven on the island. Do you think of them?’

‘On occasions,’ she said. ‘They were never named, though. They never existed.’

‘They existed,’ I said. ‘And still do to those who lost them. Ask Christine Cashell. Her son is Michael. She named him that to keep him alive in her mind. Because he was still
her son. And that girl, the one that was murdered. Someone somewhere had a name for her, too. So, you tell yourself that what you did was good and right and helped people, but you were party to the
killing of a child.’

She shook her head, but her features became pinched, her eyes glassy, her lips thin and purpled.

‘Is Niall Martin still involved in the illegal adoption of children?’

‘Yes,’ she whispered, after a moment’s pause.

‘Will you testify that Niall Martin has been involved in the smuggling of children into the country for the past thirty-five years?’

She nodded her head, curtly, once; it was enough to dislodge the tears that had gathered in her eyes.

I called Hendry and told him what we had learned. He, in turn, had assembled two squads and had already set out for Martin’s home on Liskey Road.

When I arrived the PSNI were conducting a search of the property, though it was already too late. Niall Martin had left; presumably Clark had informed him that we were on to her and he had
realized it was only a matter of time before we came looking for him. I suspected he was already making his way around whatever properties they had been using for the smuggled children, destroying
any evidence which might link him to them.

Maria was in the house, visibly upset at the conduct of the police officers. She had resisted their attempts to search the bedroom which she and Martin had shared, until Hendry had instructed
for her to be cuffed. She sat now on the sofa, watching her own reflection in the large plate-glass window that gave away nothing of its spectacular view due to the darkness beyond.

The team that entered the bedroom found that one of the closets was empty, the hangers lying on the floor, as if someone had removed the contents in haste.

‘He’s long gone,’ Hendry said, standing with me, watching Maria staring at her reflection. ‘She’s refusing to speak anything but Russian or something.’

‘No idea when he left?’

Hendry shook his head. ‘He’s taken a load of clothes, so either he’s left for good, or else he’s having to work out what he was wearing the night Cleary and O’Hara
were killed and get rid of them.’

I walked over to where the woman sat staring impassively ahead.

‘Where’s the child you took from the house in Drumaghill tonight? Sheila Clark contacted you, didn’t she? Where is the child now?’

She looked up at me disinterestedly, then turned away.

‘I know you speak English. Where is the child? Clark is already talking. Help yourself now by helping us.’

She remained mute. I waited a moment, hoping she might provide me with something. Eventually, I moved back across to Jim Hendry.

‘He can’t stay away from here forever.’

Hendry nodded. ‘His old man is getting back out soon,’ he said. ‘He’ll have to come back for that. We’ll pick him up as soon as he reappears. I’ll leave a
team on the house until then.’

I headed back over the border. On the bridge, the wind running down the river valley had torn down one of the posters advertising the commemoration march. It lay on the centre
of the road, the passing traffic driving over it. I stopped and placed it against one of the bins along the pavement. Callan smiled jauntily in the image, carefree in his youthfulness.

I was getting back into the car when my mobile rang. I did not recognize the number.

‘Inspector?’ The voice was timid, hesitant.

‘Yes?’

‘This is Christine Cashell, Inspector.’

‘Christine, how are you?’ I said, shifting the phone to my other hand while I started the ignition. ‘I meant to call with you again to see how things were going.’

‘Mum said you told her I should phone you if . . .’ she began. ‘Andrew says I shouldn’t bother you about it anymore, but you told Mum that I should call you if the woman
across the way came back again.’

‘I appreciate it, Christine,’ I said. ‘But we’ve found her already.’

‘Oh,’ she sounded disappointed. ‘It’s just that there’s someone over there now.’

I parked up a few streets back from where Clark had been living, so as not to alert whoever was there. I suspected it would be Niall Martin, cleaning up after Clark, destroying
any evidence connecting him to the adoptions.

As I neared the house I could see Martin’s car parked in the driveway. Just as I approached the bottom of the drive, the house door opened and Martin stepped out. He wore jeans and a
light-coloured shirt which hung loose about his frame. Clasped in his hand was an object wrapped in a black plastic bag.

‘Raise your hands where I can see them, Mr Martin,’ I said. ‘An Garda.’

He stopped moving and raised his hands to shoulder height.

‘Step onto the driveway and lay flat on the ground,’ I instructed him, moving forward with my gun trained on him.

He glanced around, trying to work out if I was alone.

‘Lie flat on the ground,’ I repeated.

His hands wavered slightly, dropping from shoulder-height, as he weighed up his options.

‘Don’t do anything stupid now. Support officers are on their way.’ I edged closer to him as I spoke.

As soon as he realized I was alone, his stance hardened. His back straightening, he shifted suddenly sideways and, rounding the corner of the house, sprinted for the back garden. I set off after
him, though he had a twenty-yard head-start on me. By the time I reached the fence at the rear of his property, he had already cleared it and was sprinting across the field beyond.

I took off after him, climbing over the fence, then following the path he had left in the long grass. I tried as best I could to keep pace with him, though he was undoubtedly fitter than I was.
Not for the first time, I forswore cigarettes.