The Murder Loop, page 24
‘You want me to do what?’ The tone of Finnegan’s reply was sufficient warning, but just for good measure, there was visual warning too in the shape of her puce face.
‘I know it sounds off the wall,’ Cass persisted, ‘but I’m certain that’s where Brady buried the body.’
‘Christ, give me strength. You don’t even know there is a body! We’re searching Brady’s place from top to bottom already and there isn’t the remotest hint that he was involved in a murder. We haven’t even found the bloody shotgun he told you about.’
‘You heard the recording.’
‘And there’s nothing on it that amounts to anything near a confession.’
‘Jesus, Nuala, he never was going to confess – he knew I’d be recording the call!’ She surprised herself by using Finnegan’s first name. But it seemed to serve in some odd way as a circuit breaker.
Finnegan sighed deeply, before lowering her decibel level. ‘Listen, everything you say makes sense from one perspective. But I’m already searching his property on the flimsiest of evidence. I have no basis for an arrest warrant and even less to press charges. And now you want me to dig up a graveyard too?’
‘Where better to dispose of a body?’
‘Why leave a burnt-out car at one side of town and take the risk of driving the body to the Loop to bury it? It makes no sense.’
‘It does if you want people to think Issa just took off and burnt out his own car.’
‘And maybe that’s exactly what happened.’
‘Cleaning up that graveyard was part of Brady’s plan. If anybody saw freshly disturbed ground where he’d interred Issa, he could just point to the wider work he’d done renovating the graveyard. Nobody would question it. Nobody would think he’d added a body to those already buried there.’
‘Do you know how fucking awkward it is to get permission for that kind of thing? And there’s no keeping it quiet, especially if we’re wrong. There’d be uproar.’
‘Do you think I’m wrong?’
‘I think I’d be better off ignoring you and leaving that fucking place and its ghosts undisturbed.’
‘It could be closure for Nabila, for Maisah.’
‘If I do it, it won’t be because you fucking guilt me into it.’
‘I’m not trying to. I’m just trying to do my job.’
‘You’ll have me in a fucking grave if you keep this up.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
A few days later at first light, Cass stood alongside an unexpected visitor and watched as a specialist Garda team, assisted by a local authority crew and observed by an environmental health officer, got the search of the small graveyard under way.
Nicole Wilson had flown in from the States to witness the exhumation, after Cass had fully detailed what she knew about Brady. Wilson, dressed in plain-clothes so as not to attract interest, was now explaining the reasons why.
‘One of DC’s most esteemed citizens is a former army ranger who founded his own private military company. No global battlefield too ugly for his contractors. Adored by the Pentagon, donates to Republicans and Democrats, rakes in the cash – you get the picture,’ she said.
‘After things went to shit in Afghanistan and Iraq, he saw a lot of his company guys – as well as former army colleagues – come home in body bags. The rumour is he started putting up funds and logistical support for ex-soldiers seeking to avenge fallen comrades. A paramilitary hit squad, in other words, still prosecuting old wars. Tracing ghosts.’
‘Rumour?’ Cass interjected. ‘Surely it would take you guys no time to bust open something like that.’
‘It’s not really our beef. More for the CIA, who could detect and shut it down in a heartbeat like you say. But they don’t want to know. Not unless something goes wrong somewhere and it lands on their plate.’
‘And you reckon Brady was funded by this guy?’
‘Makes sense, don’t you think? Cos it wasn’t just funding Brady required – he also needed live intelligence to find Issa, he needed active escape routes in case anything went wrong, the works. From what you’ve told me, I struggle to believe one guy could have executed all of that so cleanly without support.’
‘So if we get proof, are you going to make it the FBI’s business?’
‘I don’t like what our esteemed DC citizen is doing. It’s wrong on every level. But I got to tell you: back home, a lot of folks would sooner pin a medal on Brady than handcuffs for this.’
‘You’re saying there’ll be no appetite to assist us in finding him, or to investigate this company behind him?’
‘I’ve an appetite to assist, and I’m here with the blessing of my immediate bosses to see what you find. I’m just saying, the level of inter-agency appetite might not be so great.’
‘There’s nothing honourable in what he did.’
‘I can safely say not everybody on our side of the Atlantic will see it that way.’
As the morning progressed, Cass brought Wilson up to speed on other matters – chiefly Hugh’s imprisonment and its causes, their divorce, and more. She also revealed her liaison with Brady. Wilson apologised for being initially circumspect about revealing the contents of Brady’s file.
‘Until you mentioned Benghazi and the murders, I thought there was nothing there,’ she said. ‘He had an admirable record, plenty of commendations, the esteem of colleagues… but this is some pretty cold shit he did over here.’
Cass had little further to add, and a short time later, Wilson returned to the station to check in with her office and make some calls.
In early afternoon, Noel Ryan took Wilson’s place standing alongside Cass, observing the search in progress. ‘You really think Brady buried the body here, next to where he was living and sleeping?’ he asked.
‘He wasn’t sleeping. Maybe this was part of the reason why.’
‘Gives me the jitters even thinking about it.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘Are things always this lively around you?’
‘I’m starting to think I’m fucking cursed.’
‘Dunno. Can think of people in worse positions.’
‘Such as?’
‘Whoever gets the job of trying to sell this place after all this shit, for starters.’
But thirty-six hours later, as she watched the teams conclude their work and pack up their tools, Cass began to think she really was cursed. They had found nothing, only old bones. No recently buried, decomposing body. No bag or bundle of damaged euro notes. Nothing – not even the shotgun Brady admitted was somewhere on the site.
He tried to tell me.
‘A guy like him? Could be anywhere now. Back in Libya for all you know…’
I didn’t listen.
And now Finnegan will have to answer for all this.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
There was no neat way to wrap the item, so Cass stuck a gift tag on it instead. She left it in Finnegan’s office and then rang Maisah Sahraoui. She explained as best she could, with the information she could make available, what had happened to Nabila. They had finally identified Nabila’s murderer; they just wouldn’t be able to bring Akeem Issa to justice.
‘I don’t understand,’ Maisah said. ‘Why you cannot catch him?’
Because we think someone else caught him first.
‘We believe he’s dead, Maisah. We understand he became embroiled in a separate dispute, and was killed in recent months.’
‘You know this for sure?’
‘We are fairly certain of it.’
Maisah began to cry, and Cass waited patiently until the weeping subsided.
‘I am sorry again for your loss, Maisah.’
‘You know this man who killed Issa? You know him personally?’
‘We believe we do,’ Cass said cautiously, ‘but you’ll understand if I can’t identify a suspect to you.’
‘I don’t want his name,’ Maisah said. ‘I want you to thank him for me.’
Finnegan came out of her office, her face inscrutable, and summoned Cass in the familiar way.
When she walked in, expecting more trouble, Finnegan was holding the nine-iron – and to Cass’s surprise, grinning.
‘A token – for being such a pain in the ass. And for backing me anyway.’
‘I’ll back anyone who brings in results. Two murders, two detected.’
‘Three murders,’ Cass corrected. ‘One killer in prison, one killer in the ground, and one on the loose isn’t exactly the closure I was hoping for.’
‘Maybe the Yanks will see to Brady.’
‘Nicole Wilson says not.’
‘She’d know, I suppose.’
‘It’s a travesty if he’s not brought to justice.’
‘You honestly think that?’
‘All murders are equal.’
‘Except you and I both know they’re not,’ Finnegan retorted. ‘Akeem Issa targeted, exploited and murdered an innocent and vulnerable young woman. Brady killed a killer, thinking it would make the world a better place.’
‘We’re suddenly tolerant of eye-for-an-eye bullshit now?’
‘You’re talking to the woman who beat the shit out of somebody with a golf club.’
‘And left him breathing – there’s a world of difference.’
‘Look, I’m not sanctioning it. I’m just saying, maybe it’s not the worst outcome, on balance.’
‘Because I compromised myself?’
‘Because you cared for him.’
‘The only thing I care about now is locking him up.’
‘Fair enough. But it’s beyond our limited jurisdiction now, in any event.’
Cass nodded her acquiescence and stood to leave. At the door, almost as an afterthought, she said: ‘By the way, if you want me to apologise to Harbour Murphy, I will.’
‘Why would I want you to apologise to Harbour Murphy?’
‘Because I hassled him a bit, thinking he was involved or knew more than he was letting on.’
‘That fella always knows more than he lets on. Good to give him a fucking rattle now and again – keep him in line. Don’t you dare apologise to him.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘If you need some time off, by the way, after all of this–’
‘Given my choice in men, the less time I have for my personal life, the better.’
‘And a serious answer?’
‘I had enough time off, don’t you think? Really, I’m fine,’ Cass said, before adding: ‘For now.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
A month later, as the first blushes of spring came to Glencale, and the town readied itself for the new season, Cass arrived to work to find a postcard at her desk.
The front of the card showed a coastline dominated by a huge sea stack, and bore a simple greeting: ‘Haystack Rock, Cannon Beach – Welcome to Oregon!’
She flipped the card over to see a neatly written message.
Safe harbor. Swimming great. But miss my style critic.
Harbour is spelt with a ‘u’, you douchebag.
But despite herself, she smiled at his effrontery. And felt an ember of connection, still burning.
In the weeks since his emergency exit, she’d found herself flicking between the instinct to hunt him and the desire for his company. The latter was insanity, unless she told herself she now knew his very worst secret, and could live with it. Could she?
And if so, how was it she couldn’t find it within herself to forgive her ex-husband for his unintentional act of killing and yet tolerate Brady’s very deliberate act of murder?
She knew the answer to that question but didn’t want to admit it to herself, because to do so would be to acknowledge Finnegan was right: some killings we are prepared to tolerate.
Was ‘safe harbor’ his private joke that he was out of reach, or code to her that he posed no threat?
‘You know now you’ve nothing to fear from me?’
Yes, Cass thought, I know that now. And I see your come-find-me plea, and as fucked up as this has been – as fucked up as you may be – I know we had something genuine, if only for a moment.
But coming to find you?
The following day, she continued to think it was insanity.
And the day after that, she thought she just might.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
A teacher returns some corrected essays and gives a small compliment to one student about the potential of his writing; the student will cling to it for years, on bad days and good…
The editor of a community newspaper studies the empty CV of a teenager with no connections and no experience and decides to give enthusiasm a chance…
A senior journalist believes a colleague of his would be a good fit for government and recommends that person to a Cabinet minister seeking a new advisor…
And so on.
There may be individuals who carve out their own path in life unaided, certain they owe nothing to anyone. I’m not one of them. And so, to all those who have taught, guided and supported me - in ways seen and unseen, major and minor - thank you.
In the context of writing generally and this book specifically, I’d like to express my particular gratitude to the following:
To North Monastery school in Cork city, whose teachers have done so much for so many, and in particular Joe Duffy, Hester Forde and the late Jim Turner for building a kid’s confidence.
To Cork City Library and librarians everywhere.
To Dr Finola Doyle O’Neill for early career guidance.
To Stephen Flanagan, for two decades of friendship and support, for reading so many drafts and providing so much invaluable insight. To Michael O’Farrell, for the indispensable feedback and encouragement, and to Senan Molony for reading a previous unpublished effort and insisting I could do better.
To Betsy Reavley at Bloodhound Books, for taking a chance on this book; to Clare Law for the excellent edit; and to Abbie Rutherford, Tara Lyons, Kate Holmes and Hannah Deuce for their work, as well as the design team for the striking cover.
To my wonderful agent, Annakarin Klerfalk of InterSaga Literary Agency – I wouldn’t have got to this point without you.
To my parents, John and Eileen, for their unconditional love and values, and to my siblings, for being the best – I love you guys.
To my parents-in-law, Michael and Anne, for being such wonderful people, and always making me feel at home.
And finally, to Danielle, Líadain, Iseult and Síomha – my world would be nothing without you.
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Ben Barnes, The Murder Loop
