Taken for Dead (Kate Maguire) (11 page)

Her heart may still have been beating, and she may still have been breathing, but Garda McCracken’s eyes were now closed and her face was as white and greasy-looking as candle wax. The firefighter standing next to Katie said, ‘We’ll disengage her from the steering wheel and then we’ll take the roof off with the cutters and lift her out. Can’t say that I fancy her chances, though.’

The word ‘disengage’ gave Katie a chilly feeling down her back. ‘What do you think?’ she asked the firefighter. ‘It looks like her airbag didn’t work. That might have saved her from the worst of it.’

‘Yes, no, you’re right, but I don’t have any idea why it didn’t. It only takes one twenty-fifth of a second for an airbag to inflate fully from the moment of impact, but maybe the blast was faster, who knows?’

Now Detective Sergeant Ni Nuallán came climbing up the ramp, followed by three more firefighters carrying Holmatro hydraulic cutters, as well as a petrol-driven generator and hoses. She stopped for a moment to look into the spider-like wreckage of the Renault, then she joined Katie and Inspector Fennessy.

‘How is she?’ she asked. The firefighters had now freed Garda McCracken’s seat from the floor of the Mondeo and two of them were slowly inching it backwards. Garda McCracken let out a muffled mewling sound behind her oxygen mask, but that was all.

‘I’m praying for her,’ said Katie. ‘To be truthful, though, I’m not holding out much hope. Father Burney’s on his way from Holy Trinity.’

‘Oh, Jesus. That’s so sad. She’s always so happy out. And such a future ahead of her. I always thought she was going to be another you.’

‘How’s the surveillance going?’ asked Katie. ‘Did you see the suspect leave the shopping centre? That fellow in the black baseball cap, with the scarf around his face?’

Detective Sergeant Ni Nuallán shook her head. ‘Tony Brennan’s still watching out for any sign of him, and he’s going to run through all of the recordings for Merchants Quay and Patrick Street immediately prior to the bomb going off, and immediately afterwards. But by the time I left we still hadn’t spotted him, or anybody else carrying a bag big enough to fit all that money into.’

‘Well, that’s just grand,’ said Katie. ‘There’s so many different ways he could have taken out of the building. He could have gone through Dunne’s Stores, or Marks & Spencer, and there’s a service door on Merchants Quay. It’s likely that he changed his clothes, too, and that he had more than one accomplice to split up the money and carry it in smaller bags. We have no idea who he was, or what he looked like, or where he went.’

‘There might be some forensics in the car,’ said Detective Sergeant Ni Nuallán.

‘We’ll be able to find out what explosive he used, C-4 or Semtex probably, but that’s about all. He took his own bag away with the money in it, so there won’t be any traces of that. And he was wearing gloves.’

Katie was watching as Garda McCracken’s seat was pulled back as far as it would go. Dark red blood was beginning to soak through the front of her sweater with alarming speed, and the paramedic took out a pair of surgical scissors to cut the fabric.

Detective Sergeant Ni Nuallán, though, was watching Katie and trying to read the expression on her face. ‘What are you thinking?’ she said.

‘I think you know very well what I’m thinking,’ said Katie, still without taking her eyes off Garda McCracken. ‘I’m thinking that our abductors weren’t just being wide about the possibility that we were keeping them under surveillance.’

‘Somebody tipped them off?’

‘It must have been more than just a tip-off. I think they knew exactly how we planned to keep track of them. If our suspect wasn’t aware that Garda McCracken was following close behind him, why did he blow up Shelagh Hagerty’s car? It doesn’t make any sense otherwise. What would be the point?’

‘But why blow it up at all?’ asked Detective Sergeant Ni Nuallán. ‘He could have just climbed out and hopped off.’

‘No – I’ll tell you something else about these characters,’ said Katie. ‘They’re out to show us that they’re highly dangerous and they’re not to be messed with. And do you know why I think that is? I think they’re planning to do this again.’

‘Do you think they’re the same people who killed Micky Crounan?’

‘It wouldn’t surprise me at all. And it wouldn’t surprise me if we never saw Derek Hagerty alive again, either.’

Detective Sergeant Ni Nuallán said something in reply, but at that moment the Holmatro generator started up, and Katie couldn’t hear what it was. Inside the Mondeo, Garda McCracken had been completely covered with a thick fawn blanket to protect her from debris and the firefighters had started to cut away the roof with their lobster-claw cutters.

The noise of the generator and the sound of tearing metal and plastic drowned out any possibility of conversation, and when Father Burney came puffing up the ramp Katie could do nothing but clasp his hand and point to Garda McCracken, hidden under her blanket as if she were already dead.

It had started to rain again by the time Meryl turned into the driveway of her house on the Boreenmanna Road, south-east of Cork City. It was a large detached house almost completely hidden from the road. The rain crackling in the high hedges that surrounded it made them sound as if they had just caught fire.

As soon as she switched off the engine, the man in the back seat snuffled and opened his eyes and looked around him.

‘Where are we?’ he asked. ‘Did I fall asleep?’

‘Yes, Denny, you did for a while,’ said Meryl. ‘This is my house. I’m going to take you inside and you can clean yourself up and then we’ll decide what to do with you.’

‘You won’t be calling the guards?’

‘No, I promise you. But first you need to have a shower and change out of those filthy clothes. I’m sure Norman will have something to fit you.’

‘That’s your husband, yes?’

‘That’s right. Like I told you, the other fellow was just an old friend, that’s all.’

She helped him to heave himself out of the car and up the steps to the porch. As they reached the front door, it suddenly opened and Meryl’s husband appeared. He was stocky and bespectacled, with grey wings to his rust-coloured hair, and wearing a check shirt and beige trousers held up with bright green braces. In one hand he was holding a folded-up copy of the
Examiner
, with the cryptic crossword almost completed.

‘Meryl!’ he said. ‘Where in the name of Jesus have you been all day? Who’s this? My God, look at the condition of him!’

‘This is Denny,’ said Meryl. ‘I’m really sorry I haven’t been answering any of your calls, darling, but while I was shopping I met an old friend and we went for a little drive around for a catch-up. On the way back we saw Denny lying by the side of the road and we couldn’t just leave him there.’

‘For the love of God, Meryl, you could have called for an ambulance, couldn’t you? What did you bring him home for?’

‘Because she’s a good Samaritan, your wife, sir,’ said Denny, clearing his throat. ‘She and her friend did not pass by on the other side of the road and leave me lying there.’

‘What friend?’ frowned Norman. ‘Why did you have to drive around with her? You could have brought her back here, couldn’t you? I’ve been worried.’

‘Can’t we get Denny inside, Norman?’ asked Meryl. ‘The poor fellow can barely stand up.’

Norman peered at Denny over his spectacles, his mouth puckered in distaste. ‘I suppose we don’t have much option, now that you’ve brought him here. But I think we should call for an ambulance. I don’t see what we can possibly do to help him.’

Together, they helped Denny shuffle into the house. They took him through the hallway into the living room and Norman spread sheets from his newspaper over the red brocade sofa so that he could sit down. Denny looked around, blinking. Norman had owned the house before he and Meryl were married and the living room was decorated in 1970s style, with a red-brick fireplace, an oak cabinet with all of Norman’s golf trophies inside it, and a large reproduction painting of Blackrock Castle on a stormy day.

A long-case clock ticked wearily in the corner, as if it were tired of life.

Meryl said, ‘I was hoping that Denny could have a shower and maybe you could lend him something to wear. That old maroon sweater of yours and a pair of trousers.’

‘That old maroon sweater is what I wear when I’m gardening,’ Norman protested.

‘Well, I’ll buy you a
new
maroon sweater and you can do your gardening in that.’

‘I’m going to call an ambulance,’ said Norman.

‘No, please, no,’ Denny interjected, lifting his hand. ‘I know you’re not at all happy about taking me in like this, and believe me, I appreciate your Christian kindness more than I can tell you. But I wasn’t knocked over, or involved in any kind of a road accident. I was taken hostage by a gang of criminals so that they could demand a ransom for my release.’

‘You were
what
?’

‘It’s true. They snatched me and blindfolded me and took me somewhere near to Fermoy, as far as I can guess. Then they contacted my wife and said they wanted two hundred and fifty thousand euros or else they were going to kill me. And to prove they had me, they pulled out all of my front teeth, with no anaesthetic at all, and they sent them to my wife in a jam jar.’

Norman stared at him, then took off his spectacles and leaned forward and stared at his bloated lips even more closely. ‘Holy Jesus.’

‘They beat me, too,’ said Denny, lifting up his shirt to show Norman and Meryl the angry crimson bruises on his ribs. ‘They warned me that if my wife told the Garda what had happened to me, even after they let me go, they would kill us both. In fact, if we told anyone else about it, they would come after them, too. That’s the reason I don’t want to tell you too much. ‘

‘So what happened?’ asked Norman. ‘Your wife paid the ransom and they let you go?’

Denny shook his head. ‘I have no idea whether she’s paid it or not, because I managed to escape. The last time they fed me I hid a spoon down my sock, and I used it to force the catch on the toilet window. It was a fifteen-foot drop down from the window to the garden and I think I cracked one of my ribs when I fell, but I ran off and I kept on running, and then walking. After that, I don’t really remember what happened until your wife and her friend came across me.’

‘So who are they, this criminal gang? What name do they go by?’

‘It’s better that I tell you nothing at all. You know what they say – what you don’t know can’t knock on your door in the middle of the night.’

Norman looked across at Meryl with a mixture of exasperation and bewilderment. ‘I don’t know whether to believe any of this or not,’ he said. ‘Either you’re telling us the truth here, Denny, or else you’re stringing us along something rotten.’

‘I swear to God,’ said Denny. ‘But I can’t tell you any more for your own safety.’

Meryl said, ‘Please, Norman. Just let him have a shower and a change of clothes and something to eat and drink if he wants it. Then I can drop him off wherever he wants to go to, and that’ll be an end to it.’

Norman breathed in noisily through his nose. ‘All right. But I don’t like this one bit. And I’d still like to know what you were doing driving around with this friend of yours. And you’ve taken a drink, haven’t you? I can smell it.’

‘I’ll talk to you after, Norman,’ said Meryl. ‘Meanwhile, why don’t you take Denny upstairs to the bathroom and give the poor fellow a towel and something to wear.’

‘I have that yellow sweater I’ve never worn, the one with the zig-zag stripes that your mother gave me.’

‘All right, whatever. He only needs something to go home in.’

Norman turned to Denny. ‘Do you think you can manage the stairs?’

‘I think so. You don’t know how grateful I am. You’re a saint, sir, believe me.’

With Norman grasping his arm to support him, Denny climbed to his feet and stood between them swaying. ‘You’ll get your reward in heaven for this,’ he told Meryl. ‘The angels will be applauding you as you walk through the pearly gates.’

‘Just come along,’ said Norman testily, and guided him into the hallway.

Denny heaved himself very slowly up the stairs, clutching at the banister rail and wheezing with every step. Norman led him along the corridor to the bathroom.

‘Be wide of that shower,’ Norman cautioned him. ‘Sometimes it runs ice-cold and then without any warning it starts to run boiling hot, so you may have to do a bit of adjusting if you don’t want to get yourself scalded to death. If you hold on a second, I’ll bring you a towel and some fresh clothes.’

Norman went to his dressing room to fetch the yellow sweater with the zig-zag stripes and an old pair of olive corduroy trousers that were now too tight around the waist. Then he went to the airing cupboard and took out a bath towel that he had stolen years ago from Ballybunion Golf Club. When he returned to the bathroom he found that Denny had completely undressed, apart from a droopy pair of Y-fronts stained with yellow and a single pale blue sock. He had bundled up his suit and his shirt and perched them on top of the clothes basket.

It was not only his ribs that were patterned with bruises. There were red and yellow and purple contusions on his shoulders and his arms and his legs, most of which looked as if they been inflicted with a thick stick or a metal bar.

‘Jesus, they certainly gave you a clatter, didn’t they?’

‘They said I deserved it. They said that I was one of the worst examples of the bad businessmen who had brought Ireland to its knees. Borrowing too much, running into debt that I couldn’t pay back.’

‘Well, you weren’t the only one, by any means,’ said Norman. ‘We all thought that the boom times were going to last for ever, didn’t we? If your criminal pals manage to beat every businessman in Ireland who got himself involved in rash speculations in the Celtic Tiger days, I’d say that at least two thirds of the male population will be walking around in the same state as you.’

Denny patted his puffy, scab-encrusted lips with his fingertips. ‘It makes no sense to me at all. Why did they think they could get so much money out of somebody who doesn’t have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of? Like I told you, I don’t even know if my poor wife’s managed to raise that much. I hope to God she has or else our lives won’t be worth a thrawneen.’