“He’s not here, all right. But if you do find him, tell the bastard to get home and help out with his baby daughter.”
The baby, who looked only a couple of months old and was dressed in a vomit-stained, pink babygrow, began to quiver, winding up for another attempt at waking up the entire neighbourhood.
“Would we be able to come in for a word?” interrupted one of the young gardaí, whilst trying to look around the woman and see inside the house.
Brophy instantly felt like telling him to clear off back to the station and learn a bit of subtlety.
The tall, dark-haired mother pushed the door closer to the frame, rocking her baby and scowling at the uniformed garda. “Do ye have a warrant? Ye can’t just come in here and demand to see who’s in the house. At least that much I know.”
“We’re not trying to invade, Ms...? said Brophy, cracking a half-smile, trying to sound reassuring. “We just need to talk to Michael about someone he knows who might be hurt. We’d really appreciate it if you could tell us where we could find him.”
She glared at Brophy, the dark circles around her eyes, giving nothing away about her mood at that moment. “Like I said, he isn’t here, and I don’t know where he is.”
“Okay, I believe you. Could you tell me when was the last time you saw him?”
She paused, and a look of suspicion wasn’t far from the surface.
“Tuesday morning, he took off, running out the door like the house was on fire or something. Haven’t seen or heard from him since. I’m beginning to hope I don’t hear from him again, either.”
Brophy heard a door opening upstairs. “Who’s there, Sandra?” a woman’s voice shouted, hoarse and aggressive. “If that’s the cops, don’t say a bleedin’ thing to them.” Barging down the stairs. “Don’t dare let them in. They have no right to be here.”
The door swung open fully and almost struck the baby, were it not for the young mother jumping back out of the way.
“What the hell do ye want this time? Will ye ever leave that boy alone. He hasn’t done a damn thing. One little mistake ten years ago, and you assume anything that happens must be his fault. Will ye ever clear off and leave us alone?”
The smell of cigarettes and booze erupted from the skinny, short-haired woman, who looked to be in her sixties but could have been a decade or more younger. Brophy fought the urge to react and take a step back.
“Mrs Delaney, we’re not-”
“It’s Ms Foley, actually. I haven’t carried that man’s name in twenty years,” she said, her wrinkled face contorting into a toothless sneer.
“I beg your pardon, Ms Foley. Look, we’re not here to take him in. We just need to ask him a couple of questions.”
The baby howled in the brief silence following Brophy’s words.
“Get that baby inside, will ye. And feed her, for fuck sake. She’s obviously starving.”
The young mother dropped her head and disappeared into one of the doors at the end of the gloomy hall.
“We haven’t a clue where he is, and that’s the truth,” his mother said, an involuntary look of worry passing across her face. “But you tell him to get back here as soon as ye track him down. That young one hasn’t a clue what she’s doing with that baby. Jesus, she’s only a baby herself, just nineteen years old.” She said under her breath, “Me bleedin’ nerves.”
“What kind of car is he driving these days, Ms Foley?” asked Brophy.
“He’s still got that shitty little Fiesta, hasn’t he? I’ve been telling him to change it with ages.”
“And when he left on Tuesday morning, was it in the Fiesta?”
“Well, it’s not here now, so I presume so.”
Another door opened upstairs, and the three gardaí poised. Maybe it was Delaney, Brophy thought to himself.
“Mam, who’s there at this bloody hour?” shouted the newly broken voice of a teenager.
“It’s okay, Connor. Go back to bed. It’s only the law looking for that useless brother of yours.”
“Tell them to piss off and get a warrant if they want to come in,” shouted the boy, then slammed the bedroom door shut again.
A rolling screech emanated from the baby in the other room.
“Look, I have to go and take care of this little one.” Her tone softened. “But if you see him, please tell him to come home. He’s not usually gone this long without contact. Truth be told, I’m starting to worry a little bit. Tell him I don’t care what he’s after getting himself into. He can still come home.”
“I’ll do that, Ms Foley. Thanks for your time,” said Brophy with genuine empathy, thinking of all the parents he’d come across over the years who had to suffer in silence, not knowing where their child was.
The three men turned and walked through the postage stamp concrete yard and out the rusted gate. Brophy nodded for the young garda who spoke out of turn to come closer.
“Listen, if you want to get anywhere with people, don’t be so eager. Sometimes we only have one chance with these people, and if they shut the door in our faces, we have nothing.”
“Sorry, boss. I won’t let it happen again.”
“I know you won’t. We all have to learn some-”
Brophy’s train of thought was cut by a vision drawing closer to where they stood. A dishevelled, gaunt little scrote hobbled down the street towards them, head down, hands tucked into his pockets. Packo Lenihan. He must have just been released, thought Brophy, and he clearly hadn’t spotted the squad car.
When he was about twenty metres away, he finally raised his head. His bloodshot eyes popped, and he flinched as if considering doing a legger.
“Packo, don’t even think about it,” said Brophy, and no sooner had he finished speaking than the two uniformed gardaí fast stepped and reached Packo within seconds.
“Ah, for fuck sake.”
Brophy approached slowly, rubbing his face with one hand, the four or five days of stubble rasping loudly in his ear. This was an old reflex of his that preceded the adrenalin rush brought on by taking a penalty or making an arrest by physical force.
“Packo, what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at home sleeping it off?”
“Ah sure, no problem Bott... Detective Brophy. I got great rest in that penthouse you put me up in last night.”
“Were you charged?”
“Too right, I was. Have an appointment in the courthouse on Tuesday morning.”
“Listen, Packo. If you tell me where Budgie is, I’ll make the charges go away.”
“You mean he’s not home now? Fuck it, anyway,” declared Packo, making no attempt to hide the reason why he was there.
“It doesn’t take a genius to figure out where you got whatever muck was in your system when we took you in yesterday. Why not tell us now and save yourself a bit of trouble? The pharmacology results will be in by Monday, before your date with Judge Andrews. It’ll do your case some good if you cooperate now.”
Packo looked as though he struggled to take in what Brophy had said to him. He swayed from side to side, almost banging into one of the two young gardaí on a couple of occasions. He looked up at Brophy, his eyes clouding in and out of focus.
“Hey! Aren’t you yer man who used to play the hurling for Waterford? Jeez, you were some player, man. I wasn’t bad meself, in my days.”
Brophy gave the two uniforms a look that said, “this is pointless; let’s get out of here.”
“Get yourself home,” said one of the gardaí. “There’s some serious shit about to go down here. You don’t want to be around when it does.”
“Ah, sound out, Garda. I’m just headin’ into one of me friends houses to play a bit of X-box. We’ll see ye later.”
Packo turned and walked in the direction in which he’d come, oblivious to his doubling back.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Brophy skirted the city, curving around the corner of The Mall where Reginald’s Tower stood, a medieval fortification built by early Viking invaders and the
most famed and revered landmark in Waterford. He edged along Parade Quay, looking across the breadth of the River Suir to Ferrybank, his destination, and the home of Maura Walters’ uncle, Barry Donahue.
Fifteen minutes later, the GPS on his phone, having guided him away from the town’s more built-up area, took him to the leafy suburb, Turanore. The neighbourhood was dotted with over-sized houses, their large gardens landscaped and manicured to perfection. He’d forgotten such a place existed in the city, a sign its crime rate in the last two decades was near zero. Another few minutes of driving and the city seemed like a distant memory.
At the end of a Cul-de-sac, he spotted McCall leaning against her car, smoking a cigarette, whilst chatting on the phone with gestures that suggested it was most certainly a work call. As he drew closer, he observed she had on a pair of slightly tight blue jeans, with a blue shirt and brown and white boating shoes. Brophy briefly thought she could have almost passed for one of the locals, a high-powered businesswoman come-good, or the heiress to old money. But Brophy knew better. She was as working-class as he was but always seemed to carry more of a chip about it than he. Or was that just what he told himself?
“Any signs of life inside?” said Brophy on reaching her at the car.
McCall tossed the half-smoked cigarette to the ground, a little too close to Brophy for comfort, stepped closer to him and stubbed it out with the ball of her foot.
“This place gives me the creeps,” she said, staring over his shoulder. “And yes. It looks like all the family are there, and they’ve gotten a couple more visitors in the ten minutes I’ve been here.”
“Any sign of Donahue?”
“Haven’t seen him. How did things go with that scumbag, Delaney?”
“Not present. His family says they haven’t seen him since Tuesday morning.”
“Interesting. Wonder what he’s hiding from?”
“His girlfriend has just had a baby.”
“Maybe that’s what he’s hiding from then?
“Could be.”
“How about the hurling camp? Did they have anything useful?”
“The kid left a little early yesterday. Said he was going into town to pick something up before going to Dublin to stay with his aunt. Left in a black car. Possibly a Mercedes.”
“What did the parents drive?”
“Father, a black Mercedes. The mother, a blue Audi SUV.”
“We’ll get Tech to check out CCTV in the area, see if we can get a positive ID. But probably the father. The industrial estate where the lab is isn’t far from Saint Xavier’s.”
“Shall we do this?” said Brophy, a shudder almost surfacing. One of the things they all hated most about the job, was going to interview a bereaved family member under the suspicion that they could possibly have had something to do with the crime. It was impossible to disguise the approach as anything other than what it is.
They walked across the road to the high cast iron black gate. McCall’s hand had just reached up to press the call button on the intercom on one of the towering redbrick pillars holding up the gate when a mechanised sound initiated the opening of the gate. Brophy had a glance around and saw at least two cameras strategically placed on the underside of the pillars overhead.
“Taking no chances, are they?” said McCall.
“Can never be too careful. It’s a rough neighbourhood,” he replied with a smirk.
McCall let slip an involuntary half-smile, something they’d both tried to avoid in recent years. Another workplace tryst was the last thing either of them wanted, and so coldness generally pervaded.
They walked along the cobbled path, taking in the garden that was tastefully tended to with rose bushes, ferns, and the likes. They crossed the front of the house, a spattering of brickwork facades and windows until they reached the arched, lightly-varnished door. Brophy rang the bell and was greeted in seconds by a tall, slender man in his early sixties, greying black hair, wearing a black v-neck jumper over a white shirt and navy slacks. The first thought that struck Brophy, and probably McCall too, was how grief-stricken the man looked. The lack of visible blood vessels in his eyes told that he likely hadn’t cried, but he appeared distraught, nonetheless.
“Barry Donahue?” asked Brophy.
“Yes, I’m Barry Donahue.”
“Good morning, Mr Donahue,” said McCall. “I’m Detective Sergeant Christine McCall, and this is Detective Sergeant Conal Brophy.”
Donahue turned to scrutinise Brophy, surprise evident in his expression. “Conal Brophy? Well, well. My niece and grand-nephew are big fans of yours.”
The mention of them appeared to send another wave of grief through him, and he sighed, needing to rein in the sigh from breaking down in tears on the spot.
“Do come in, please. Anything I can help you with, I will to the best of my ability.”
“We’re so sorry for your loss, Mr Donahue.”
Donahue stepped back and gestured them in. Brophy strode across the large ornate foyer in the direction of murmuring sounds of mourning and disbelief.
“This way please, Sergeants,” said Donahue, his outstretched arm guiding them to the other end of the hall. “I’m afraid my family are far too devastated to face strangers right now. I hope you understand.”
Brophy and McCall sat on a plush sofa, their backs to the opened window, a welcomed draft sweeping across them. Donahue had taken them into his library, a small room, the wall adorned with bookshelves full of periodicals and science books. A mahogany desk was positioned near the back wall, where Donahue stood, fixing himself a drink from a bottle he’d pulled from under his work station.
“Can I offer you a brandy?” he said to the detectives.
“No, thanks,” said McCall.
He took one large gulp, then refilled the glass, wheeled his desk chair closer to them, facing the detectives and slumped into it.
“This has all come as a devastating shock. I sincerely hope you’re close to catching whoever did this and bringing back my nephew.”
“We’re doing all we can, but the next twenty-four hours are crucial,” said Brophy, wanting to get straight into the probing questions but deciding on a little tact instead. “I believe you were very close to your niece, Mr Donahue?”
“Of course. She was like one of my own. And my kids always viewed her as a big sister more than a cousin. Her mother, my sister, passed away when she was thirteen, you see. Breast cancer. And her father wasn’t very present in the proceeding years. Then he passed away about seven years ago.”
“Did they not have a good relationship?” said Brophy.
“No, nothing like that. She adored him, and he her. But his work took him all over the Middle-East, China, Korea. He spent a couple of months in Ireland a year, and that was about it. She was here for most of her teenage years, and my wife and I loved having her around. She was great with the kids when they were young.”
“Mr Donahue, I need to come right out and say this, but do you know of anyone who would want to do this to your niece and her husband?”
Donahue eyed them both for an unusually long time, then spoke. “No, of course not. They were both so hardworking and very family oriented. I can’t imagine who would want to inflict this on them.”
“Did Jordan have any serious business rivals?” asked Brophy.
Donahue gave a brief scoff before returning to a picture of grief. He took a small sip of brandy.
“I see what you’re getting at Detective, and I understand why you need to ask these questions, but it’s a waste of time. It’s true that maybe twenty-five years ago, his father and I jostled to get ahead of each other in the industry. One could have even argued that we were the best of enemies, but truth be told, I always looked up to Mr Walters. He showed me what could be achieved in a small city like this. Then, by the time Jordan got into the business, there was so
much work to go around, our rivalry became obsolete. After Maura married him, we became quite close. We even make recommendations of contracts to each other. So, you’re barking up the wrong tree there.”
Brophy listened to the explanation but felt there was something a little rehearsed about it. “Sorry, but I had to ask. We’ll move on from it.”
“That’s quite all right, Detective.”
“You must be terribly worried about your grand-nephew” said McCall, trying to throw him off and gauge his reaction with such an obvious statement, a tactic Brophy knew well.
Donahue looked directly at her, his cold blue eyes momentarily darting out the window behind her. Brophy followed his sight-line with his own. “Are you expecting someone else?” asked Brophy.
“No. Well, yes. Maybe more family and friends will arrive later to pay their regards.” He looked down and nodded, then took another sip. “I was just thinking, if Seán was here now, he’d be out in that garden, whacking a ball off the wall with his hurley.”
“Do you know who collected him from hurling camp yesterday?” asked Brophy.
“His mother, I assume. She usually did. Jordan would be far too busy. Even though he runs the place, he’s very hands-on in the lab. Sometimes he stays all night.”
“When was the last time you saw them?” McCall again.
“Tuesday evening, they came over for dinner. Only Maura and Seán. Jordan was working late again. They stayed till about nine.”
“Who was here?” said Brophy.
“The two of them, my wife and I, and my youngest, Aidan.”
“Did they seem normal to you?”
“Yes, they were both in a great mood. Seán was raving all through dinner about doing another camp with Jerry Cunningham and about going to Dublin with his aunt this weekend. They were going to some concert in the O2 Arena on Saturday. Seán sat in the living room with Aidan after dinner, looking at videos on YouTube of the singer he was going to see, and we stayed in the kitchen chatting and drinking tea.”