Erin Hart - Haunted Ground

That was the way he had always worked through stubborn cases as well; it was always a matter of approach, of taking a run at the thing from various angles. There had to be some crack in the Osborne case, he was sure of it. And his conviction had been further cemented by the odd conversation he’d had with the superintendent this evening, just before leaving the office.

“You wanted to see me, sir?” Devaney had only stuck his head in at Superintendent Boylan’s door after putting his jacket on; Boylan took a particular exception to detectives coming into his office in shirtsleeves. Despite the fact that he’d never had an original thought in his life, Brian Boylan possessed a rare instinct for the kind of political maneuvering that had got him where he was today. His office had been done up far beyond the basic standard issue for a superintendent of detectives. And with his smartly tailored suits and manicured nails, Boylan had always stood out among his colleagues; the man had the look of an actor, someone who took on whatever role others expected him to play. Devaney himself had seen too many shrewd, capable detectives passed over for promotion because they didn’t look the part the higher-ups had in mind for their modern police force, and some bollocks like Boylan did. Like it was some fucking film they were casting. Boylan had been handling Devaney cautiously to this point, no doubt worried that he might crack under pressure, so he’d been given only the most elementary cases, the most plodding detective work—essentially to keep him occupied, and everyone in the Loughrea station knew it.

“Ah yes, come in, please,” Boylan said, making no effort to rise or offer a chair, which felt like a transparent attempt to underscore their difference in rank. The superintendent made a show of marking his place in the massive interdepartmental report he was reading, then finally looked up and addressed Devaney with an air of preoccupation. “I wanted to let you know that you may have to make do without a partner for the time being. It’s in process, however, and I’ll let you know as soon as the paperwork is complete.” Devaney’s most recent partner had celebrated his retirement a fortnight ago. “Remind me again what you’re working on at the moment?”

“A break-in at Tynagh, and the rash of fires around Killimor.”

“Good, good,” Boylan said, nodding.

Devaney felt like a right eejit standing on the carpet. He thought: You should know, you’re the one making bloody sure I get all the scut work around here.

“I heard Hugh Osborne turned up at that business out at Drumcleggan today,” Boylan said. “I think you know that case has gone to the task force in Dublin.”

Devaney kept his face impassive. “Yes, sir, I had heard that.”

“They’ve got the resources, let them have a go. It’s out of our hands now.” Devaney remained silent. “How would it look if one of my officers seems to be questioning the decision to make that referral?” Here was the real sore point.

“It doesn’t fit the profile,” Devaney said. He recognized immediately that he’d made a mistake, but it was too late. “There’s the child, for a start—”

Boylan cut him off: “You’ll leave it alone.” The superintendent’s voice was even, but the color had drained from his face. “Do you understand?” His eyes locked on to Devaney’s, daring him to say something, anything, in defiance of a direct order.

“I understand,” Devaney said. He found it curious that Boylan’s eyes dropped first. “If that’s all, sir.”

“Yes, that was all.” Boylan swiveled his chair away abruptly, and turned to his place in the thick report once more.

Fuck Boylan anyway, Devaney had thought as he trudged back down the corridor. When he returned to the detective division office he saw the Osborne file at the corner of his desk. Someone might have seen the thing and mentioned it to the superintendent. He’d cast a glance around, and, on finding he was alone in the office, casually slid the bulky file into his bag.

Devaney stopped playing abruptly and set the fiddle back in its case. He remembered as he reached for the file his initial curiosity about the Osborne case when he’d first come to Dunbeg. One particularly slow afternoon, he’d gone through the drawer full of unsolved cases, and had been intrigued by this one. The file was nearly three inches thick, crammed with written reports, witness statements, photographs, and news clippings. It was exactly the kind of case that he knew from experience would get under his skin, gnawing at his conscience every day that it went unsolved.

The case had gone to Operation Trace because of growing speculation that a series of disappearances over the past five years might be related. There was talk of a serial killer. But a blind man could see that Mina Osborne stood out from the other victims. Every one of the women had disappeared while walking along quiet country roads. But all the rest were younger, between the ages of seventeen and twenty-two; Mina Osborne was twenty-nine years old. And all of the younger women went missing within a forty-kilometer radius of Portlaoise; Mina Osborne was the only one well outside that circle. And finally, there was the little boy. None of the others had a child in tow. One of the younger girls had a baby, right enough, but the child was spending the night with the girl’s parents when she disappeared.

Devaney remembered the sudden urge he’d had that afternoon to drive a bulldozer into Drumcleggan Bog and dig up the whole fucking thing. If Osborne was responsible, his performance as the grieving husband out on the bog could have been deliberately staged to throw them off the scent. Devaney knew he’d have to work through this, step by step. If Mina Osborne and her child were already dead, there was no use rushing if he couldn’t build a case against the person—or persons—responsible. There had been a thorough investigation, but something was still missing, some element they hadn’t yet considered. The trouble was, you couldn’t tell which piece was missing until the thing was nearly put together.

He turned to the original missing person report. Here was something he had never noticed before. The signature at the bottom of the form was “Detective Sgt BF Boylan.” So Boylan had headed up this case. No wonder he wanted to get it off his desk and into the hands of the national task force. Beneath the first report was a photograph of Hugh, Mina, and Christopher Osborne—at some holiday or other, it looked like. Mina was sitting in a chair with the child on her lap; Osborne knelt by her side, holding one of his son’s hands in his own, his free hand gesturing toward the photographer. The little boy looked curious and excited, his face upturned toward his mother’s. Mina Osborne was a beautiful woman, Devaney thought. Her straight teeth seemed very white in contrast to her dusky skin, and she wore a colorful sari, dark crimson cloth woven at the edge with gold. Her look was one of contented amusement. He wondered who took the picture. The back of the photo was blank.

He turned back to the missing person report on Mina Osborne and read through the full description: height, weight, build, and smaller particulars like teeth, voice, accent, gait, and distinguishing marks; haunts and habits. There was a sketch of a distinctive hair clip that several people reported seeing her wearing just before the disappearance—a pair of metal filigree elephants.

What did they have? A disappearance. Murder, suicide, accident, kidnapping, flight—there was not enough to prove or disprove any one of several possibilities. But there were small things, not even clues, really, that pointed toward some possibilities and away from others; perhaps that was the place to begin.

There had evidently been some brief discussion of kidnapping, but there had never been a demand for ransom. Could Mina Osborne have fled, as Dr. Gavin had suggested, skipped the country without leaving a trail? If she had, the question was not only how, but why. Devaney made a note to check through the file for medical records on Mina and Christopher Osborne, to see if there was ever any suggestion of physical abuse. Provided all the family and friends they’d contacted were telling the truth, no one had heard from Mina Osborne since she went missing.