Authors: Anthony Quinn
Daly awoke on Monday morning to find the wet imprint of her bare feet fading on the floor of his bedroom. He got up with a start and dressed hurriedly. He wondered if she had been standing at his bedside, peering at him while he slept. He followed the footprints into the living room and out through the opened front door. She was sitting on a wooden seat overlooking the wild garden, combing her wet hair. She’d had a shower and pulled on an old jumper of his.
“You woke me earlier,” she said.
Daly looked startled.
“You were grinding your teeth in your sleep.” She smiled. “I thought a monster was crushing bones in your bedroom.”
“My ex-wife complained that I gnashed at night like a brute.”
“You know what that tells me?”
“What?”
“Something inside you is fighting to be heard. Something that won’t be tamed.”
“Then it’s better kept at bay.”
After breakfast, Daly got ready for work. He told Lena that her best strategy was to stay in the cottage, out of sight, and wait for his return. He traveled by taxi to the police station. Through the security gates, the first thing he saw was his car parked in the space reserved for impounded vehicles. He was relieved his colleagues had managed to retrieve it before vandals could take it apart.
Inside the station, he caught a glimpse of Commander Boyd coming down a flight of stairs. He slipped down a corridor to avoid him. A short while later he was about to open a glass door when he saw the commander approach. A look of intent emboldened Boyd’s features when he recognized Daly. Again, he tried to make himself scarce within the station’s labyrinth of corridors and interview rooms, but Boyd kept reappearing like the resolute anchor of a tug-of-war team, pulling in the competition. They bumped into each other outside the canteen.
“Your car was found in a housing estate last night with the keys in the ignition,” Boyd told Daly. “We got a report of a man matching your description entering a number of unsecured properties. What the hell is going on?”
“I had a breakdown while house-hunting, sir.”
Boyd shook his head in exasperation.
“I hope you’re not still searching for this missing prostitute.”
“She’s the key to arresting Mikolajek. I intend to find her.”
“She’s toying with you. There’s more going on in your head than a policeman pursuing a witness. Of course, I’m not a psychologist.” He eyed Daly evenly.
“I’m glad you aren’t.” Daly’s reply made him glare.
“You’ve been acting strangely all week, Daly. Not saying a word to colleagues. Wearing that hangdog look. Coming late to meetings and ignoring paperwork deadlines. I’ve yet to see your report on how the investigation is proceeding to date.”
Daly said nothing. It struck him that if Boyd had any talent of note, it was his ability to take over an investigation and shuffle everyone off to meaningless paperwork.
“What’s the matter with you, Inspector?” Boyd examined Daly’s face closely. A look of suspicion formed on his face. “Has she left you?”
Daly flinched. “Who, sir?”
“Whoever she is. I’ve a teenage son who wears the same expression on his face most weekends. No woman is worth moping over.”
Daly nodded. “I’ll hand you the report when it’s ready.”
In his office, Daly rang Armagh Properties, the company advertised as the sellers of number 68, Foxborough Mews. He asked the estate agent who else had a key for the property. The answer did not surprise him. Michael Mooney was acting as an unofficial warden for it and a number of other houses in the estate.
At lunchtime, Daly drove to the bank. He had no idea how much he had in his savings account, and he had to ask the cashier for the figure. His separation from Anna had thrown his financial affairs into complete disarray.
“Five thousand and fifty-seven pounds and eighty-four pence,” the teller told him.
“I want to withdraw it. Every penny.”
He was asked for further documents and proof of identification. Daly watched the cashier count the money twice, then stuffed the wad into his wallet, next to the photo he still carried of Lena. The money would be enough to put the first stage of their plan into action.
Afterward, he followed the directions Lena had given him to a nondescript pub on the south side of the town. He sat in his car for a while, wondering whether he was making a mistake, launching himself on this path of criminality. However, he convinced himself that it was already too late. He had traveled too far down this path to turn back now.
Every Monday afternoon, Daniel Hedler set up camp in a corner of the pub. There were plenty of business opportunities in the sale of counterfeit documents, especially passports and driving licenses, in this part of town, and the pub was a suitably anonymous office in which to conduct his trade. He was careful and well organized in his business, and his henchmen were positioned throughout the bar if a deal needed a little more muscle to help clinch it.
As soon as Daly entered the bar, Hedler could tell he was a man in free fall. Not the slow-motion plummet of the afternoon men lounging throughout the pub, scuffing their heels, staring at the horse racing on TV, sipping their interminable pints. No, this one’s descent was more precipitous. This one had not turned up for the company or the beer, Hedler was sure of that.
When Daly asked at the bar for Hedler, he was introduced to a meticulously shaved and groomed middle-aged man sitting in a corner with a newspaper. Daly sat down and told him he wanted two passports for himself and a female friend. He explained that it was an emergency and that he had the money ready. He adopted a blunt and hasty tone.
Hedler stared keenly at Daly, his pupils glistening, feeding eyes taking in its prey. He glanced down at the detective’s photograph and the details of his new identity, and then back at Daly, subtracting one version of him from the other.
“What did you say your line of business was?”
“I didn’t.” Daly stared evenly at him. “At the moment, you could say I’m hiding from business. You know the story. Investments gone wrong, the banks chasing me, hunting down all my assets. I just want to get some breathing space for a while. For me and my girlfriend.”
Hedler’s facial muscles contorted with curiosity. “You don’t strike me as a typical customer. The ones with criminal identities. Those people are very problematic.”
He leaned back and examined Daly’s details at greater ease. Then he lifted Lena’s photo. He did not say anything for a long time, just scrutinized her picture, as if measuring millimeter by millimeter the dimensions of her face.
“I can’t give you what you want,” he said eventually. “Until I see her in the flesh.”
“Why?”
“For reasons that would take too long to explain.” His voice was arrogant. It had the abruptness of someone who spent most of his time talking to people who wanted to disappear, ghosts moving from border to border. It was devoid of all human warmth. “She’s a very pretty woman. How long have you known her?”
Daly made an effort to smile. All the time, he was taking mental notes of the Romanian, their surroundings, the other people in the bar.
“Not long enough.”
“Here’s a piece of friendly advice. Keep an eye on her. Don’t let her out of your sight. A woman like that will crush you if you give her the chance.”
“It’s good advice. With women you never know.”
Hedler pulled on his coat, lifting the collar around his neck. Daly took this to mean their conversation was over.
“Don’t worry,” said Hedler. “I will help you. I will give you what you want. A new name, a new start. You and this girl of yours. Four thousand pounds for two perfect fake passports. Then you’ll have a means to escape yourselves. Come back tomorrow, to this bar. The both of you. OK?”
“Just have them ready.”
Daly made his way through the outskirts of Armagh and into the wild border countryside. The overgrown hedgerows were full of spring flowers swaying in the breezes. The sky held the promise of a beautiful spring afternoon, but by the time he pulled up at Foxborough Mews, the sun had retreated into an eddy of dark clouds and the wind had begun to bluster.
Hawthorn blossoms swirled about his feet as he stepped out of the car. He was alone in the estate, with the echo of the wind among the thorn trees that had colonized the waste ground.
Paradise cursed,
thought Daly as he scanned the lonely-looking houses.
He called at number 68, but the doors were locked. He checked the windows, but there was no sign of anyone. A hollow silence pervaded the buildings. Daly’s mind was a blank. He was surrounded by shut doors and vacant windows, a bricks-and-mortar pact of silence. How could he interpret emptiness? What clues were there to decipher when the victims had vanished?
He stumbled on a loose piece of rubble and grunted. A door banged shut in the direction of Mooney’s house. He approached the former terrorist’s home, hearing only the sounds of his footsteps echoing in the estate. His eyes caught a movement at one of the windows. The bowed figure of Michael Mooney stood close to the glass. He was staring out at the estate like a man at the center of a derailed train surveying the wreckage.
Daly rang the bell, but there was no answer. He pounded the door and waited.
Mooney eventually opened the door. He nodded when he saw Daly and beckoned him into a dimly lit hall. His scarred features looked even more like a mask than Daly remembered.
“I thought you were one of the gawkers,” he explained.
“What gawkers?”
“We get lots of visitors pretending to be house hunters. What they’re really here for is a tour of a ghost estate.” He offered Daly a seat. “You’d think the place was a crime scene, the way they drive slowly around in their cars, pointing at all the For Sale signs. It’s been at least a year since I saw a genuine buyer.”
“What about number sixty-eight? Anyone interested in that house?”
Mooney flinched. “We had a lot of strange people coming and going over the weekend.”
“What about a group of Croatian women?”
Mooney thought about the question. “What do Croatian women look like, in your opinion? Don’t they dress the same and look the same as Irish women?”
“I’m talking about women who may have been kidnapped and held prisoner there.”
Mooney appeared not to have heard him. “I’m busy packing for a flight tonight, Inspector. Excuse me for being blunt, but I’m in a hurry.” He got up to leave.
“The only place you’ll need to pack for is a police cell if you don’t tell me what’s going on in that house.”
Mooney’s face looked stunned. He sat back down again.
“Has something happened to Lena Novak?”
“Why do you ask?”
“He told me he’d captured her.”
“Who’s he?”
Mooney sighed wearily. He explained to Daly how he had hired a former IRA man called John Ashe to trace the whereabouts of Lena Novak. His brief had been to question Lena and uncover the missing peace funds, and in return he’d given Ashe a new identity, a Jeep, and access to money.
“Unfortunately, I didn’t realize he was going to double-cross me,” Mooney said with bitterness.
“Tell me more.”
“I still haven’t come to terms with his betrayal. Last night Ashe rang to say he had Lena Novak but that his plans had changed. He was working for a new boss now, one who paid much better.”
Mikolajek,
thought Daly to himself. He said nothing while the horizons of the investigation changed in his mind.
“What about kidnapping women? Surely that wasn’t part of the brief you gave him?”
“I handed him the keys to number sixty-eight and got some workmen to build a secret room for him. It was his stipulation. I thought it was a place for him to hide, if necessary. I left him to his own devices.”
“Why did he take the women prisoner?”
“He was doing what he knew best—spreading terror. He wanted Lena Novak’s attention, to force her into revealing herself.”
Daly thought he knew what Mooney meant. People who believed their lives were in danger made predictable decisions. He wondered how predictable his and Lena’s plans were to people like Mikolajek and Ashe, who were obviously well versed in manipulating the frightened and vulnerable.
“You have to help me find Ashe. And the missing women.”
“It’s too late, now.” Mooney eyed Daly. “You were stupid not to have arrested him when you could. And I was twice as stupid to trust him with such a sensitive investigation. I should have known from the start that he wouldn’t follow orders. Ashe was no longer political in any way. He had no loyalty to the past or to the Republican party.”
“This man was following your orders. You facilitated these kidnaps. You provided him with a vehicle, identification, and money. If anyone is killed, you’ll face serious criminal charges. Don’t imagine you’re going to wriggle out of this one.”
A tremor of worry flashed across Mooney’s frozen features as he imagined the new possibilities, the fresh horrors that might arise now that Ashe had switched allegiances.
“Is Ashe a killer?” asked Daly.
Mooney said nothing.
“It’s an important question. I want you to think carefully about it.”
Eventually Mooney answered. “A long time ago, yes. But now . . . I’m not sure.”
Daly thought he saw a glimmer of Mooney’s real face, one whose nerves were braced against the idea that he might have set a maniac in motion.
“Last night he told me he had locked Lena Novak in the boot of his Jeep.”
“I know. I rescued her.”
Mooney visibly relaxed. “That puts you in a dangerous situation, Inspector Daly. Look at what happened to the last man who tried to rescue Lena Novak. If I were you, I’d get as far away as possible from that woman.”
Daly made to leave. “I’d contact a solicitor as soon as possible, Mr. Mooney. You’re going to need one when we take you in for questioning.”
When he got back into his car, he phoned the cottage but there was no answer. He drove home as fast as he could, fearing that Lena had disappeared once again.
In return for emptying his savings account, Daly received little more than a pensive stare from Lena when he returned home.
“Why didn’t you answer the phone?” he asked.
“I was out.” Her voice was calm and superior. “I went to get some clothes and women’s things.”
“In the Jeep?”
“Yes.”
“You should have stayed here, like I told you.”
“I’m not your prisoner.” Her blue eyes were drenched in defiance.
He didn’t know how to reply. He stood still and stared at her. Why couldn’t she see what he saw—the dangerous men advancing, the chaos seeping around them, their time running out? Perhaps she no longer knew what fear was, he thought.
“All I’m saying is that it’s not safe for you to be in public, especially in that Jeep. Next time ring me. Tell me what you’re doing.”
The hours dragged by in the cottage. Lena wandered through the rooms and the back garden like someone sitting out a sentence. To help pass the time, Daly began sorting through the boxes he had transported from his former home in the city. He unpacked his things—books, clothes, CDs, and old letters—but try as he might, he could not push away his rising sense of anxiety. He felt a pang of conscience that what he and Lena were doing was breaking the law, but he convinced himself that the end justified the means. How many more crimes would they prevent by capturing Mikolajek and making sure he was locked away?
He stared through the tiny attic window with its view of rutted bog land and the distant lough, water churning to the brim of the horizon. His father had spent his last winter, muffled in clothes, staring out at the same bleak landscape, the only landscape he had ever known. One day he might end up the same, thought Daly, watching over a view that never changed, with plenty of time to grieve over the past and his lack of nerve.
He knew that what he was planning had nothing to do with police work. All the same, he was committed to helping Lena. He could not abandon this woman whose path had crossed with his. He was prepared to do whatever it took to ensnare Mikolajek, because the crimes he had committed against women like Lena were so appalling, the injustice so great, that he had forfeited his right to liberty.
She was waiting for him when he came down the stairs.
“Do you think we’ll get Mikolajek?” she asked.
“I’ve no way of predicting what will happen tomorrow,” he said truthfully.
They went to their separate beds just after 10:00 p.m.
The next morning, they were both up early. Another dawn had brought fresh doubts to his mind over what they were doing. Every time he ran through the events of the past few weeks, and each of his encounters with Lena, he got the feeling that he was missing something important. When he asked her to explain her side of the events, the details remained unchanged, but a feeling of uncertainty still nagged at him.
Somehow, her readiness to keep going over her story and put his doubts at ease seemed slightly unnatural, like a woman patiently explaining away the details of an affair. He worried that she had come to him because she had detected a flaw in his makeup. Was she seeking his protection or comfort? Or was she using him for a darker purpose?
After breakfast, he asked her a question. “Why was Mikolajek so afraid of your doll?”
“You have so many questions.” For the first time a note of impatience had crept into her voice.
“But this one’s important.” He tried to keep the suspicion out of his voice. “That night I met you in the farmhouse brothel. You said you’d come back to find the doll. Was it really just for sentimental reasons?”
She looked at him in a different way. “Why do you want to know?”
“Because I don’t understand Mikolajek’s fear, and that makes me suspicious.”
“Suspicious of whom? The doll? Or me?”
“Suspicious of everyone. It’s what happens when you devote your life to uncovering criminals.” He stared at her, trying to read her thoughts, but they were hidden away in a language he could not understand.
Before leaving the cottage, he checked the gun in his jacket. He confirmed that the magazine was filled with the official number of ammunition rounds. It had been a long time since he had shot at anything other than a fixed target, and he hoped that he would not have to use the weapon today. He checked the safety and slipped it back into his jacket. When Lena walked outside and climbed into the car, he took out his mobile and thumbed in Irwin’s number. Daly quickly explained to him the plan he and Lena had set into operation. There was a long pause from Irwin.
“What the hell are you playing at, Daly?”
“Look I don’t have the time to explain everything now. Mikolajek is a dangerous criminal, but he’s the key to everything. Once we have him, we’ll find out what happened to Fowler and the Croatian. All I’m asking you to do is meet me at the Maghery roundabout and tail me from there.”
“You’ve sidelined me from the beginning. You and this prostitute. It’s a bit late to be calling in the cavalry.”
Daly rubbed his jaw. He suddenly felt out of his depth, a long way out. He glanced out at the car where Lena was waiting. She was one of those women who had been pulled out too far by dangerous currents, who swam up from the fathoms to tug you under no matter how hard you fought to stay on the surface.
Irwin spoke again. “I think you should hand the entire operation over to Special Branch. Let the experts handle this one.”
“It’s not my choice. She won’t cooperate with anyone else.”
“OK.” Irwin sighed. “Anything else?”
“Yes. Send a forensics team to my cottage. There’s a black Jeep parked in the orchard. Get them to examine it thoroughly.”
“Why are you driving so slowly?” Lena asked, twenty minutes later. “Are you thinking of pulling out?”
They were still ten minutes away from the pickup point for the passports. He had barely shifted out of fourth gear. The road lay before him, a relentless conveyor belt taking him to certain doom. Normally, he found driving an aid to thinking, but this morning, the pace of his thoughts was as sluggish as the Renault’s old engine.
“I don’t know,” he lied. “I think the engine’s losing power.”
He pulled in at a lay-by and got out on the pretense of checking under the car’s hood. He should have stuck to solving ordinary crime, he thought, as he pulled out his mobile phone. Hidden from Lena’s view by the hood he made a surreptitious call to Irwin. At least hunting down a few burglars or drunk drivers was satisfyingly straightforward, with none of the intricacies of plotting revenge with a victim as complicated as Lena.
“Where are you, Derek?” he hissed into the phone. “I didn’t see you at the roundabout.”
Irwin said nothing for a moment. “Sorry. I had a flat tire.” His tone was less than sincere.
“I’m not bullshitting you. This is deadly serious.”
“Then why did you pick me to burden with your harebrained scheme?”
“You owe me one, remember?”
“Listen, I can’t get any sense out of you. Why don’t you bring that prostitute straight to the police station? Tell her the whole plan was just a ruse to get her into the interview room.”
“The only way out of this mess is to go through with the plan, but I need backup.”
Lena appeared at the side of the van, cigarette in hand. She looked at Daly quizzically.
“What’s wrong?”
Daly switched off the phone. “The mechanic thinks it’s nothing too serious.”
Concern shadowed her naturally melancholic face as she watched him check the coolant level. She blew out a cloud of cigarette smoke and stared at him. Her eyes focused on him with watery concentration.
“Don’t worry, Celcius,” she said. “The worst Mikolajek can do is kill me.” Then she blew him a kiss and turned to walk away.
His phone chirped briefly. He checked the message. It was from Irwin. It read:
Black Jeep gone from your cottage. House ransacked.
He shook his head. Madness, the entire plan was pure madness, he thought. The trap door of doubt groaned beneath his feet.
He was about to phone Irwin back and call in armed assistance when he heard the screech of brakes. A Jeep careening by halted abruptly and made a tight U-turn.
Daly dove for cover when a gunshot rang out. He heard the scampering of feet and several more shots followed by the pop of tires bursting. A car door slammed shut, and a woman’s voice called out his name. When he looked up, the Jeep was speeding off in the opposite direction, and Lena was gone. He jumped into the car and shoved it into gear. He took off as hard as he could, but the wheels thumped uselessly against the road. He had two flat tires. He jumped out as the Jeep sped into the distance. Reaching into his jacket, he fumbled for his gun, but it was gone.