Chapter One
Friday, 29 September
‘They’ve uncovered a body out at the new mine.’
It took me a few seconds to realize the speaker was
addressing me. I looked up from my desk to where
Superintendent Harry Patterson loomed over me.
‘Excuse me?’
‘They’ve dug up a body out at the mine,’ he said irritably.
‘We’re going out there. It’s a dead body,’ he explained,
turning to leave as he did so.
‘They generally are, if they’ve had to dig them up,’ I
muttered to his retreating back.
‘And keep the smart-arse comments to yourself,’ he snapped.
‘Get a move on.’
The leaves had just begun to turn, and some green still
showed from the massive oaks behind our home when I left
that morning; the cherry trees though were predominately
golden, the leaves beginning to twist and sag. The air was
still ripe and warm, the tannic scent of autumn starting to
sharpen.
The fact that Patterson himself was attending the site was
indication enough of the priority this find was being given.
It wasn’t so much what was found, but more where it was
found: Orcas, a new goldmine opened two years previous near
Barnes Gap, between Ballybofey and Donegal town, built on
the promise of untold wealth to be shared with the whole
community at some undefined point in the future. The body,
Patterson explained in the car, had been found by some of
the workers as they dug a new section of the mine. Patterson
had been summoned by the owner himself, John Weston.
Weston was a second-generation Irish-American, whose family
had moved back to ‘the old country’ following his father’s
death. Bill Weston, John’s father, had been a senator in the
US, as well as being extremely wealthy. John had inherited
every cent and had developed a number of business projects
in Ireland, supported by friends of his father. The Orcas
goldmine was the biggest and, it appeared, the most successful.
Twenty minutes later Patterson turned the car up a narrow
side road, and Orcas hove into view: sixteen acres of
Donegal bogland which now housed Ireland’s largest goldmine.
Preliminary tests conducted in the 1990s had shown the
presence of several high-quality veins running through the
rock under this land. One vein apparently stretched right
across the sixteen acres and along the bed of the River Finn.
‘I wonder where…’ Patterson began, then stopped. There was
no need to ask for directions. A convoy of Garda cars was
already parked further up the road, alongside several 4x4s
marked with Orcas livery. Half the force in Donegal must
have been called out here, I thought. A good day to commit a
crime anywhere else in the county.
The car made it almost to the site before getting stuck in a
mud-filled puddle. We walked the rest of the way, our feet
slipping on the wet path. Ahead of us a group of Guards had
gathered, most still in their shirtsleeves. Some of them
must have clocked Patterson, for they began to make
themselves look busy. Some of the others just moved to the
side of the road to let him past.
‘This is a right balls-up,’ he spat. ‘Weston’s just turned a
record profit. Word was he was going to make a bigger
investment. This could be enough to scare the fucker off.’
As we drew level with the pit, the two men standing in it
dropped their spades and scrabbled up the bank of clay they
had shifted. The soil was almost black and scented the
morning air with the smell of mould. It took me a second or
two to pick out the body from the surrounding earth, for the
only parts visible at this stage were the head and part of
the upper arm.
But Patterson had no need to worry about Weston getting
scared off. If there was a murder involved here, it had
happened a few thousand years earlier, by the look of it.
The corpse was curled in on itself. The underlying muscle
was outlined by skin the texture of old leather. The face
had been flattened, presumably by the weight of earth
pressing on top of it. The eyes were open, though the
sockets long emptied. The mouth likewise was fixed ajar, the
teeth, slightly gapped and blunted, were still lodged in the
jawbone. There was certainly no sense of serenity in death:
the face was twisted as if in agony. One arm protruded
slightly from the dirt, the fingernails still attached to
the talon-like hand.
‘Jesus, what is it?’ Patterson asked. ‘Should we call the
State Pathologist or the archaeologist?’
A few of the men standing around grunted good-humouredly.
‘Still, at least he didn’t die on our watch, eh, boys?’ he
continued.
‘Do we need an ME to declare it dead?’ someone called. More
laughter.
‘Best get Forensics up anyway,’ Patterson concluded. ‘Just
to keep it all official and that.’ Then he nodded to me:
‘We’re to see Weston.’
As we travelled towards the main building, I looked out
across the mine. When it first opened, it had been the
subject of some controversy from environmental lobby groups,
and I had had my own reservations about it, based on the
little I had read in the papers. In reality, the mine itself
was not at all what I had expected and much smaller than I’d
imagined, though the scarring it had already inflicted on
the landscape was still significant.
Two large warehouses squatted side by side, their low
corrugated roofs painted blood-red. Despite the size, only a
few workmen were visible, and I counted a half-dozen cars
parked in the staff area. One, a black Lexus with
personalized number plates spattered with mud, revealed that
Weston was already here.
We were directed to the only brick building in the compound,
a white stucco three-storey block. A workman was at the
front door, fastening a bronze plaque to the wall with an
electric screwdriver. It caught the sun as he shifted it
into position. He nodded as we passed, then snuffled into
the back of his wrist and continued with his work.
Weston’s receptionist was waiting for us when we entered the
building. The floor was covered with thick carpet on which
the image of a gold torc was repeated in a series of
diagonal patterns. To one side of the reception desk stood a
mahogany display cabinet, its contents lit by tiny halogen
spotlights. The shelves of the cabinet glittered with gold
jewellery. I wandered over and scanned the contents and
their price tags while Patterson ingratiated himself with
the twenty-year-old receptionist behind the desk. The
smallest item in the cabinet – a pair of stud earrings – was
priced at €350.
John Weston strode down the stairs towards us, his hand
already outstretched, his smile fixed, businesslike,
friendly, predatory. He smelt of expensive aftershave. His
shirt cuffs sat just far enough past his jacket sleeve to
reveal both the quality of the cloth and the gold cufflinks,
fashioned again in the torc shape of his company’s emblem.
His skin was tanned, his hair neatly trimmed: he looked
younger than his fifty years, despite the slight peppering
of grey at his sideburns.
‘Gentlemen,’ he began, his accent discernible in the way he
slurred the word, the ‘t’ almost silent. ‘Thanks for coming.
Let’s grab a coffee.’
Clasping Patterson’s hand in both of his, he shook it, then
repeated the gesture with me.
‘John Weston,’ he said, smiling expansively.
‘Ben Devlin,’ I replied.
‘Ben,’ he repeated, with a nod of his head, as if to
demonstrate that he was committing my name to memory. Then
he placed his hand on my elbow and guided me towards the
stairs, physically directing me. I resisted the movement and
he stopped.
‘Just admiring your collection here,’ I said. ‘My wife would
kill for something like that.’
‘Beautiful, aren’t they?’ he agreed, still smiling. His
teeth were perfect and straight, and unnaturally white. I
was vaguely aware that I was trying hard to find reasons not
to like the man, despite the fact he had been nothing but
gracious since our arrival.
‘Jackie,’ he said to the girl who had welcomed us. ‘Have you
those packs?’
With a timid smile, Jackie produced two thick folders from
beneath the desk where she sat. Both were bound in a leather
cover emblazoned with the Orcas emblem. No expense spared.
‘And choose something pretty for Ben’s wife, would you?’ he
added, winking at me conspiratorially, then directing me
towards the stairs again before I had a chance to decline
the offer.
Weston’s office itself was the size of the entire ground
floor of the Garda station in Lifford where I was based. He
occupied a corner room on the top floor of the building so
that, from his desk, he could survey his empire both to left
and to right. As we entered his office he flicked a switch
and the blinds on the windows automatically pulled back,
revealing both the expanse of his goldmine and, to the other
side, the majesty of the Donegal landscape in which he had
quite literally carved his niche.
‘Beautiful country,’ he observed. ‘Absolutely stunning.’
I began to suspect that Weston spoke only in superlatives. I
also noticed he was being careful to compliment the
landscape, and not the additions he had made to it.
I looked down over the forest to our left, through which I
could catch a glimpse of the Carrowcreel, a tributary
snaking its way towards the River Finn. The light glittered
on its surface as if on shards of broken mirror.
‘Almost a pity to industrialize it,’ I said, earning a
warning glance from Patterson, who had continued his
ingratiation since our arrival, echoing Weston’s
observations on the weather as we had climbed the two
flights of stairs to his office.
‘Almost,’ Weston agreed with a smile. ‘This is my country
too, Inspector. I’m not going to damage it. Part of our
licence is our guarantee that we will leave this area as we
found it. Every clod that has been dug up will be replaced.
It will be as if we were never here.’
‘And when will that be?’ I asked.
‘When it’s no longer profitable to remain, I suppose,’ he
said, his palms held open in front of him in a gesture of
honesty. ‘I am a businessman, after all.’ He waited a beat,
then continued, ‘Though of course this was all bogland
before we arrived. And to bogland it must return, despite
the fact that the bogs themselves were artificially created
by some Iron Age entrepreneur.’
I nodded slightly, having taken his point.
‘Which leads me nicely on to our friend out there. I’m no
forensics specialist, but I’m guessing he or she didn’t die
in this century. Is that right?’
‘It would appear so,’ Patterson said, eager to assert his
role in the conversation. ‘It shouldn’t cause too much
disruption to your works, Mr Weston.’
Weston nodded his head. ‘An amazing country,’ he stated,
then pointed a finger at us. ‘I forgot that coffee, didn’t
I?’ he said, still good-humoured. He pressed the intercom
button on his phone and instructed Jackie to bring us coffee
and some biscuits, which she did with startling speed.
Once we had settled into our drinks, Weston explained why he
had summoned us.
‘The packs you’ve been given detail the history of the Orcas
mine – including our financial reports for the past tax
year. You’ll notice that last year we enjoyed record
profits. As a result of this, we have a special visitor
coming both to formally open the site and, I suppose, to
officially acknowledge the Irish-American finances that have
made this all possible.’
‘Who’s the visitor?’ Patterson asked.
‘An old friend of my father’s,’ Weston said. ‘Senator Cathal
Hagan.’
We both nodded. Hagan was well known, even in Ireland. He’d
been an outspoken Irish-American senator, who had
established links with Heal Ireland, ostensibly an Irish aid
charity but in fact a front that funded Republican causes in
the North.
‘Obviously, anything we can do to help, sir,’ Patterson offered.
Weston nodded soberly. ‘Thank you, Harry. We’ll have to work
together on this. The Senator will bring some security with
him, and I know a number of the other divisions will be
involved in his trip, but we’ll be dependent on yourself and
Ben to ensure there’s no trouble while he’s here. Obviously
this information is between the three of us for now, gentlemen.’
I didn’t need to ask why there would be trouble. Hagan had
called on those senators who expressed reservations over the
invasion of Iraq a few years back to be strung up for
failing America in its hour of need. Post-9/11 he was an
outspoken critic of terrorism in all its forms, apparently
forgetting that the charity he had spearheaded in the 1980s
had paid for most of the Republican movement’s weaponry in
Ireland. His arrival could attract the growing anti-war
lobby, which had already organized more than one
demonstration in Ireland over the past few years.
‘Do you expect trouble?’ Patterson asked, then seemed to
gauge the stupidity of the question by our expressions, for
he immediately added, ‘Beyond the usual, I mean.’
‘Senator Hagan has his detractors, both at home and abroad,
as I’m sure you’re aware, Harry. In addition, the
environmental lobby seem determined to vilify us at every
turn, despite the fact that, before a sod was cut here, we
invested millions on an environmental impact study, to whose
recommendations we have adhered in every point.’
‘How much security will he be bringing with him?’ I asked.
‘One or two personal security men, I suspect,’ Weston
answered. ‘He’s retired now, Ben, so he isn’t afforded quite
the level of protection he once was.’
‘So we’ll be responsible for the bulk of it,’ Patterson
said. It was a statement rather than a question, but Weston
nodded.
‘When’s the visit?’
Weston grimaced, then, leaning forward in his seat,
consulted a document on the desk before him, although he
clearly knew the date by heart: ‘Monday, ninth of October.’
Following coffee and preliminary security discussions,
Patterson and I were escorted back downstairs. Weston
gestured to the welcome packs we had been given.
‘Everything you could ever want to know about our company is
in those packs, gentlemen.’
As we shook hands to leave, the receptionist approached
nervously, holding a blue box. She passed it to Weston, who
opened it and inspected the contents.
‘Beautiful choice, Jackie,’ he said, nodding with
admiration. Clearly relieved to have completed this latest
task to Weston’s satisfaction, Jackie smiled and hurried off
again. I was a little taken aback when Weston handed me the
box. ‘I hope your wife likes it, Ben,’ he said.
I opened the box, a little confused and feeling my face
flush with embarrassment. Inside it sat a thick gold
necklace, which I was sure I had seen in the display cabinet
earlier with a price tag in excess of €3,000.
I held the box out towards Weston again. ‘Thank you, sir,
but I can’t accept this. It’s…it’s far too much.’
He stood his ground, however, his hands clasped in military
fashion behind his back, his smile fixed. ‘No, I insist, Ben.’
I could think of nothing to say, and so in the end simply
thanked him for his generosity, though as we left the
building to return to Patterson’s car I could not help
feeling that, in some way, I had accepted more than just a
gift for my wife.
‘Bloody hell, Devlin,’ Patterson said as we pulled out on to
the main road. ‘That thing costs a fucking fortune.’
‘I didn’t ask him for it,’ I said defensively.
‘You may as well have done,’ he retorted, and I suspected
that part of his reaction was jealousy that he had not been
similarly gifted. ‘You can’t fuck up this visit now,’ he
added, without looking at me. ‘Me?’
‘You. I’m putting you in charge of it,’ he said. Then,
nodding towards the box I held in my hand, he added, ‘You’ve
already been paid for it, after all.’
We had only travelled a mile or so when a security van
accompanied by a convoy of Garda and Army vehicles
approached us on the other side of the road, travelling
towards Lifford to stock the banks in preparation for wages
day. As it passed, a camper van with number plates so
muddied they were impossible to read overtook it, then cut
across the lane in front of us and trundled up a dirt track
just off the main road. Patterson slammed on the brakes,
though there was no real prospect of our colliding with it.
‘Fucking hippies!’ he shouted, flicking one finger in the
general direction of the van, whose rear bumper we could see
disappearing up the laneway.
While we were sitting there a second camper, which had
remained behind the security cortège, indicated and pulled
across the road in front of us, also heading up the lane.
‘Where the fuck is everyone going?’ Patterson asked
incredulously.
‘Maybe we should find out,’ I suggested, if only so we
wouldn’t have to sit in the middle of the road any longer.
He grunted, then turned the car on to the laneway and
followed the trail of dust raised by the van in front, up
the path and into the pine forest I had seen from Weston’s
office. The car shuddered along the dirt track, the air
cooling as we drove beneath the canopy of the trees. The
lower trunks and boughs were completely bare, the forest
floor thick with browned pine needles and lumps of cones,
the air sharp with the scent of sap when I wound down the
window. Above the drone of the car, I could hear the rushing
of the Carrowcreel.
Around the next bend, we pulled to a stop behind the two
camper vans, which had parked alongside several other cars
and trucks. The occupants of each were unloading tents and
camping equipment from their respective vehicles. My initial
thought was that it was perhaps a group of travellers or
crusties, setting up camp illegally. However, as I looked
closer, it became apparent that the people around us were of
no single age or social group. The second car from the front
was being emptied by a middle-aged couple. The camper van
did indeed contain crusties, clad in woolly jumpers, with
dreadlocked hair, tight jeans and loose boots. There were
also single men and women and families, even a local barman
I recognized, Patsy McCann, removing camping gear from the
boot of his car.
We got out of the squad car. Patterson immediately made a
beeline for the camper van, already fitting his cap on his
cannonball head. I wandered over to Patsy McCann, taking the
opportunity to light up as I did.
‘What’s up, Patsy?’ I said, holding out the box to offer him
a cigarette too.
‘Here ahead of the rush, Ben,’ he said over his shoulder to
me, not stopping his unpacking. ‘No thanks,’ he added,
nodding at the proffered cigarettes.
‘What rush?’
‘The bleedin’ gold rush, man,’ he said, cocking an eyebrow
at my ignorance.
I laughed, assuming it was in some way connected with the
record profits Orcas had just announced. I was wrong.
Patsy turned long enough to hand me the local newspaper,
then turned again and, having emptied the boot, strained to
pull, from the back seat of his car, a rucksack, tied to
which was an old kitchen sieve. I opened the paper. The
story could not have been more obvious. Under the headline
PREPARE FOR THE RUSH was a picture of a middle-aged man
holding up a nugget of gold the size of a penny.
His name was Ted Coyle. He had been camped out in this
woodland for three weeks now, without anyone knowing. He had
come here, he said, because of the goldmine, believing he
was fated to strike it rich. Coyle sounded like a lunatic.
Whether he was or not, according to the news report, he
would soon be a rich lunatic. The nugget in his hand might
just make his fortune, the report claimed. He had found it
while panning the Carrowcreel.