Disappeared (33 page)
“A lot still needs sorting out. We need to know if Oliver Jordan was killed to protect a high-ranking mole in the IRA.”
“If you’ve still got questions, you can come to the morgue and ask Sweeney himself,” said Fealty. He behaved as though Daly’s obstinate search for the truth was a disturbance that had to run its natural course.
“Can’t you see, Daly? That’s the problem with investigating the past. There’s always one more damned conspiracy theory lying hidden inside every shocking revelation. If we keep on, we’re going to end up chasing an infinitely improbable and powerful villain, who we’ll never be able to capture because he’s also part of us. Perhaps it’s time you learned to live with a little uncertainty.”
The Special Branch inspector walked off. The tug of tension pulling at one side of his face might have been a grimace or a lopsided grin.
The paramedics were busy helping Dermot Jordan and David Hughes to their feet. The old man was resisting help, refusing to be lifted into the ambulance. Still fighting for his independence.
“I don’t want to go anywhere,” he said. “I need to think.”
Daly had the sense they were still prisoners surrounded by a net of darkness, all of them struggling to find space to think. It was a very crowded net. In a sense, it included every civilian in the land, everyone who trusted in democracy and hoped for peace. He tried to work out how it would all end. Back to the bombs and shootings, to sectarian murder and revenge or into a bright new future of prosperity and forgiveness. He didn’t know. He was left with a hollow sense of hope as he watched Hughes and Dermot support each other and step into the ambulance, the blue siren light dancing across their tired faces.
Daly got to his feet. His own legs drew strength from the distinction he made between good and evil, even though it meant his mind might never rest.
I
thank my agent, Paul Feldstein, for his kind support and for so diligently protecting me from the physical and emotional realities of publishing a book; Eileen and Kevin for setting their own compass and pointing me in the right direction; my old friend Phelim Cavlan for his mine of encouragement and the deep shifts he clocked up in my company over pints of Guinness; Paul and Kerri, Rhoda and Garry, Nuala and Gerald, Jim and Rosemary, and Charlotte and Martin for their invaluable support; my children—Lucy, Aine, Olivia, and Brendan—for their sustaining laughter, and for showing me that sleep deprivation does have an upside (those long night hours in your company helped think this book into shape); and Frank O’Connor, who listened to my stories and gave as many back. And finally I thank Clare—the secret heart of this book belongs to you.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 by Anthony Quinn
Cover design by Mauricio Díaz
ISBN 978-1-4532-5679-4
Published in 2012 by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media
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