Dave Hutchinson: Sleeps With Angels

“Not far off,” O’Connell admits, sitting down on the other side of the desk. “We got an identification on Glenroy Walken.”

Daniel sits back in his chair. “Do tell?”

“The DNA results came back about an hour ago. It turns out Mr Walken’s on the database under the name of Mitchell. Alan Mitchell.”

Daniel thinks about it. “You know, that rings a bell.”

“It should. Mad Dog Mitchell. The Traveller Wars?”

Daniel sighs. If only he had a euro for every hard man who styled himself ‘Mad Dog.’ But that isn’t what’s ringing the bell. “You think that’s started again? After, what, sixty years?”

O’Connell shrugs. “I don’t know. All I know is that Alan Mitchell went missing during The Massacre. At which time he was sixty-two years of age.”

Daniel raises an eyebrow. Then the bell rings again and he starts pulling up the Walken file from the expert system.

“We also got DNA off one of the glasses you found in the living room,” O’Connell continues, “and that also was in the database. We have a positive identification of one Gordon Cope.”

Daniel opens another window on his monitor. Cope, Gordon. One previous arrest for joyriding fifty years ago, which is when his DNA went into the database. He’s in his early seventies now, lives in one of the grim little estates over on the northern edge of the city. Daniel shouts, “Paweł!”

Paweł comes to the door of the office. “Boss?”

“Get a car from the pool. We’re going for a drive.”

Paweł nods and goes back through the office.

Daniel looks at the Walken file again. Yes, there’s that little ringing bell. Mrs Ellen Wright, née Ellen Mitchell. “They’re related,” he says.

O’Connell can’t see the screen, but he knows exactly what Daniel’s talking about. “We took DNA from her at the hospital, for elimination purposes. We need more careful tests, but off the record I’d say she’s his daughter.”

Daniel sits back again and tries to rearrange all of this in his head to make a meaningful narrative. O’Connell’s phone rings. He takes it out of his pocket and says, “Yes?” Then a puzzled expression crosses his face. “I didn’t authorise that.” He listens again. “Who did they say they were?” He listens again. Looks at Daniel and says, “Did you order the Walken body moved?”

“Me?” Daniel asks in surprise.

“No,” O’Connell says to the phone, “he didn’t either. How long ago was this?” He listens, nods, and hangs up without saying goodbye. “Someone’s stolen the body,” he says to Daniel.

When O’Connell and Daniel get to the mortuary it’s strangely difficult to get a straight story out of anybody, even allowing for the fact that nobody wants to be blamed for the mess. It seems that no one can exactly remember what happened, but it looks as though, while O’Connell was on his way to Ballymena Street, a police officer arrived with documents signed by Daniel authorising the removal of Alan ‘Mad Dog’ Mitchell’s body. The body was loaded into a police van and the Gard drove away.

Except nobody can agree what the Gard looked like, and at least one member of O’Connell’s staff has a feeling it wasn’t a police van at all. Another, who was there through the whole thing, can’t remember anything about it. The supposed documentation signed by Daniel turns out to be a blank sheet of paper torn from a notebook. O’Connell looks at it and starts shouting at people. Daniel takes out his phone and puts out a crash bulletin for vans — all vans — travelling around the city.

Two hours later, fifteen miles south of the city, a patrol unit pulls over an unmarked blue van. Inside is a driver and a biodegradable plastic utility coffin containing the earthly remains of Alan ‘Mad Dog’ Mitchell, latterly Mr Glenroy Walken.

A veteran of police interviews, Daniel used to think he’d more or less seen it all. He’s seen suspects in tears, he’s had suspects attack him. He’s had them deny everything, he’s had them confess the moment he sat down across the table from them, he’s had them feign heart attacks. Once, a suspect got down on their knees and prayed to him. Not to God or Jesus or Allah, but to him , which was an experience that stayed with him for some time afterward.

But the moment he steps into the interview room at Ballymena Street nick this evening he knows that this is something new.

Sitting at the table is the van’s driver, a man who has only given the name ‘Rhuari.’ Rhuari is almost a cartoon of a Black Irishman. Black curly hair, handsome smiling face, twinkling blue eyes, devil-may-care air. He’s wearing jeans, a black sweatshirt, a denim jacket and battered workboots and he’s sitting there as if he not only owns the interview room but the police station and the entire city. His self-confidence is so intense that it’s almost a physical thing. Beside him, Mr Spode, the duty solicitor, is sitting quietly writing on a notepad.

Daniel takes a breath and walks over to the table and sits down, Paweł beside him. Paweł fiddles with the recorder while Daniel takes a moment to consult his notes.

Rhuari, however, chooses to occupy the silence. “We’re getting short of time, Inspector.” His voice is low and musical and as twinkly as his eyes.

Daniel looks up. “Oh?”

Rhuari grins. “Well, you are,” he says. “I’ve got all the time in the world.”

Daniel clasps his hands on the table before him and looks levelly at Rhuari. “Perhaps we should hurry, then.”

Rhuari sits back and beams at Daniel. “I have a story for you, Inspector.”

“Good.”

“It’s a story about a place. A place a long, long way away. And then again, it’s not a place. It’s more of a metaphor for a place.”

Daniel sighs. “I think I’d prefer it if you told me why you stole a corpse from a Government mortuary.”

“Well,” Rhuari says with a shrug, “we’ll get to that. May I go on?”

Daniel spreads his hands in assent.

“This place isn’t on any maps and no one will ever find it by accident, and that’s where my employers live.”

“Your… employers,” says Daniel, bemused.

“It’s an old place, you see,” Rhuari continues. “Almost as old as… well, everything . My employers have been living there for a very, very long time and they’re quite content to keep themselves to themselves. But on occasion they find it appropriate to interact with the outside world.”

Daniel stares at him. “This is bollocks, son,” he says finally. “Why did you steal the body?” Actually, the question is just as much how he stole the body. According to O’Connell, nobody at the mortuary now remembers the body ever being there in the first place. And when Daniel spoke to him a couple of minutes ago even O’Connell sounded as if he was struggling to recall the details.

“When my employers need to interact with the outside world,” Rhuari continues as if Daniel hadn’t spoken, “they prefer to do it at arms’ length. They prefer, in fact, for people like me to do the work for them.” He grins again. “It’s a dirty job, Inspector, but someone’s got to do it.”

“You steal bodies for them?”

“Now, I have to admit, Inspector, this was a first for me. But I’ve done stranger things.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, stuff I can’t tell you about.”

“Are you trying to tell me you’re with Intelligence?” says Daniel. “You’re a secret agent or something?”

Rhuari thinks about it. “Well, yes,” he allows. “And then again, no.”

Daniel stands up. “I think we’ll continue this conversation when you’ve decided to stop telling fairy stories.”