Authors: Jennifer Fallon
She’d have to risk it, Trása decided, but it was hard to concentrate while in bird form. Another bright white shower of sparks illuminated the night. It was too far south to be the same compound where she had so narrowly escaped having her throat slit, but not far from it.
Trása was torn with indecision. If she flew south to investigate, she might never find the bundle she’d dropped to build her
Leipreachán
trap. The chance of spotting something as small as a bundle of twigs on the ground as she flew back over the forest, even with an eagle’s eye, were infinitesimal. On the other hand, it was dark and she couldn’t see now anyway, despite having a rough idea of where the sling and its contents might have landed.
More fireworks lit the clear night. Somewhere out there, someone was celebrating something.
That decided her. Celebrations meant food. Real human food. Dancing. Crowds. It meant alcohol, too. Drunks meant loose tongues and a chance to find out what was happening in this realm — maybe even a chance to discover if Rónán still lived. And as she knew well from her time in Rónán’s realm, drunks were the best targets for
Tuatha
hoping to steal the other essentials of life.
Hungry and craving human companionship more than she had thought possible, Trása abandoned her search for the fallen sling and with a flap of her powerful, speckled wings, turned south to join the party.
Inspector Duggan was a tough, all-business sort of woman. Until he and Logan pulled up outside her house in his brother’s red Porsche 993, Pete had never really thought about Brendá Duggan’s life outside of the Gardaí. She had a husband — he knew that from the Christmas party last year — and a couple of kids. There were photos in her office of two teenage kids and a yellow Labrador he assumed were hers, but as a rule, Pete spent as little time in Inspector Duggan’s office as he could manage. One rarely got hauled in to face the inspector just to be told what a wonderful job they were doing.
He certainly didn’t socialise with Brendá Duggan, ask about her weekends, or have any idea what his boss’s reaction would be when he and his TV reporter brother turned up on her doorstep at ten o’clock at night, claiming to have proof she was hunting not one Chelan Aquarius Kavanaugh, but two.
As he pulled on the handbrake and shut down the burbling purr of the 993’s engine, he glanced at the neat semi-detached house where the inspector lived. All the reasons they should just turn around and go home seemed more plausible than the notion of getting out of the car, walking up the path and ringing the doorbell.
‘Maybe we should leave this until Monday,’ Pete said,
studying the house. There were lights on downstairs, so someone was still awake, but it might be the inspector’s husband, one of her kids …
‘Since when did cops keep office hours?’ Logan asked.
‘Since I decided your ludicrous theory about Ren Kavanaugh having an evil twin could get me busted back to traffic duty.’
‘
My
ludicrous theory?’ Logan said. ‘Hey, I’m not the one insisting he saw those boys standing side by side.’ He held up the manila envelope to remind Pete why they were here. ‘I’m just the one with the photographic evidence of it.’
Logan had a point. There were photographs to prove Ren had a twin and that Pete wasn’t crazy. More importantly, there was evidence Patrick Boyle, father of the alleged kidnap victim, knew more about what had happened in the past few days than he was saying. ‘Okay, then. Let’s do it. Just do me a favour.’
‘Sure.’
‘Let me do the talking. Duggan might have acted as if she liked you at the Christmas party, but she already thinks every time there’s a leak from our office, it came from me telling you more than I should. Don’t make it worse.’
‘I’ll behave,’ Logan promised. ‘I’ll turn on the charm. You watch, I’ll have her eating out of my —’
‘Just don’t embarrass me, okay?’
Although Pete had been secretly thrilled to be driving Logan’s precious 993, he climbed out of the car with some difficulty. The Porsche was insanely low to the ground. Logan managed it with ease, because he had more practice getting in and out of the vehicle. They walked up the path side by side. At the front door, Logan rang the bell before Pete could chicken out and suggest they leave again.
A few moments later the door opened. A solidly built man going grey at the temples, wearing a plaid dressing gown and holding a steaming mug of tea, greeted them with a scowl. Before
Pete or Logan could utter a word, he called over his shoulder, ‘Bren! It’s for you.’
‘Sorry for disturbing you so late, Mr Duggan,’ Pete said.
The man shrugged. ‘Happens all the time.’ He studied Logan for a moment and then frowned as he recognised him. ‘You’re that TV reporter, aren’t you?’
Logan smiled. He was used to being recognised. He positively wallowed in it. ‘Yes, sir, we met at your wife’s office Christmas party last year. Logan Doherty.’ He offered his hand to Mr Duggan, who studied it with disdain.
‘Thought that bit you did on film censorship the other night was a load of shite,’ he said, taking a sip of his tea. ‘Why don’t you report on some real news for a change?’
Logan was too smart to take offence at the comment. He smiled and lowered his hand. ‘To be honest, Mr Duggan, I couldn’t agree more. I thought the weekend’s Conference of European Classifiers was about the most boring thing I’ve ever had to cover.’
‘Leave him be, Ethan,’ Inspector Duggan said, coming up behind her husband.
He stood back to let his wife pass. ‘I’m going up to bed. Try not to wake me when you finally come up.’ With that, Ethan Duggan took his mug of tea and headed for the stairs without so much as a goodbye.
Brendá Duggan was also in her dressing gown — a well-worn pink fluffy creation with a badly embroidered pocket that said ‘Happy Mother’s Day’ in red. It had probably been a gift from one of her kids when they were smaller. The fact that she was still wearing it made Pete rethink his opinion of her. He’d long ago concluded Duggan had iced water running through her veins and a heart carved out of granite. He would never have picked her for the sentimental sort.
She eyed the brothers standing on her doorstep and shook her head. ‘You boys into metal music at all?’
Pete shook his head, wondering at the question. ‘My daughter is. Your unexpected appearance on my doorstep at this hour reminds me of a song she’s rather fond of playing over and over and over.’
‘Ma’am?’ Logan asked, looking even more confused than Pete.
‘No good can come of this,’ Duggan said.
The brothers continued to look at her oddly. She shook her head. ‘That’s the name of the song. I think the band is called Catatonic, or something like that. You’d better come in, I suppose.’
Logan smiled and offered Duggan his hand. ‘Nice to see you again, Brendá.’
‘That remains to be seen,’ she said, sttanding back to let them enter. They followed her down the hall and into what was obviously a newly renovated kitchen. Pete thought he remembered her talking about it being upgraded some months ago, but as there were few things in this world he cared about less than his boss’s renovation plans, he’d paid no attention at all. ‘You boys want a coffee? Kettle’s hot.’
‘I’m fine, thanks,’ Logan said. ‘But please, don’t let us stop you.’
She waved them to a seat at one of the high stools at the breakfast bar, and picked up her half-drunk coffee. ‘Okay. What’s this about?’
‘Do you remember me telling you there were two Ren Kavanaughs?’ Pete said.
‘Do you remember me telling you to take the medication they gave you at the hospital and to stay home and rest until your concussion was better?’
‘It’s not concussion if there’s photographic proof,’ Logan said, before Pete could respond. He turned to his brother. ‘Show her, Pete.’
Duggan sighed. ‘Show me what?’
Pete opened the envelope his brother produced and did exactly what Logan had done to him — placed the photo from the antique shop and the one from the film premiere on the counter in front of Inspector Duggan, side by side.
She put her coffee down and studied the two photographs for some time before she said anything. Finally, she looked at Pete. ‘Where did you get these?’
‘The first one is all over the net. It’s from the London premiere of
Rain over Tuscany
, when the Kavanaugh kid made himself an instant celebrity by dropping the F-bomb on national television,’ Pete explained.
‘And this one?’ she asked, pointing to the second grainy photo.
‘It’s the CCTV footage from a small antique shop about six blocks away from the Castle Golf Club taken Thursday afternoon,’ Logan told her.
‘I’ve heard nothing of this.’
‘The owner saw the news on Friday evening while he was eating his dinner and says he recognised Ren from his mugshot. There’s a girl with long blonde hair with him on the rest of the tape, although she’s not in this shot. He didn’t get names — they paid cash — but I’m assuming it’s the girl claiming to be O’Righin’s granddaughter.’
‘Paid cash for what?’
‘An art deco crystal salad bowl,’ Pete told her.
Duggan pursed her lips, frowning, and then looked up, her eyes boring into Logan with a gaze that had withered many a hardened criminal. ‘How did you get this tape?’
‘Business has been slow in antiques lately, I gather. The shop owner contacted my producers to see if he could sell it to us.’
Duggan was not pleased by the news. ‘And your producers, being the law-abiding citizens that they are, bought the damned
thing instead of contacting us and letting the Gardaí establish the chain of evidence. Thanks for that.’ She studied the photos for a moment longer, scowling. ‘The tattoos are on different hands.’
‘See,’ Logan said, nudging Pete. ‘She spotted it.’
‘It might be a ruse to confuse us,’ Duggan remarked, still studying the photos thoughtfully. ‘The tattoo could be fake. This kid grew up on movie sets. He probably knows half the makeup artists in the country. The hair on this one is longer, but I suppose that could be accounted for by the time between when the photos were taken.’
‘You don’t seriously think he’d go to the trouble of replicating the tattoo on a different hand, do you?’ Logan asked. ‘If he wanted to hide the tattoo, all he had to do was wear a glove.’
She lowered the photo, saying, ‘It’s a damn sight more plausible than the idea Ren Kavanaugh has a hidden identical twin who’s suddenly appeared out of nowhere.’ She looked at the twin brothers and smiled. ‘However attractive that notion seems to the two of you.’
‘You think he’s that clever? He’s a kid. He’d have to know he was on camera, hope the cops found the tapes …’ Logan shook his head. ‘Occam’s Razor, Brendá.’
Duggan stabbed at the photo with her finger. ‘This isn’t proof of anything, Logan. Thanks to the way you acquired this tape, it’s reasonable doubt, that’s all. Besides, think of the logistics of what you’re suggesting. This kid has been photographed by the paparazzi every other day of his life since he was three years old. You don’t think if there was an identical twin brother out there somewhere, with a tattoo on his opposite hand, somebody wouldn’t have noticed by now?’
She had a point, Pete realised. It made perfectly good sense and he had nothing with which to counter her logic, except for this grainy CCTV photo and the fact that he had seen them together. He knew — however unlikely it might be — Ren had a
twin and he was here, helping his brother kidnap Hayley Boyle and escape the law.
‘There’s another photo,’ Logan said, turning to Pete. ‘Show her the one from the footage we shot at the golf club.’
Pete did as Logan suggested. Duggan took the photo and examined it closely for a long, long time.
‘We’d need to get this blown up and enhanced.’
‘We did that,’ Logan said. ‘And I can show you the tape we lifted that frame from. It’s exactly what it looks like. Someone is dropping out of that tree and into the trunk of Kiva Kavanaugh’s Bentley.’
‘I’ll need to see
all
your footage,’ Duggan said. ‘No holding out on me, Logan. Every frame you took at the golf club yesterday morning, and every other bit of coverage I can get, from whoever else was there filming. Someone may have got a better angle than you and doesn’t realise what they have.’ It was hard to tell if Duggan was excited by this break or unimpressed.
‘We haven’t got time for that,’ Pete said, a little frustrated by her determination to plod through one rule at a time. ‘If Ren Kavanaugh is at his mother’s house, she’ll have him out of the country by morning, if he’s not already.’
The inspector shook her head. ‘That may be, Pete, but I can’t get a warrant to search the house of someone as high profile as Kiva Kavanaugh based on one frame of film that could well turn out to be a trick of the light. Bring me something I can take to a judge and we’ll storm the place with the ERU. But until I have proof, lads, what you have is nothing more than a fanciful theory.’
‘What do you want us to do then?’ Pete asked, before Logan started arguing with her. And he was going to. Pete could tell just by the way he was leaning forward with that intense, I’m-not-letting-this-go look he often wore when he was onto something. It was what made him a good reporter, Pete knew. And the same trait that made Pete one of the youngest detectives in the NBCI.
‘Go home,’ Inspector Duggan ordered. ‘Get some sleep.’
‘But —’
‘But nothing,’ she cut in. ‘This is wild speculation and conjecture. It’s tabloid fodder, nothing else. So unless you can bring me some solid evidence or some trace of Hayley Boyle soon, I have to face a distraught father tomorrow and admit that after an extensive and fruitless search, in all likelihood we may have to confront the possibility that she’s dead.’
‘The footage we shot at the golf club may prove she’s home, tucked up safe in bed,’ Logan argued, pointing at the photo of the Bentley with its trunk open.
Duggan shrugged. ‘Then prove it, lads. Because I have no intention of following up the news that his daughter is probably lost forever with the accusation that Patrick Boyle is guilty of helping his daughter’s killer escape — unless I’m absolutely sure he did.’