BENEATH LOST GROUND Page 3

  “Is there any chance your nephew wasn’t at home when the incident occurred? Maybe he was at a friend’s house or something?” asked Brophy.

  “I’m pretty certain he was there waiting for me to arrive. The kids are on summer holidays at the moment, and he was at hurling camp in the city during the day. He loves his hurling, all sports for that matter.”

  “Where is the camp being held?” asked Brophy.

  “I think it’s in Saint Xavier’s, but I’m not too sure.”

  “Thank you very much, Ms Walters. You’ve been extremely helpful. We won’t take any more of your time for now, and we’re very sorry for your loss,” said McCall.

  Brophy watched on with pity as the last few words made Ciara Walters realise the horror of what had happened that evening and broke down crying, once more.

  He and McCall left quietly and allowed Garda Mallon to care for the bereaved woman.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Brophy made the twenty-minute journey to his house, along dark winding roads, guarded by imperious overgrown deciduous trees. The bright cloudless night did nothing to clear the foggy thoughts threatening to plague his mind, thoughts that never quite take enough form to haunt him directly. As always, oblique foreboding imaginings, lying in wait for their opportunity to catch him unawares.

  The countless farms and well-lit houses barely registered as he pulled into his driveway, having forgotten he made the journey at all.

  Brophy’s two-bedroom bungalow would appear abandoned and derelict to passersby, not in the know, but he found solace there, nonetheless. The old grey stuccoed walls, the peeling brown window frames, the faded and stained white front door, all a reminder of what his life had become in recent years. His ex-wife kept the house they bought together fifteen years before, moved her new partner in five years ago. With his daughter living with her mother full-time, she hardly spoke to her old man, or was it he hardly spoke to her? He couldn’t quite tell anymore.

  The front door led straight into the living-room if one could call it that; a foldout couch, always set up as an unmade bed, a wide-screen TV still in its box in one corner, strategically placed to hide the damp stains on the wall, but not very successfully. He threw himself down on the couch and was out in seconds.

  “You know, you could have been a lot more than this,” came the voice of his mother, father, coach, and professor, all rolled into one claustrophobic echo chamber. “You always bottle it at the last moment, don’t you? Your hurling career, your university, your marriage, and now your fucking job,” the last words shouted at him in a deafening roar.

  Brophy, a small child now, tenacious and brave, waves his arms in the blinding darkness, looking for anything, a wall, a way out. But nothing. He’s trapped. He can’t remember if he fell or was pushed. But he’s a brave boy, the bravest of his group of friends. That’s why he came in here— to show the others that he was courageous enough. And now he’s smothered in the unseeing thickness of the pit.

  This was the place of childhood horror stories amongst his friends on Park Lawn Terrace, the housing estate where he grew up. The old Georgian house that stood on six acres of walled-off land, and separated his estate from the nearest beach, was the hiding place of a mysterious, wealthy family, the Phelans. Brophy and his pals always dared each other to go further and further up the tree-lined long entranceway and seek out the hidden tunnel that led to a secluded part of the beach they could only reach across the rocks.

  He gets down on his hands and knees and feels around for the steps he’s sure he came down just seconds before. The stone ground is cold and greasy. Stars appear before his eyes. He touches the side of his head. It’s wet. And it stings. Panic sets in as he realises it’s his blood. That’s what’s making the ground seem greasy. But was I pushed, or did I fall?

  Drowsiness is overpowering. He lies on the ground and isn’t sure if his eyes are open or not, but he drifts off.

  “Detective Brophy. Help me, please?”

  An unfamiliar voice unsettles him from his slumber. Maybe just as well. He needs to find a way out of this pit. He blinks furiously, trying to force some light in. It’s working— the outline of something, a person. The stranger is face to face. But he’s also lying in the pit.

  “Who’s there?”

  “You haven’t found me yet. Keep looking.” A girl’s voice, sweet and gentle. “Why have you stopped searching? I’m right here in front of you. I’ve always been right in front of you.”

  “Who are you? I can’t see a thing. I want to go home.”

  “I want to go home too. But I haven’t been found...”

  Brophy woke, drenched in sweat, expecting to roll over and find a dry spot and go right back to sleep, but soon the predawn light eased through his thick brown curtains and brought him fully out of his slumber. He felt as though he’d just fallen asleep, and now it was already time to get up and face a new case he wanted no part of.

  He stumbled to the bathroom through the door at the other end of the living room, pondering yet another stifling day ahead. He got into the shower and turned the cold water on full.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “Any news on the boy?” Brophy asked Kenneally.

  “Nothing yet, I’m afraid. The search party aims to step it up at nine o’clock and widen the search to the neighbouring beaches, and more woodland in the area.”

  “Keep me updated of any developments,” said Brophy.

  “Will do. Hey, I hope you’re not on that phone whilst driving again,” said Kenneally through a chuckle. “That’s illegal, you know?”

  “Stupid arsehole,” said Brophy under his breath after swiping at the red button on his phone.

  He rolled down the windows of his Saab as he sped along the N25 towards Waterford City, and a blast of hot air hit him. A layer of sweat already made its way across his back. The weather was unrelenting and set to last another week or two, according to reports. People up and down the country revelled in the mid-summer heatwave, but Brophy would have preferred to roll around naked on arctic ice-sheets than endure this torture.

  He’d always had a preference for colder weather, especially in his sporting days. He felt more alive, driven to achieve physical optimisation in the wintry conditions, while he struggled through the warmer climes of the championship months. That’s why many people believed he’d missed the big game sixteen years ago. But he never gave an answer to demands for an explanation. He just quit. He checked out and focused on his police work. Withdrew from all forms of public life, except for those he served.

  After half an hour of stopping and starting through the morning rush hour traffic coming into the city, he finally reached his destination, Saint Xavier’s Secondary School, just off the Cork Road, behind the Waterford Crystal Recreation Centre. The largest secondary school in the city, and one of the biggest rivals of his school and club teams, Dunabbey, his hometown, in the west of the county. He’d played there many times growing up, mostly on the losing side. The school ran hurling camps all through the summer, and kids came from all corners of the county, hoping some of those winning ways would rub off on them.

  He drove past the main school building, turned the corner on Gleann Fia Road and headed down towards the beautifully kept GAA ground of the local Saint Xavier’s School and club. A high chain-link fence separated the field from the road. Brophy saw the coach had kids of all ages already doing laps of the pitch at a quarter to nine in the scorching morning heat. Seeing the coach standing at the goalposts with his assistant at the far end of the field, Brophy cursed at the thought of having to tread across the perfectly manicured grass to get to the man he needed to question.

  He rounded the outer fence to the side entrance and tried to ignore it was his first time stepping onto a hurling pitch since he scored the winning point against Cork that brought his team into their first All-Ireland final in half a century.

  He headed towards the eastern end, the sun beating down on him. Though he wore his thinnest white shirt
and brown slacks, he felt as if he was stepping into the depths of a giant furnace. His heartbeat raced, his skin singed, and he realised that the onset of a panic attack was gripping him tightly. It’s this damn field. I should never have taken a single step onto it.

  “Oi! You! What are you doing on this field?” The hoarsely shouted words came from the direction he was headed.

  Brophy tried with all his mental energy to focus on the silhouetted figure growing in size before his eyes. Raising his hand to shield the sun from his vision helped a little.

  “I don’t believe it. Look what the cat dragged in—if it isn’t Conal Brophy. How’s it hanging, sham?”

  Brophy was beginning to recognise the voice that spoke to him, but the ‘sham’ sealed it. Jerry Cunningham. Corner-back on the Waterford squad for the great team of the naughties. Rarely got a game but was an ever-present source of commentary and catch-phrases. The years hadn’t been kind to his waistline or his hairline, but he still looked like he could go a few rounds in a boxing ring if push came to shove.

  “How’s it going, Jerry?”

  “It’s going good, lad.”

  Brophy’s panic attack was averted, and he was now almost fully focused on his old teammate.

  “So, are you here for a game, or what? Sixteen years late, but I reckon you’d give a few of the kids here a good challenge.”

  Cunningham broke down at his quip. Brophy remained expressionless.

  “I’m here to get some information about Seán Walters.”

  Cunningham scanned the perimeter to try to pick the ten-year-old out from the pack.

  “Information? What do you mean? What’s happened?”

  “He’s gone missing.”

  “Jesus.”

  “You obviously haven’t heard the news yet this morning, so I might as well tell you.”

  “Tell me what?” said Cunningham, concern evident in his tone.

  “His parents were murdered in the family home yesterday evening, and the little boy is nowhere to be found.”

  “Holy God above. What do you need to know?”

  “Was he here yesterday?”

  “He was, yeah.”

  “Anything strange about his behaviour?”

  “Not that I could tell. But I don’t know the kid that well. He’s done our camps the last few summers and came back on Monday to start a two-week camp this year. God, I can’t believe it. How were they killed?”

  “I can’t discuss that with you, Jerry.”

  “Oh, no. Of course not.”

  “What time did he leave, and who picked him up?”

  Cunningham gripped his chin and lowered his head, a gesture of recollection Brophy was accustomed to seeing.

  “Come to think of it; he left a little bit early. Said he was off to Dublin for the weekend and wanted to buy something in town first.”

  “Can you remember who picked him up?”

  “I can’t be too sure. We had a rough aul game on the go when he left.”

  “You didn’t see if someone was waiting for him?”

  “Sorry, Conal. I wasn’t looking. But nothing seemed out of the ordinary if that’s any good.”

  “Well, if you remember anything, you give me a call.”

  Brophy reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card with his and the station’s details.

  Cunningham took the card and examined it closely. “Will do, Detective Sergeant Brophy. Good to see you, man. It’s been too long.” He glanced over to his young charges and shouted, “Get a move on, you lot, or there’ll be two more laps.” He turned back to Brophy, a thin smile appearing on his podgy face. “What a team we had. Those were the glory days, weren’t they, Conal?”

  “If you say so,” Brophy curtly replied, and as he turned to walk away, he said, “Make sure you get in touch if you remember anything.”

  “No worries,” said Cunningham.

  After a few paces, Brophy turned back, momentarily dazzled by the sun once more. “What’s the lad like?”

  “Walters? He’s a decent player. Good speed and power, but not the kind of skill you had at that age. He’ll be a fine player, though.”

  “I meant his personality. What is he like?”

  Cunningham looked almost puzzled by the question like it was something a coach should never be bothered about. He paused for a few beats. “Bit arrogant, truth be told. Likes to take-on the bigger kids and push the smaller lads out of his way. Great attitude for the game, really. Actually, he got into a bit of a scuffle yesterday when practising blocks. Only lasted a few seconds.” He paused as if something just popped into his head. “Hey, come to think of it, I do remember seeing him getting into a car after he left. The memory isn’t the best these days. I looked up towards the fence there, and saw him getting into a black car,” he said, gesturing to the other end of the pitch.

  “Did you see who was driving?”

  “Nah. Was too far away, and I think the windows were darkened with that tint stuff.”

  “What kind of car was it?”

  “Not a hundred percent sure, but something big and fancy. Maybe a Mercedes. And he was laughing as he got into the car. That’s all I remember. Hope it’s helpful.”

  “Thanks, Jerry,” said Brophy, nodding in acknowledgement, then he turned away.

  He couldn’t get off that pitch fast enough.

  When he reached his Saab, in the general vicinity of where Cunningham said he saw Seán Walters get into a black car, he looked down the field and saw the boys assemble around their coach. As much as he’d never admit it, the sight brought him back to easier times, when the next game was all he cared about. Now it was the thing he dreaded the most.

  As he was about to get into his car, his phone buzzed.

  He answered.

  “McCall here. Are you still around Saint Xavier’s?”

  “Yeah. Just finished with the hurling coach now. What’s the craic?”

  “One of the neighbours mentioned they’d seen a Ford Fiesta around a few times, driven by a dodgy looking character not from the area; we found it on the CCTV from the shop. Got a clear look at the plate. Get this. The car is registered to Michael Delaney.”

  “Jesus Christ. What would he be doing around there?”

  “Who knows? Might be just a coincidence, but we need to check it out as soon as possible. As you’re already in the area, there’ll be a squad car with a couple of uniforms waiting for you down the road from his house. You’re advised to approach with extreme caution.”

  “Okay. I’ll get there in five minutes.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Michael ‘Budgie’ Delaney was one of the highest level local dealers in Waterford City. Not much more than a common street dealer, but he seemed to have the kind of connections that ensured he always had the best cocaine in the town and the muscle and bad attitude to ensure no other back-alley dealer invaded his turf. Six-foot-three and built like a middle-aged bricklayer who’d been hauling heavy loads since he was a wee lad, Delaney had fallen off the radar recently. Like most dealers, due to the massive operation that brought down the country’s two main cartels, his supply had run short to non-existent. Brophy had hardly heard mention of his name in three months and was certainly unaware the local man could even drive in his late twenties.

  Brophy swung around a few bends until he was brought back out onto Cork Road. After a few seconds, the Waterford Institute of Technology appeared on his left. The sprawling council estate, Gleann Fia, came into view, across a two-acre playing green, on his right. The south -eastern city, the oldest in the country, had fewer than a hundred thousand inhabitants, and over two thousand of these lived in the notorious Gleann Fia estate. Fifteen of the twenty assaults against gardaí reported in the city the previous year took place there and sixty percent of drug busts, thirty percent of burglaries, and on and on. It housed many of the city’s working-class families, and with youth unemployment at a worrying high since the financial crisis, boredom and idleness, as always, l
ed to the worst kind of apathy.

  Brophy drove slowly past the estate’s squalid playing green. After a couple of turns, passing countless multi-coloured semi-detached houses, he ended up in the interior of the estate and soon spotted the squad car. It was parked around the corner at the end of Delaney’s street, out of sight. But that didn’t matter. If Delaney was home, he knew well by now they were parked in his neighbourhood.

  He slowed down as he approached the squad car and waved at the uniformed gardaí to follow him to the house down the street.

  He pulled over and parked two houses down, knowing there was always a possibility of having something thrown at his car if left in front of his assailant’s. After he got out, he scanned the rows of houses on all sides and saw a dozen, or so, people staring out windows at the latest sighting of trouble. He briefly wondered why the place was devoid of children running around on a hot summer’s day, then remembered it was still quite early in the morning.

  He shimmied the latch on the thigh-high rusted iron gate, eventually getting it opened and took a few steps to reach the blue front door. He noticed the two upstairs windows had their curtains drawn, but the downstairs ones were pulled. The glare from the sun made it impossible to see in, especially from their position.

  Brophy gave a loud, unmistakable police knock. Ratt, tatt, tatt. “Hello, anyone home?” Ratt, tatt, tatt.

  They waited for a response. Brophy glanced at the two young uniformed gardaí, who he’d barely acknowledged until now; he wasn’t sure if he recognised either one of them.

  “Who’s there? What do you want?” came the raspy voice of who, Brophy assumed, was Delaney’s mother.

  “It’s the gardaí,” he said, attempting to sound soft-spoken and non-confrontational but failing miserably at both. “We need a word with Michael, and we know this was his last registered address, so please open up.”

  He’d scarcely spoken the final words when he heard the mewing sound of a baby, winding up for a full-on bawl. The chub-lock clanked open, a chain rattled over and back against the door and frame, and the door was pulled open a couple of feet. A girl in her mid-twenties stood before them, rocking the baby gently in her arms, a look of anguish on her freckled face that said she couldn’t take another screeching baby outburst at that moment.