The Silent Dead (Paula Maguire 3) (17 page)

‘Already?’

‘It wasn’t hard. They handed themselves in.’

Paula frowned at him in puzzlement. ‘They?’

‘Come on. I’ll explain on the way.’

‘So they’re twins. I guess that explains how the same man was seen in two places at once.’

‘Yep. Joseph and Danny Walsh. Danny has a scar over one eye, see. Otherwise they’re dead-on identical.’

In two adjacent interview rooms, the same man was sitting. He was dressed in two variants of a T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms, and the tattoos on both arms were different, but the cropped sandy hair and eyebrows and narrow, suspicious faces – those were exactly the same. Twins.

‘And they’re confessing to the attack on Maeve?’

‘They were aiming for Kenny, apparently.’

‘But – I thought all the Provos loved him round here?’

‘Something shifted. I did say it was coming.’

‘Yeah yeah, you’re amazing.’

‘I know.’

She elbowed him in the side.

‘Ow! Don’t be jealous of my awesomeness.’

Corry and Guy appeared, walking briskly down the corridor, deep in conversation. ‘Right,’ said Corry. ‘These two clowns want to confess to everything back to the kidnap of Shergar, it seems. Let’s try to get the truth about why they targeted Kenny. Monaghan, you’re with me. DI Brooking will have one of my team. Dr Maguire . . . I thought I sent you home?’

‘I got waylaid. Can I observe?’

‘If you must. You can listen for any inconsistencies between the two.’

Paula tried to switch between both rooms, putting the earpieces in and out and sometimes getting muddled. Joseph Walsh’s first comment was, ‘I want to go into that there protective custody. Someone’s trying to kill me.’

Danny’s was: ‘Where’s my brother?’

‘We have to interview you both separately, Danny.’ Guy took a seat beside one of Corry’s constables, a DC Ryan from deepest South Armagh. Paula wondered was that deliberate – it was the last stronghold of diehard Republicanism.

In the next room, Corry said, ‘So Joseph. Tell us what happened. You threw a grenade at the mayor, hitting Ms Cooley instead?’

‘Well, our Danny threw it. But aye.’

‘So why are you here?’

‘We never meant to catch the wee blonde girl. Just that bastard Kenny. He’s trying to kill us, so he is.’

Paula tuned in to Danny’s account of it. ‘. . . We was heading back from the pub earlier when this van comes flying back, tries to flatten us. I says to Joseph, hit the deck! And we both lepped over a wall and ran. Next thing someone’s shooting at us.’

‘Which pub was this?’ asked Corry. Paula tried not to think about the fact they’d almost killed Maeve, then merrily gone for a drink.

‘Wolfe Tone’s.’ The very pub where Gerard met his informants. She wondered if he’d spoken to these two.

She went back to Joseph’s interview. He seemed a bit more with it.

‘And why did you try to attack Mr Kenny?’ Corry was asking. ‘We understood you two were associates of his. “Fixers” was the word used.’

Joseph became evasive. ‘I want assurances. We’ll give him to yis but I’m not going down with him.’

Corry didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘Mr Walsh, you came to us for protection. I will have no qualms in booting you out on the street if you don’t answer my questions. Whether you incriminate yourself or not is a side issue – we’ve already got you on attempted murder.’

‘All right,’ he said sulkily. ‘We done a wee job for him recently.’

‘How wee?’

‘Em . . . he wanted some people picked up and dropped off.’

‘I assume you’re not talking about a taxi service,’ said Corry severely. ‘Who are we on about here?’

‘That Ireland First lot. The ones that got done over – but it wasn’t us, I swear. We just dropped them off. At them caves down by the beach.’

Paula could see Corry trying not to react. ‘You’re saying you abducted Callum Brady, Mickey Doyle and Ronan Lynch, who have since turned up dead?’

‘Aye. Kenny asked us to. Said he’d pay us and all.’

‘Did he say why?’

Joseph shrugged. ‘Naw. I never asked no questions.’

She tuned in to Danny, who was telling the same story. ‘. . . Kenny said we’d to meet these two other fellas who’d have a van, and they’d be under the Old Mill Bridge.’

‘What kind of van?’ Guy asked.

‘I dunno. White.’

‘And who were the two men?’

‘I couldn’t say, boss. They had on masks, like, and so did we. One was driving and the other fella – when we got them in the van he gave them a shot of something and they was out like a light.’

‘Danny. These are very serious allegations. You’re saying Jarlath Kenny paid you to meet two other men and abduct the Mayday bombers?’

‘Aye. ’Cept he never paid us yet.’

‘And that’s why you hurled a bomb at him?’

‘Well, sorta – he was after us, swear to God. Earlier on, that wasn’t the first time. Me and Joseph been followed since it happened. Same ould white van with the plates covered up.’

‘You can’t tell me anything about the two men?’

‘Naw. The one who drove, he wasn’t a pro. He was all over the road – nervous like. But the one with the injections – he knew what he was about. His hands never even shook.’

‘Right.’ Guy took a deep breath. ‘For the tape, talk us right through it. Who exactly was in the van that day?’

He counted it off laboriously on his fingers. ‘Me, our Joseph, them two guys, the four we lifted . . . that’s it.’

Guy paused with his pen over his pad. ‘Four? You don’t mean five?’

‘Naw. Them fellas that are dead and the woman. I’d tell you where she was if I knew. Don’t hold with killing women.’

‘That’s . . . noble. You didn’t pick up Martin Flaherty?’

‘No way.’ He shook his head. ‘I’d not go near him. Man like that, you’d need a SWAT team to get him in the van.’

‘And you left the other four at the caves?’

‘Aye. They was all out of it, me and Joseph dragged them in. The two fellas tied them up, then off we went. It was a long ould walk back through them woods.’

‘These men . . . were they local?’

‘Aye. Local accents. Tallish fellas. I couldn’t tell you anything else, they never said much. ’Cept one was really nervous.’

She buzzed into Corry’s earpiece. ‘Ask him how many people were in the van.’

Corry blinked, but picked it up seamlessly. ‘How many people did you abduct that day, Joseph?’

‘There was four,’ he said immediately. ‘Three fellas and the girl. We was a bit squashed up in the van like.’

‘So four, plus you two, and the two men who drove. Nobody else?’

‘Naw.’

‘Right. Is there anything you can tell us? If you help us find the men, it would be advantageous for you. Try to remember.’

Joseph creased his face, identical to his brother’s. ‘One thing . . . in the van, there was this weird thing, like a big massive bit of dark glass.’

‘Dark glass?’

‘It looked like one of them, whatcha call it. Solar panels.’

Kira

Kira had always been a bit afraid of John. He’d been their obvious leader since the group started, when Kira was too young to go. He was the one who could stop Dominic from shouting and punching the wall, or Tom Kennedy’s wife from turning up drunk and crying, and even make the Presbyterian Sheerans sit in the same room as the Connollys, who’d been a Sinn Fein family for years, everyone knew. When he looked at her, under his bushy white eyebrows, she felt all the words she had pile up in her mouth and clump there.

After the last meeting – the one where people had said yes or no, and taken their pick, and made their promise not to say anything about it ever again, whatever they decided, and John had looked at them all in silence, and then said he was stepping down, he’d been the last one left in the hall. The others had gone to Dominic’s for a drink – people seemed almost excited at first, crying and then laughing too, like they’d had too much alcohol already. Kira was too young to go, of course. She hung back, helping John pack up his papers. He wasn’t good since the stroke, but that day he seemed to be going as slow as possible, touching every page as he put it away. John had been Chair for nearly five years. There was a lot of paper.

She held the door as he stumped out on his stick. He looked her right in the eye. ‘You’re too young to be involved in this.’

‘They killed Rose!’ She didn’t like the way he looked at her, cross but sad too.

‘It won’t bring her back, your sister.’

‘I know.’ Stupid. ‘But it’s what they deserve. They’re bad people.’

‘Who are we to sit in judgement?’

She’d turned her head, annoyed. ‘We’re exactly the ones. The judge and jury people, they don’t really know, they get to go home to their own families and forget. We can’t do that. I’m never going to see Rose again and it isn’t fair!’ She felt her voice go funny, which was annoying, because after five years you’d think she would be done crying about it.

John put his hand on her shoulder, almost like he was so unsteady he had to lean on her. ‘You’re only young, pet. None of this was your fault. They took so much. Don’t let them take your heart too.’

She’d pulled away. She made herself be less angry by thinking of his son, big, good-looking Danny, and his poor wife who’d done the worst possible sin and taken her own life. John stumped off to the bus stop and Kira watched him go, every step like a heart breaking.

Chapter Twenty

‘Where’s the switch on this yoke?’ Gerard was fumbling for the button on the overhead projector. It was the next day and they’d gathered in the conference room to hear about some breakthrough he’d made. The Walshes were in protective custody awaiting charges. With Bob still off, Guy and Paula were presiding with difficulty over the tensions between the three younger staff. As Aidan wasn’t replying to any of her texts, Paula had called the hospital that morning. Maeve was no worse, at any rate.

‘Look on the side.’ It was the first thing they’d heard Avril say to Gerard for days.

He found it. ‘Right, the Walshes brought this in with them, some kinda bargaining chip or something – take a wee look.’

They were looking at a picture of two men. From the exposure and the clothes, it seemed to have been taken in the seventies. It showed the two arm in arm, holding large rifles and smiling. They wore balaclavas, but pushed up round their heads so you could clearly see their faces. Like so many IRA volunteers, they were heartbreakingly young, no more than eighteen. Gerard pointed with one squat finger. ‘That’s Kenny there on the right. And look who’s on his left.’

‘Is that Martin Flaherty?’ Guy was peering. Even Fiacra sat up in his seat, where he’d been sulkily slumped.

‘It is, boss. Best of friends, they were, back then, like we thought. South Armagh Brigade. Then Kenny threw his lot in with Sinn Fein and the peace process, and Flaherty went out on a limb – thought they were dirty rotten traitors, the lot of them, as he said.’

Paula stayed silent. Any of those men could have ordered the abduction of her mother. Not Sean Conlon – he’d been too far down the ranks, a foot soldier. Someone else had given the orders for every shot that was fired.

Guy looked annoyed. ‘So Kenny lied to us.’

‘Hardly surprising, the same fella.’

‘I found something too,’ said Avril, addressing Guy and ignoring Gerard. ‘The phrase “friendly fire”, the one that was in Lynch’s mouth – the most significant use of that is in a speech Jarlath Kenny made a few years back, after the funeral of Christy Magee. He condemned the killing of Republicans by other Republicans, or “friendly fire”, as he called it.’

‘Who’s Christy Magee?’ Guy was looking puzzled.

‘Informer who was leaking stuff to Special Branch back in the eighties,’ Fiacra supplied. He also didn’t look at Avril. ‘Got shot in 2007.’

Guy glanced at him in some surprise; he hadn’t contributed much in meetings since the outburst with Alan. Avril made a small noise of contempt in her throat.

Guy was putting it together in his head. ‘Right, so friendly fire could refer to an intra-Republican feud, also suggesting Kenny is behind all this.’

‘It makes sense,’ Gerard was saying. ‘Kenny’s gone straight, wants to do a Westminster bid – Flaherty could easily cause problems for him. Could be he can prove Kenny was linked to some of the murders he’s always denied.’

‘What about the notes?’ asked Paula. She wished Gerard would take down the photo. They looked so happy, like boys waving toy guns. ‘The notes explicitly link the deaths to the bomb, suggesting a revenge motive. Then there’s the pictures in the caves, and the mode of death – hanging, fire, beheading – it’s all very similar to how people died in the bomb.’ She’d been thinking a lot about this. ‘In fact, it’s exactly the same, isn’t it – several people burned to death when the petrol station exploded, and some were beheaded by debris. Plus there was Walsh’s comment about the solar glass in the van. I mean, we all know who works with solar panels. Why aren’t we arresting him?’

‘And the hanging?’ Guy was frowning. ‘How does that fit with this theory?’

Paula thought for a second. ‘Mary Lenehan hanged herself after her son was killed – I bet she wasn’t the only one. The Mayday Five are being killed in the same ways people died because of the bomb.’

Gerard wasn’t giving up. ‘But it’s also how the Provos got rid of people.’

‘Not really,’ she argued. ‘A shot to the base of the skull was the most common one. Beheading is definitely not in their bag of tricks.’

Gerard shrugged. ‘Maybe they got a tip or two off their Taliban colleagues.’

She didn’t laugh. ‘It doesn’t feel like internecine murder to me. I think it’s personal, intimate – beheading suggests total contempt for the victim, a desire to rob them of all humanity. Not even the dignity of a quick shot to the brain stem.’

‘OK,’ said Guy. ‘So what do we do? It’s going to be tricky arresting the mayor, if we’re just going on hearsay from a pair of miscreants like the Walshes.’

‘Why aren’t we arresting Dominic Martin?’ asked Paula again, bewildered. ‘How much more evidence do we need?’

‘Corry is considering it.’ Guy’s face was creased with worry. ‘She’s going to discuss it with the Chief Constable. Do you have a plan, Gerard?’

‘I think we need to go in further.’ Gerard punched his hand forward. ‘I want to lean on some of my guys to testify, offer inducements, maybe.’

Guy was looking even less happy. ‘You’d need to run that past Corry, you realise. I think we should swoop now and arrest Kenny before he has time to skip town.’

‘You’ve used informants before, sir, have you? Sorry, covert human sources?’

‘Yes. It was a part of our anti-gang strategy in London. But it was very dangerous. Several of our contacts were killed when their cover was blown. One of them turned up on the station doorstep. Or rather, bits of him did.’

‘This isn’t the same. I’m only talking a wee kickback. Info for a helping hand – and maybe we can get some definite info on Kenny, once and for all.’

Incredibly, Guy was nodding. ‘If Corry says no now, we’ll do that. I agree it’s the best plan we have.’

‘What?’
Paula and Avril both exploded, for very different reasons, talking over each other.

‘We can’t pay off terrorists!’ said Avril, appalled.

‘I really feel we should be looking at the revenge motive,’ Paula insisted. ‘There was evidence of abuse on the bodies, sustained torture. This wasn’t done to get rid of inconvenient witnesses.’

‘The IRA never tortured anyone?’ said Gerard scornfully.

‘I know they did, of course, but I still don’t feel it’s them—’

‘Nonetheless, Gerard’s plan is the best option we have,’ said Guy. ‘I’ll speak to Corry and see if we can get Kenny now, but I doubt it.’

As he went to make the phone call, Paula was left alone with the three angles of the office’s little love triangle. Gerard was ostentatiously packing away the overhead projector, while Fiacra gazed sullenly at the ceiling. Avril was typing something on her laptop. Paula noticed the analyst’s eyes were red and swollen and – shit – she wasn’t wearing her engagement ring any more. Avril saw her glance and put her hand quickly under the table, but not before Fiacra had noticed.

He cleared his throat. ‘So what’s your strategy then, Monaghan?’

Gerard straightened his tie. ‘Usual. Go and talk to some of my boys on their home turf.’

‘So hang about in a pub,’ said Fiacra neutrally. ‘That’s good evidence there, that is.’

‘You’ve a better plan, do you?’

‘We should arrest the damn mayor, like the boss wants. Kenny’s guilty as sin. What is it about you lot up here in the North, that you let these people walk about free?’

‘You don’t understand, son,’ said Gerard.

‘Oh, I don’t, do I? Listen,
son
, my da was a Guard for near-on thirty years. Dropped dead with a heart attack from the stress. Don’t you tell me I’m not affected.’

‘I . . .’

They stopped as Avril stood up, pushing back her chair with a scrape. ‘I think we should all get on with our work,’ she said pointedly to the air. ‘Paula, are you going to be at Kenny’s arrest, if it happens?’

‘If I’m asked to.’

‘Yeah, well, you always are when the boss decides, aren’t you?’ Fiacra delivered this with a glare at her, then stormed out.

Paula met Avril’s eyes; saw she was barely holding back tears, and got up to leave. She couldn’t cope with any more drama on top of what was already unfolding.

Guy put his head back in. ‘Right. Gerard, Paula, get yourselves ready. We’re going to Kenny’s.’

‘Corry said yes to arresting him?’ Paula was surprised.

‘Too late for that. Kenny’s wife just reported him missing. Let’s go.’

Paula was thinking it all through as they drove to Kenny’s five-bed house in the centre of town. In any other situation, he would have been the first arrest made. Guy had seen it from the start. The rest of them, including her, had too easily fallen into the trap that this island laid for you – understanding the context. Knowing why people were the way they were. Assuming a sort of immunity because of the past. And by understanding, forgiving. Guy’s approach was bracing in its simplicity – context be damned. This country was part of the UK, and subject to its law. They didn’t have to make the law, they only had to enforce it. It was a buoy to cling to in the shifting sands of Irish history.

She parked up and showed her ID to the officer at the gate. Outside the house was in good repair, recently painted, lawn trimmed, windows washed, as befitted a man of Kenny’s standing. Inside told a different story.

‘Jesus.’ Paula stared at the devastation, the furniture turned over, the air dusty with feathers from the cushions that had been slashed. Underfoot, broken glass gritted.

Guy was wearing gloves and passed her some. ‘Be careful not to get cut. Look.’

Every picture on the mantelpiece had been shattered. Behind the fractures, children smiled, and Kenny walked his wife down the aisle on their wedding day.

‘Where are his kids?’

‘With their mother. They’ve been living apart, secretly – Mrs Kenny just comes out for campaigning pictures and so on. She called round and found the place like this.’

‘This was done on purpose,’ said Paula. ‘The pictures haven’t even fallen over.’

‘I agree. And there’s signs of a struggle out back – soil churned up, the back door broken down.’

‘He was kidnapped too?’

‘I’d say it was the same people, wouldn’t you?’

On the cabinet was a framed picture of Kenny as a young man, happy and smiling, holding a rifle. ‘Look at this.’ The picture had been removed from its frame and left on the side. A corner was folded back, and Guy now straightened it out with gloved hands.

‘Flaherty,’ said Paula. There he was, their missing bomber, arm in arm with Kenny. A copy of the picture they’d already seen.

‘All very cosy,’ said Guy, bagging it up. ‘Why on earth would he have a thing like that in his house?’

‘Because he thinks he’s above the law. He thinks he’s untouchable.’

‘Up to now, I can see why,’ said Guy drily. ‘What’s your opinion?’

She turned slowly, taking in the remnants of the smart living room. Even the massive TV had a shattered screen, and all the crystal animals had been tossed to the floor. Pat had the same ones; Paula had loved them as a child. ‘Not a burglary,’ she said. ‘This is deliberate, and targeted. Someone wanted Kenny’s house ruined, and smashing the pictures of the kids – that’s just callous. I’d say there was more than one person. He’s a big guy, and he’d have put up quite a fight. Did you find any weapons?’

‘A revolver in the kitchen cabinet. The door was open, and some of the china broken, as if he’d been trying to get into it.’

‘So he was overpowered, dragged out. They’d have had some kind of van – maybe there are tracks.’

‘Yes, we’re photographing them now.’

‘I suppose none of the neighbours saw anything?’

‘They never do in this country,’ sighed Guy. His phone buzzed and he looked at it; sighed again. ‘Another meeting. The mayor going missing is getting a lot more attention than some washed-up dissidents.’

She looked at him, the hint of grey in his fair hair, the curve of his chin above the sharp tie and suit. She thought back to what Corry had said about the unit
– he doesn’t tell you everything, you know.
Wondered how much that was true.

‘So, any thoughts?’ he said, removing his gloves.

She moved her foot away from a broken crystal duck, which was casting fractured rainbows on the wall. ‘Someone will know who did this. That’s what’s frustrating – it’s so close. You can almost feel them. They’re not even trying to hide.’ She looked around again. ‘There’s bound to be forensics here – this is too messy to be professional. Hairs, fibres – even blood, maybe, with all this smashing. But it might be too late for Kenny, even if we find him.’

‘Why do you say that?’

She gestured to the mess of his family photos. ‘Well, look. Someone
really
hates him.’

Extract from
The Blood Price: The Mayday
Bombing and its Aftermath
, by Maeve Cooley
(Tairise Press, 2011)

It’s a common belief in the rest of the UK that ‘the Troubles’ in Ireland are long over. It’s true to an extent that people now feel safe to walk the streets. We have a regional government who spend at least some time on issues like healthcare and schooling. There have been only –
only
– three police officers killed since ‘peace’.

The Mayday bombing was, we are led to believe, an accident – intending to hit commercial targets, and perhaps kill a few Orangemen as they marched in the town. Due to the early detonation and bungled warning, which led police to group evacuees right near the blast centre, there were unfortunately civilian casualties. This is the view taken by Ireland First.

The most shocking aspect of the bomb is that it wasn’t the end. These groups are still operating. They still have weapons, and funding, and support. In 2010 over three hundred devices were found and defused in Northern Ireland, many of which had the capacity to cause serious explosions. Though the majority of people in Ireland simply want an end to funerals, to blood running in the streets, to dead children and ruptured lives, there are some, like those behind Ireland First, who will never give up. Not even the ‘accidental’ murder of sixteen people stopped them. Not even a criminal trial. Not even killing babies and blinding children and burning people alive. It beggars the question of what, short of their deaths, would actually convince these people to cease their murderous campaign.