“Yes.”
He took a step back. “Who’s been snooping?”
“I told you we came looking for you last week. The door to the shed was unlocked and I went in. I found the file and read it.”
“I returned that file to Inspector Celcius Daly a few nights ago. He was snooping ’round as well,” said Sweeney, still floundering.
“Daly reopened the investigation into Dad’s death. I can see why he wanted the file. But why did you have it in the first place?”
“The police aren’t the only ones interested in revisiting that investigation,” said Sweeney, recovering from the shock of Dermot’s discovery. He was like a swimmer returning to the surface with expert strokes. “We Republicans have been conducting our own enquiry into your father’s death, and why the investigation went nowhere. In some respects we consider it one of the most important cases in the history of the East Tyrone brigade.”
“Don’t tell me you’re having your own truth commission,” interrupted Hughes.
Sweeney laughed, part belch, part smoker’s cough.
“If you must know, we’re just as lost in the labyrinth as you are. For years, we’ve been trying to uncover the identity of the top-level informer your father was killed to protect. We think Devine’s murder is somehow linked to him. Devine had a special connection to the case. Perhaps his killer had as well.”
“What have you discovered, then?”
“I was holding on to the files before passing them back to the police. But I can put you in touch with someone who has a more thorough knowledge of the case.”
“Who?”
“A very gifted professional. A man of enormous patience and inquisitive powers. I think he will be able to help you.”
“He must be a bloody clairvoyant,” said Hughes.
“I can arrange for you to meet him,” said Sweeney, ignoring the sarcasm. “I happen to know he’s free this evening. You can meet him here if you like.”
“We’re not leaving until we get answers,” said Dermot.
D
aly noticed an orange dome of light shining on the night skyline as he went out to feed the hens. The birds tilted their heads and made no sound as he ushered them into their coop. It was as if they sensed the danger carried on the evening air. There was not a single cluck or scratch from them as they made their way across the half-frozen ground.
His mobile rang.
“Daly?” The caller’s voice was frantic.
“Yes.”
“I’m not far from you.” It was Irwin. “At Owen Sweeney’s house. You’d better get over here quick. There’s trouble.” Then he hung up.
When Daly approached Sweeney’s house, all he could see on the horizon was a blaze of light floating between two pools of darkness, the lough on one side, and the boggy hinterland of Maghery on the other. A fire was raging through the two-story building. As he jumped out of the car, a section of the roof collapsed before his eyes, sending a torrent of flames leaping into the sky. An explosion of embers spat out the stars, and he instinctively ducked.
He heard the sound of running feet and saw Irwin’s tall figure, bent in two and scurrying, lit up momentarily by the flames. Another blast of heat hit Daly in the face and he backed away. He heard Irwin panting beside him. The Special Branch officer’s face was white as a sheet.
“Can’t get in. Fire’s taking hold. I think Sweeney’s still in there. God knows who else.”
“Who raised the alarm?”
Irwin, still breathing hard, explained. “We got a call from Sweeney. Said he was with Hughes and the boy. At his house. When we got here we saw this. Place stank of diesel. The back door was open but there’s no sign anyone escaped.”
“Did Sweeney say he was in any danger?”
Irwin studied the flames sucking at the darkness. “No. He just said to hurry. He didn’t know how long he could keep his visitors. They were anxious to get on their way.”
“‘Anxious to get on their way.’” Daly repeated the words. They hung in the air for a long time.
The two men stood, peripheral, numb, as the fire intensified.
“The smoke will have done them in first,” remarked Daly.
Two fire engines arrived at the scene. The darkness grew dense with moving bodies and shouts. Jets of water and billows of smoke illuminated by searchlights screened off what remained of the house. Soon the sound of gushing water began to replace the roar and crackle of the fire.
After about an hour, the firemen managed to smother the flames. Daly scanned the ruins, the drenched wreckage steaming in the artificial light.
It was dawn before the firefighters, searching under the collapsed walls, found a body. The morning sun drained away the darkness, but the burnt corpse remained as black as the night. It was the body of a middle-aged man. He was neither small nor big nor deformed in any way, but the fire had made a monstrosity of his corpse. It lay slumped in the charred remains of a chair, its mouth agape like an astonished spectator at the fire’s pyrotechnics. They said that Owen Sweeney had been untouchable as a politician because he knew more dead colleagues than living. Unfortunately, he had crossed to the wrong side of that line himself.
I
t was the nature of Terence Grimes’s job that he remain hidden on the sidelines. After all, that was where he did his best work. A light rain fell on his head as he ambled along the fence and examined the building. He had circled the grounds several times in the past few days and had learned all he needed to know about the nursing home’s routines—what time the nurses changed shifts, when they did their handovers, how long visiting time lasted. He was carrying a basket of fruit and a box of chocolates to help him carry out his mission. The gun in his shoulder harness represented plan B.
There was a sun room by the front door where three people sat, strapped into wheelchairs—all old men in pajamas. He raised a hand to signal a greeting and in response got three vacant stares. There was no one to stop him at the front door. That was the thing about nursing homes, he thought, designed to keep people in rather than out.
He smiled to himself. The concept of the nursing home was a useful one. A business based upon caging the old. And very necessary, too. Contrary to first impressions, the elderly were a dangerous and troublesome lot. Take David Hughes, for example. All that time on his hands with only his memories to keep him company. They should have tied the old bastard in a wheelchair and shoved him in a corner, thought Grimes, rather than let him wander the country, stirring up all kinds of anxieties. If only he’d had a stroke and lost the power of speech.
At the far end of the corridor, an Indian nurse sat at a desk, her head bent as she read. Grimes presented the basket and chocolates to her. “I’m here to see Mrs. Jordan. These are from the family. We want to thank you for her care.”
The nurse smiled at the gifts, glancing only briefly at Grimes.
He hovered for a second. In the mirror behind, he examined the cold features of his face, his mouth and eyes, the helmet of blond hair combed back immaculately. It was a face grafted onto the nightmares of countless paramilitaries with secrets to hide.
“Is she in the sitting room?” he asked, smiling at the nurse.
“No. She’s in her room. Number 6,” said the nurse in halting English.
Rita Jordan was sitting in an armchair as though expecting his visit.
She appeared calm, serene. Had the boy been talking to her recently? he wondered.
“Nurse?” she asked, staring in his direction.
“I had to tell her to leave,” he whispered. A staff member passed the door, and he squeezed the old woman’s hand fleetingly.
“I came to see you, Rita Jordan,” he said, unable to resist a mock formality. “All the way from Her Majesty the Queen, just to see you.”
“Who are you?” she asked.
He ignored her question.
“I’ve come to find your grandson. I’ve looked for him at home. I’ve searched for him at school. I’ve visited all his little haunts, chatted to his friends, the few that he has. They tell me he has run away. And so, finally, I’ve come here to see you.”
“What do you want?”
“I’ve come a long way to see you.” He sighed and sat back wearily in a chair.
“Well, you’ve seen me now. I’ve had better days, but I’m fine. You don’t need to worry about me.” She adopted the tone of someone addressing an insincere relative.
Grimes looked around the room. A smile played on his lips.
“You’re not hiding him under the bed, are you?”
“I’m not hiding anyone. What do you want Dermot for? He’s not done anything wrong, has he?”
Grimes allowed her question to hang in the air. He wanted her to remain in a state of uncertainty for as long as possible. Allow her imagination to apply its own pressure.
“He’s safe, isn’t he? Nothing has gone wrong. Has it?” Her cracked voice trembled.
“I hear that he has got himself mixed up in bad business. He’s keeping the local police force, not to mention Special Branch, very busy.”
“He’s in bad trouble.”
“What about Hughes, the old man, have you seen him?”
“No,” she lied.
“Did he sing for you? I hear he has a lovely singing voice. Especially for strangers.”
The old woman didn’t answer. She closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep. Grimes sighed. She was well into her eighties. Almost a decade older than Hughes. People of that age became stubborn and unyielding, even if their judgment day was close at hand. He stood up. Nothing of their conversation would be of any use to him. He glanced at his watch. Visiting time was over.
The old woman opened her eyes and watched Grimes draw closer. Her voice quavered, high-pitched and defiant.
“Dermot will never give up until he has found the truth. His father’s grave matters to him, and to me. It matters because we’re of the same blood. We’ll never give up looking for him, as long as we’re still alive.”
“I came all the way to see you because I wanted to leave Dermot a message,” said Grimes. He had a pillow in his hands.
“What sort of message?”
Grimes squeezed the pillow over her face.
“This is his message: It’s going to be dark very soon.”
In the quietness that followed, he could feel a throbbing beneath the pillow, her muffled cries and the submerged struggle of her breath as it faltered and slipped away. After a few moments, he lowered the pillow to check her eyes. They grew dark. Whatever light was left in them was being wiped away and stamped into the darkness of death.
Something caught his eye. He removed a loose strand of hair from the pillow’s cover sheet. Then he smoothed its creases. It was the minor points like this that repelled him, the untidiness and inattention to detail, which tended to distract him from an important task at hand. A nurse walked by the door and glanced in.
“The old dear’s fallen asleep again,” he said, smiling. Hurriedly he placed the pillow behind the old woman’s limp neck and walked out of the room.
W
hen Dermot got the message from his mother that his grandmother had suddenly slipped into unconsciousness at the nursing home, he and Hughes sped off in the jeep. He approached the sharp bend at Maghery and thought he had come to a dead end. It all happened quickly. He lost control of the vehicle and the hedge loomed toward him so abruptly he did not have time to brace his body. He steered to the right but the jeep did not answer his touch. Instead, it slewed to the left, and he struck a tree, side-on. A shifting weave of vegetation, shattered glass, and torn wood enveloped him. There was something sharp and singular about the tree as it ripped through the vehicle. In his mind’s eye it was as hard to look at as the sun. He felt the air zipping around his face, surprisingly fresh and clean, and heard, all around him, a horrendous smashing noise. He could not remember his flight through the windscreen or recall encountering any stiff resistance but somehow he blacked out and came to consciousness lying at the side of a wet ditch.
There was a humming noise like a giant bee above his head. It took him a while to realize it was the still-spinning tires of the jeep. There were other sounds, the tinkling of broken glass and water dripping, and the willing combustion of diesel and plastic. The radio was playing loudly, the jagged nighttime voice of Bob Dylan floating through the shredded windscreen. Something about the soothing tone of Dylan’s voice made him feel that everything was fine, and that he would be safe soon. Sinking back into blackness, he heard someone sigh, and opening his eyes briefly saw the gaunt face of Hughes hovering above him, a tenacious presence, his dark eyes like a pair of sea creatures sucking at the final threads of his consciousness. The last thing he remembered was a snarl forming on the old man’s lips.
When he returned to consciousness again, it took him a while to work out what had happened. He tried to focus on the event in which he had been a central protagonist. A scene of higgledy-piggledy violence lay before him—upended thorn trees, twisted metal, lumps of glass etched with a spidery delicacy. His impression was vaguely of a flogging, of a lumbering metal beast having succumbed to the scratching intensity of thorn trees. His mouth felt dry, and when he rubbed his lips there was spittle hanging at the corners. He stood up. A fit of dizziness made him stagger.
The swish of unseen cars passing on the road above alerted him to his whereabouts. The jeep had ended up on the far side of the hedge, below the level of the road. He moved back to the jeep, which was heavily crumpled along the driver’s side, and removed the ignition key. He brushed the glass from the leather folder containing the map of the bog.
There was something else that should have been there. An important piece of evidence. He checked for his mobile phone and found it in his pocket. He stared at it for a moment or two, hoping that it would help him organize his mind. Something vital had exited the accident scene, somehow floating away through the mesh of thorns and cracked glass.
He tried to coordinate his memory, running through the series of events, the jeep skidding, the flight through the branches, and then he remembered. The old man. He recalled Hughes’s face hovering above him and wondered if it had been some sort of vision. Had he survived the crash and simply wandered off? He took in the accident scene with greater intensity now, saw the scars in the earth where the tires had slithered, the snapped branches and skinned bark, the jeep destroyed beyond repair. He had been lucky to survive the crash, but what about Hughes?