The Nameless Dead (30 page)

‘Right,’ she said, folding her arms.

‘I know you think I was wrong to not beat up Burke when I found him. But he’d already been beaten. He’d wet himself he was so scared.’

I was shocked to see a visceral glint in Penny’s eyes at my comment. ‘Penny, what type of a father would I be if I beat up a defenceless boy?’

‘A decent one,’ she muttered.

‘Listen, love, I wanted Burke to suffer more than anyone. But I did what was right, not what was easy.’

‘It’s not right to snoop through my phone messages.’

‘You know what? You’re right. We shouldn’t be checking up on you. But we care too much about you to let you get in deep with someone like Morrison.’

‘Well, care less, then,’ she said, turning her attention to the computer again.

Morrison answered the door on my second ring.

‘Inspector Devlin. Always a treat.’

‘We need to talk about something,’ I said.

He called back into the house that he was stepping out for a minute, then closed the door and came out to join me. We walked around the edge of his property, to where the horses shifted uneasily
in their stables. As we walked, we set off the motion-detecting security lights which Morrison had had installed around his property. His horses watched our progress, their wild, rolling eyes
glinting under the glare of the lights, their breaths misting before them where they stood, heads hanging out over the half door of the stables.

‘Your boy sent Penny footage of an attack on Stephen Burke.’

‘Did he now?’

‘You didn’t know?’

He stared over my shoulder, then looked at me directly. ‘I didn’t say that.’

‘I want him to stay away from my daughter.’

‘I’m not entirely sure that’s your choice,’ he said. ‘Penny is a young adult. Maybe you ought to treat her that way.’

‘The day I need to take parenting advice from a drug trafficker, I’ll know I’m in trouble.’

Morrison rubbed his nose between his finger and thumb, snuffling as he did so. ‘You called here. I didn’t ask you to.’

‘Your son beat him until he pissed himself. I don’t want someone like that around my daughter.’

‘Why do you think John was responsible? Can you identify the person who’s attacking the Burke boy in the footage?’

‘John sent it to Penny.’

‘Kids these days can access all sorts of stuff. That doesn’t prove he actually did it. I’ll tell you what I think is really going on here. You wanted Burke to pay for what he
did; you just didn’t have the balls to do it yourself. Now you’re annoyed that someone else had instead. I can see why that might embarrass you.’

‘Don’t,’ I said, struggling to remain composed. ‘Don’t get involved with my family.’

‘Whatever you think, Inspector,’ he said, stifling a yawn. ‘We’re done here; my horses need feeding.’

With that, he turned his back on me and strode across to where his horses waited, regarding his approach with wide, terrified eyes.

I was halfway back along the road to my own house when my mobile rang. It was Jim Hendry.

‘Ben,’ he said. I could hear the wind thudding against his mouthpiece as he spoke.

‘Jim. Everything all right?’

‘Niall Martin has disappeared. His partner called us. Someone broke into the house, tied her up and took him away.’

‘Any ideas who?’ I asked, though I already knew the answer.

‘The partner said Martin had thought they were being followed the whole way from Letterkenny. A red Citroën.’

‘James Callan?’

‘We think so. Look, I need your help. We’re at Callan’s house but the place is deserted.’

‘Right.’

‘We can see the island from here. There’s someone over there; we can see a torch moving about in the darkness. We can’t access it from this side. We’re waiting for a boat
to be brought up from the docks in Derry with a crew to check it out.’

‘You want me to take a look from over here?’

‘It could be nothing; poachers or that. It’s too dark to see from here, but we think there’s two people there.’

‘I’ll check it out.’

I knew from my previous visits onto the island that the car’s shuddering across the temporary bridge would make enough noise to alert whoever was on the island to my
arrival. Therefore I parked up at the bridge’s entrance; it also meant my car was blocking the route off the island. Grabbing my torch and my gun, I made my way across the bridge on foot.

If Hendry had seen a torch beam from Callan’s house, it meant that whoever was using the torch must have been in the field where the Commission had been digging. Within a few minutes I
reached the curve in the road that led to the field, and there, in the faint light given off by the sliver of moon above us, I recognized Callan’s car parked at the side of the road.

I called Hendry’s mobile.

‘His car’s here,’ I whispered.

‘The boat’s on its way,’ Hendry said. ‘Sit tight.’

I pocketed my phone and picked my way down the embankment into the field where Declan Cleary’s body had been found. Around me, mounds of soil from the various dig sites were piled in the
darkness. I strained to see but could not discern any torchlight. I struggled across the field, stumbling over smaller mud piles, trying not to lose my footing. About halfway across I finally
spotted the shifting glint of one torch. As I moved closer I realized that the beam had stopped moving. For a second I thought that Callan had heard my approach. Then I realized he had laid the
torch on the ground.

The rasp of a spade sinking into the soil carried across the field towards me. In the dim light of Callan’s torch, I saw his feet moving as he lifted one boot onto the lug of a shovel.
Then he shifted and deposited the soil he had lifted off to his right. He was burying Niall Martin.

My gun already drawn, I moved quicker now, though still with some difficulty, being unable to turn on my torch lest Callan see me. I reasoned that, even if Callan were armed, he would not be
holding a gun if he was carrying a shovel. Still, I wanted to get as close to him as I could before he realized I was there.

Just as I rounded one of the mounds of clay, I lost my footing and stumbled, falling against the piled earth. Though I held onto my gun, I dropped my torch. On all fours I felt around with my
hands to see if I could find it. Then I realized that the sound of the digging had stopped.

I froze, trying to make out Callan in the darkness. His torch beam shifted suddenly upwards, then swept across the field as he scanned the area. I fell back against the mound, pressing myself
against it as hard as I could and turning my face from him.

I held my breath, lest it condensed into mist and gave my presence away. For a moment the island was silent, then, in the distance, I could discern the low drone of the PSNI’s motor boat
running up the river. Suddenly I heard again the sound of Callan digging, faster this time, as if he too had heard the boat’s approach and wanted to be finished. I wondered why he should risk
finishing Martin’s grave rather than making a run for it now, if he knew the PSNI were on their way.

I scrabbled in the dirt until my fingers found the hard casing of my torch. Standing again, I began making my way across to Callan.

He stopped and lifted his torch again, the beam cutting across the distance between us. In turn I flicked on my own, shining it on him, my gun held in my other hand.

‘An Garda,’ I shouted. ‘I’m armed.’

In the broad sweep of my torch-beam I saw Callan ducking down, trying to use the mounds of clay for cover.

‘You’re surrounded, Jimmy,’ I called. ‘You can hear the PSNI on the river. They’ll be here in a few minutes.’

‘That’s all it will take,’ Callan shouted. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

‘Hand yourself over now, to me, then,’ I called, moving ever closer. I could see Callan reclining against one of the piles, perhaps thirty yards from me. The droning of the PSNI boat
grew ever louder.

‘I can’t do that,’ Callan called. ‘He has to die. You understand that?’

‘It’s done,’ I said. ‘He’s buried. Surrender yourself now. Please.’

Callan laughed mirthlessly. ‘Dominic took hours to die. Hours. He’s getting off easy.’

‘Martin’s still alive?’ I shouted.

‘Not for much longer,’ Callan replied.

‘Niall Martin didn’t kill your son,’ I said. ‘The army did.’

‘He set him up. He used him to kill children, then set him up with the Brits.’

I moved closer, rounding a mound of earth as I closed in on him. I could see Callan becoming distracted, his attention constantly being drawn to the river from where the noise of the boat engine
reverberated. Suddenly he shifted behind the mound and I lost sight of him.

‘I understand your anger, Jimmy,’ I said, keen to keep him talking, if only to keep his attention from the shoreline behind him, where the PSNI would soon be arriving.

‘You have no idea,’ he said. ‘You give your life to something. Your fucking soul. Killing children. Do you know what that does to you? Inside? And then you’re no use
anymore. The war’s over and everyone goes home. He had my son killing fucking children. And that prick Seamus O’Hara telling people now. Taking my son’s name away from him. Like
they hadn’t taken enough already.’

‘You killed Seamus O’Hara?’

He did not respond. The river valley seemed to shudder now with the noise of the approaching motor boat. Suddenly, the sounds spluttered out and I realized the PSNI must have reached the shallow
waters near the island’s edge, at Tra na Cnahma.

‘And Sean Cleary?’ I rounded the final mound and reached the spot where Callan had been standing. The earth was still raw where he had thrown it on top of Martin, the spade lying off
to the left.

‘My Dominic’s a hero. And they wanted to take that from me. The Cleary boy wanted to go to the papers and tell them the truth. The week of my son’s death and he wants to tell
the papers that Dominic killed babies.’

I dropped down and, holding my gun in my right hand, began pawing at the dirt with my left, trying to feel through the earth for Martin. If he was even still alive, he’d suffocate soon
enough.

‘You said you didn’t care about all that. About the march,’ I called.

‘I don’t give a shit about that. But he’s my son. His life had to mean something. And they want to take that meaning from him.’

‘And what about Sheila Clark? Where is she?’ Callan had not compacted the soil and my hand sunk down into the loamy earth, cold and damp between my fingers.

‘You’re standing on top of a huge fucking graveyard, Inspector,’ Callan hissed. ‘This whole fucking country,’ he added, his voice suddenly near.

I turned to see him standing above me, his gun, a silenced pistol, pointed at me. At that moment, my hand connected with cloth and flesh in the ground. I could feel Martin react to my touch,
could feel him wriggling suddenly where he lay beneath the soil.

‘The PSNI are coming,’ I said. ‘You heard them.’

‘You should have left me alone,’ he said, his gun lowering.

His body became suddenly illuminated with a number of torches.

‘Drop the gun,’ a voice shouted. ‘Armed police.’

As Callan turned towards the light, blood spurted from his right arm in the same instant as the sound of the first shot rumbled across the Foyle valley. Callan twisted, dropping his gun and, as
he did so, a further shot rang out. This one caught him in the neck with sufficient force to knock him from his feet onto the mound of earth behind him.

I scrambled across to him. He was already dying. I could hear the soft suspiration of air through the wound the second bullet had made in his neck. Blood bubbled on his lips as he tried to
speak. I recited an act of contrition, though I could not tell if he joined me in the prayer.

I squatted next to him, pressing my hand on the wound to his neck, trying to staunch the flow of blood. Callan mouthed something dryly, pawing at me with his bloody hand. Then, his eyes shifted
out of focus and his hand dropped to the ground.

‘Hands where we can see ’em,’ a Northern voice called. The torch beams were shining on me now.

‘An Garda,’ I shouted. ‘DI Devlin.’

‘We saved your bacon, Inspector,’ the voice said. The speaker approached me, his hand out, to help me to my feet.

‘Martin’s still alive,’ I shouted, scrabbling back to where I had been digging. I began pulling back the earth with my hands, while the PSNI men who had arrived dropped down
and did likewise. Finally, we began to uncover his body.

His hands were bound with tape in front of him, his shirt clung to his stomach and was sodden with his blood. Callan had shot him in the stomach, just as Dominic had been, and left him to bleed
out.

‘Call an ambulance,’ I said to the PSNI officer nearest me, handing him my mobile. I felt through the earth, gripping Martin’s head and pulling his face free from the mud. His
mouth was covered in duct tape, his eyes staring wildly from me to the officers opposite, who continued to dig him free from his grave. I ripped the tape from his mouth.

‘Where’s the child?’ I asked.

His mouth gulped at the air, his eyes wide and fearful. I shook him roughly.

‘The child that Sheila Clark had. Where is it?’

He looked at me dumbly, as if unable to process what I was asking.

‘In the car.’

‘What?’

‘The car.’

‘Where? At Islandview? When I caught you?’

He stared around him wildly. The car had been searched when Martin was arrested. It had been empty. I gripped his face, turning him towards me. My hands were slick with Callan’s blood and
his skin was tacky to my touch. I could hear one of the PSNI men mutter a comment to his colleague about my behaviour but I didn’t care.

‘Tell me. Which car?’

He nodded. ‘At Islandview. The car,’ he said, his body shuddering as it began to register the shock of all he had suffered.

I felt my stomach lurch as I realized, finally, the child’s location.

Christine Cashell was not at her house in Islandview when I called, though her partner, Andrew Dunne, told me that she had gone to stay with her mother for a few days. I would
find her there. I believe he knew why I was calling and I suspected he felt a degree of relief at my visit.