Disappeared (29 page)

“He won’t.”

“I think he will.”

“Well, don’t worry. I’ll not tell him anything.”

“No. I want you to tell him I was here.”

She looked at him in surprise.

“And tell him that I know what Devine was doing in the weeks before he died. I’ll be at home all weekend.”

D
ermot drove along flooded fields that resembled shards of sky strewn over a landscape of small farms and disappearing lanes. The tracts of water soaked up the gloom of the darkening clouds that massed overhead, threatening another burst of rain. His companion beside him was something of a specialist on floods in this part of the country, a hoarder of memories of disgorged rivers, the steep sheen of the lough after a storm and the elaborate patterns of newly created lakes stalked by duck hunters in the dawn.

However, neither Dermot nor David Hughes had ever seen a flood like this, with many of the lough-shore roads cut off by arteries of pulsing water. Only the twisted tops of hawthorn trees, their branches like fallen stags, marked the direction of the submerged roads. They were unable to follow their preferred route to the house and had to work their way along the fringes of Lough Neagh, its wide advancing loneliness making them feel they were adrift in a flooded land without bridges or stepping-stones.

They almost missed the house in the murk of the gathering storm. A jugular of muddied water coursed down the side of the road, forcing them to abandon their vehicle on a ridge overlooking the house.

“This is the worst flood I can remember,” said Hughes.

His eyes were swimming in the cold, but his voice was clear.

“What I see bears no relation to memory. I need landmarks and fixed points on the horizon, but all these are missing. I might as well be lost at sea.” He closed his eyes.

“If that’s the case, then so am I,” replied Dermot.

They were like two refugees embarking on the great unknown, he thought.

The noise of the floodwater got louder and closer as they watched it pour in big, gurgling streams over the banks of the Blackwater River. The old man stared at the moving abyss of water with a stillness that suggested he could have stood there for hours without getting tired of the sight.

Dermot thought the old man’s stature had shrunk over the past few weeks, his body grown thinner. He was like a frail raft disintegrating because the currents were too strong. They were almost out of his medication and would have to see a GP soon. But first Dermot would find an answer to the questions Hughes had been unable to answer. He would get the solution to the cruel mystery that had overshadowed his life and tarnished his youth.

Above the roar of the water, he could make out the sound of cars approaching and leaving the house. Curious, he watched as people slowly entered and briskly left through the building as though a burden had been removed from their shoulders. The house itself was plunged in darkness, with not a light on in any of the windows.

“Come,” said Hughes, interrupting his thoughts. “Let’s go and see what this man has to tell us. See how all his surroundings have given way to the lough, as though the land is trying to pull away from him. Keeping the secret of your father’s grave has been too heavy a responsibility for him. He’s had bad luck.”

No one troubled them as they joined the file of people moving through the front door into a candlelit hall where a man in a black suit was shaking hands forcefully with those at the front of the queue. Although the queue was long, he greeted everyone with unchanging gravity, thanking them all as they offered their condolences.

Dermot waited nervously behind Hughes, realizing they had arrived in the aftermath of a funeral. He was unable to detect if the man recognized Hughes; his rolling voice showed the same rehearsed formality to each of the visitors.

Hughes shook the man’s hand. “Bad weather for a funeral,” he remarked.

Owen Sweeney produced a stock smile in reply, one that politicians practice to show they are still human.

“The dead are past caring about the weather,” he said, holding on to Hughes’s hand.

“Mr. Sweeney, I’d like you to meet a young man who’s anxious to speak to you. You knew his father.”

Sweeney rubbed his beard and smiled like an overbearing relative, a look of curiosity starting to enliven his features. Dermot gave him a quick, nervous grin in return. Just then, a group of women in a nearby room struck up a rosary chant. Sweeney mumbled along and reached out to shake Dermot’s hand, at the same time surveying the faces farther down the queue.

“Everything’s going from bad to worse here,” he said apologetically.

“We were just getting over Dad’s death when the floods came. Then this morning the storm put our electricity out. Hence all the candles,” he said, sweeping his hand into the house’s gloomy interior.

“My name is Dermot Jordan, my father was called Oliver,” said Dermot.

Sweeney didn’t seem to hear. He leaned closer to the boy.

“You know, the sound of the river bursting its banks woke me right out of my sleep. I thought the walls of the house were going to cave in.”

“We’ve found where the IRA buried Oliver Jordan, and now we want to hunt down his killers.”

At the mention of Jordan’s name again, Sweeney straightened up like a puppet on unsteady legs, his eyeballs turning and twisting upon themselves as he took in the old man and the boy.

“At least you have the luxury of visiting your father’s grave. Knowing where to lay a wreath of flowers,” said Dermot.

Sweeney turned to Hughes in recognition, his mouth crooked, his eyes belligerent.

“Surprised?” asked Hughes.

“That my father’s funeral has been disturbed by an enemy of the IRA? No, that happens all the time.”

“Would you have talked to us if I had arranged a meeting?”

“Probably not.”

Even under the thick beard, it was possible to see Sweeney’s upper lip stretch into a sneer.

“You should be in a nursing home or under armed fucking guard, not here in my house, drooling like an old bloodhound,” he said.

“Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself,” replied Hughes.

“What else have you been taking care of?” Sweeney’s voice was a hoarse whisper. “A man with your secrets should go to the grave quietly, without trying to drag as many as possible along with you.”

“Secrets? There are so many.” Hughes touched his fingers to his forehead. “But don’t worry. My memory is poor, and many of the details are not as clear as I would wish. That’s why we’ve come to you.”

Sweeney noted the sleepwalker’s tremble in Hughes’s eyelids, the dirt-lined fingers stroking his creased brow, and the food stains discoloring his beard. Some of the fear and tension lifted from his face. He had worked out that the old man and the boy did not present an immediate threat to his physical safety and that they had come unaccompanied. Nevertheless, the two of them were a nuisance, a source of irritation, and they would hamper the way in which he conducted himself in front of the crowd of mourners. He needed to get rid of them as quickly and skillfully as possible. He took Hughes’s arm in his hand. It was thin, little more than skin and bone, and Sweeney’s confidence that he would handle their unexpected arrival was reinforced. The old man made no attempt to pull away as Sweeney led them into a side-room.

“It’s not a good time to talk about these matters,” he chided them.

“My questions can’t wait,” said Dermot.

Sweeney seemed to think for a moment, and then smiled.

“Now I understand,” he said.

“What do you understand?” asked Hughes.

“Why that jeep has been parked outside my house several times this past week.”

Dermot nodded. “We’ve been trying to meet you. As I said, my questions are urgent.”

Sweeney sat down and lit a cigarette, his movements careful and meticulous. After he had taken a few drags, he fixed his gaze on Dermot.

“Really, you should come back after I’ve had time to grieve.”

He watched the boy’s reactions.

“However, I’m a patient man. And the two of you seem to be running out of time. I will tell you what I know, without adding anything or leaving anything out.”

As he spoke, his gaze bore into Dermot, weighing up his responses, trying to read his state of mind.

“Firstly, I have no idea where your father’s body was buried. The IRA doesn’t have an archive section where you can dig out a document on every single operation.”

He showed his empty hands and chuckled to himself.

“All you can rely on are my memories and those of other activists. And all this is off the record, OK?”

“I’d like to hear you say that in an interrogation room,” interrupted Hughes with sudden venom.

“I haven’t heard an invitation like that for years,” replied Sweeney coolly. He got up, removed a bottle of whiskey from a drawer, and poured himself a glass.

“As I said, none of this is cast-iron. That’s the thing about memory. Some days it can be less reliable than others. But there’s nothing unusual in that for men of our age, is there David?” he said, his grin expanding. He knocked back a cheekful of the amber alcohol.

“I know my own mind,” said Hughes. “Sometimes I don’t recognize the man using it.”

“I’m feeling sorry for you now,” said Sweeney with a rebuking shake of his head. His silver curls settled against the stiff collar of his shirt. “But then that’s probably your intention. Soften me up a little. You always were a cunning bastard.”

He returned to examining Dermot. The boy looked sad, depressed almost. But then, so did most teenagers. Adolescent angst was a shield, as inaccessible as a mask.

“About your father, Dermot. I’ve overheard some things to which others have added more details. At the time I was unaware of how much I actually knew, but over the years I’ve been able to build up a picture of his last days.”

“The facts, not bullshit,” warned Hughes.

“Though they will never publicly admit it, the IRA is genuinely sorry for what happened to people like your father,” Sweeney continued, composed now, on practiced ground. “And I am too, but that won’t save you from your anger, or grief, or prevent Republicans from feeling guilty or give us any peace. For your father, his troubles are over and his soul is at peace.

“Believe me, Dermot, if I had known he was an innocent man I would have freed him. But what did I know? I’m not a mind reader. In those days, I didn’t have the influence I have now. I was just a foot soldier, ignorant and trusting.

“The IRA never wanted to admit to your father’s murder because he wasn’t properly handled by the thugs who kidnapped him. Aiden Corr was the main man, but he was drunk. All he did was ask a few stupid questions and then he got his comrade, Danny O’Shea, to dress up as a priest and extract a confession. After that, Corr pulled the trigger. If they had really believed your father was an informer, he should have been tied up, guarded, and handed over to more senior personnel. The IRA would have had a field day if their suspicions had been correct.

“But Corr claimed to have got your father to confess to everything, so they shot him. The murder calmed Republican nerves, convinced them that the leak had been dealt with.

“Corr was later imprisoned for withholding information. A year after he was released his car collided with a cement mixer on the same road from which he abducted your father. His accomplice, O’Shea, was killed in 1986 by the IRA for using weapons for unauthorized criminal activities. His maggot-infested body was found in a ditch in South Armagh, a fertilizer bag wrapped around his head. The secret of what happened to your father’s body died with them. You could say that the IRA brought his killers to justice, the most summary form of justice there is.

“Does that make a difference, Dermot? Knowing that the men who killed your father led violent, miserable lives? Nobody cried at their funerals. Have you gained anything from knowing that?”

“I appreciate your frankness,” said Dermot with a surly tone that suggested he did not appreciate it much at all. “But the account’s not settled.”

“Something tells me you know more about Oliver Jordan’s death than you’re letting on,” said Hughes. “You were the third man in the IRA gang that included Corr and O’Shea. Where were you when the kidnap was taking place?”

“That’s your problem, Hughes,” said Sweeney, his mouth teetering once again on a bitter sneer. “You always suspect the worst in others, if only because your own career was based on such deception and dishonesty.”

“I have a sneaking admiration for people like you who build a successful career on their own lies,” growled Hughes. “I’ve watched you closely over the years. Followed your development as a politician. Seen how the media practically jumped into your lap and combed your hair for you. Television becomes you, like any actor. But you’re not going to wriggle out of telling the truth now.”

Sweeney ran a hand pretentiously through his silver hair and sighed.

“That sounds like the David Hughes I remember. So let me level with you.”

“Is that not what you’re doing already?”

Sweeney paused and stared at the ground briefly. A look of darkness passed across his features. Then he raised the glass of whiskey into the air. The gap in his thinking had been small but noticeable, and the movement with the glass had helped him cross it.

“Naturally, I wasn’t there when they took Oliver Jordan away,” he continued. “That’s all there’s to it. The only piece of evidence I have to prove that is the testimony of my estranged wife. You can check with her. She had just given birth to our first son. The baby shut my mind against the rest of the world. I didn’t want to be bothered with anything else. All this is true.”

“Somehow I think there’s more to come,” said Dermot, leaning forward as though he wanted to slap the whiskey out of Sweeney’s hands.

“No,” said Sweeney curtly. “That’s it. We’re through. As the politician said to the journalist, I’ve nothing more to add at this moment.”

“What about the files you have stashed away in the shed outside? Confidential information about the investigation into my father’s murder.”

Sweeney balked. “Legal files? In my shed?”