Hidden ( CSI Reilly Steel #3) (18 page)

‘How’s your Irish?’ Reilly asked, approaching Chris’s desk at Harcourt Street with a definite spring in her step.

He
looked up, somewhat perplexed. ‘Bit rusty. Why?’

‘
That social worker I told you about called back earlier with the kid’s details.’

‘
The one with the same winged tattoo?’

‘Yes. According to the social worker, a guy called Keogh, the child is currently in state care, in a children’s home in Inchicore. His name is Conn – apparently that’s about all they could get out of him originally, but it definitely seems that Conn has a set of wings too.’

Chris stood up and called out to  Kennedy who was standing over by the coffee machine, deep in conversation with
another officer.  He finished up  and hurried over, hitching his trousers up as he went. 

‘
Morning, blondie. What brings you to our lowly slum this morning?’

‘Oh,
I like to mix with the peasants from time to time,’ she replied. ‘It helps keep me grounded.’

‘
Seems we’ve got a location for another kid with the same kind of tattoo,’ Chris told him, ignoring their banter.

‘
Only trouble is, he doesn’t speak English – only Irish,’ Reilly added.  She looked from one to the other. ‘And seeing as it’s all double-dutch to me…’

‘
Hell, it was part of our Garda exams and it’s still double-dutch to us,’ Kennedy said, shaking his head.

‘
Speak for yourself; some of us remember the basics.’ Chris grimaced. ‘Although how much at this stage remains to be seen.’

He explained that while all members of the force were required to be able to speak the native language, it was mostly those stationed in Irish-speaking ‘Gaeltacht’ areas that used it day to day.

‘Well I know I won’t have a clue what’s being said, but do you think I could tag along?’ Given that the kid was her lead, Reilly was interested to see if the tattoo was indeed the same as the others.

If so, it
would be the first time they’d encountered it on a living person, and have the opportunity to question them about it.

Maggie Molloy, the director of the children’s home, was a tiny woman in her mid-fifties. She wore a woollen skirt and cardigan, and had an air of busy professionalism about her.

She shook hands with all three of them
on arrival; a firm, crisp handshake which belied her stature. ‘You’ve come to speak to Conn?’

Chris nodded. ‘Thanks for taking the time to see us.’

‘Not a problem.’ She led them down the hallway. The building was brightly lit, with rooms on either side: a canteen, an art room where several children were busy gluing leaves onto a huge sheet of paper. ‘I believe you were talking to Simon about him. You do know Conn won’t speak English, don’t you?’

‘
I speak some Irish,’ Chris told her. ‘Enough to converse, at least.’

‘That’s good but even so there are no guarantees. We’ve brought Irish speakers in before but to no avail. Doctor Marsh, the psychologist, says Conn has selective mutism. He spends a lot of time in his own world, and seems oblivious to what’s happening around him.’

‘
So he is able to speak English?’ Kennedy asked.

Maggie nodded. 
‘He certainly understands it,’ she said.  ‘It’s just I personally have never heard him speak anything other than Irish,  but I know some of the staff have heard him mutter a word or two of English.’

‘
How long has he been here?’

‘
Two years, on and off.  We try to find placements for the boys, families who can foster or adopt them, but Conn defies us.’

‘
Defies you?’ Chris enquired.

‘
He’s been with three foster families, all Irish-speaking, but each time he rebels and is back with us within days.  The families say he is unmanageable, almost feral.’

The sound of someone playing a piano came from a room
up ahead.  Maggie indicated for them to look inside. 

A young boy was sitting at the keys
. There was no recognizable tune, yet the music was not discordant. Reilly thought it had a wistful, haunting air to it.

‘
He’ll play for hours,’ Maggie said.  ‘It’s the only thing that really calms him down. It’s obvious he’s had lessons at some point, but mostly he just plays his own compositions, like now.’

They listened as the plaintive
notes swirled around them. Maggie stepped into the room. ‘Conn?  You have some visitors.’

Reilly looked at the boy
. He was around eleven years old, small for his age, with the same distinctive mass of red curls and pale Celtic skin as the dead girls. He played gently, caressing the keys, appearing not to have heard, but at the same time his eyes gave a quick glance towards the doorway as she spoke, and she noticed his shoulders tighten slightly.

‘
These people would like to talk to you,’ continued Maggie.

The music picked up pace,
becoming more frantic; Conn’s obvious anxiety seeped into his music. The tempo was building, his hands moving faster, striking the keys harder – a determined effort to keep the world at bay for a little while longer while he lost himself in the music.

Maggie nodded for
Reilly and the detectives to go in. They all stepped into the room and the music picked up again, the boy’s hands moving rapidly across the piano keys, the melody becoming lost in a frantic effort to make noise, enough to block out the visitors, block out the world.

There
were chairs against the wall and Maggie indicated that they should sit.  Kennedy and Reilly lowered themselves into the chairs, but Chris remained standing alongside the piano, a little way away from Conn. Maggie started to say something else, but Chris motioned for her to stay silent.

‘
Dia duit Conn
,’ he began. ‘
Chris is aimn dom.’
Hi Conn, my name is Chris.

Instantly the music
got louder and faster. Conn’s discomfort with the intrusion was patently obvious. The boy shifted on the bench, turning his body away from them. Chris looked at the others and nodded towards the doorway. Reilly, Maggie and Kennedy obediently followed him back out into the corridor.

‘Maybe I should try
to have a word on my own for the moment,’ Chris suggested as the music flooded out into the hall. ‘Less intimidating for him.’

             
The others now a safe distance away, he returned to the room and tried again.

‘
Is maith liom do chuid cheoil - an déanann tú do amhráin féin a scríobh?’
I like your playing – do you write your own songs?

For a second Conn did nothin
g, then he looked up at Chris with some interest.

Chris
indicated the keyboard
. ‘An féidir linn seinnt le chéile
?’ Can we play together?

The boy
considered the question for a moment before looking around the empty room. Then he slowly stood and closed the piano lid before turning and walking towards the window. Eventually, he started to hum a tune, not one Chris recognized, but more a random tune of discomfort.

Chris waited in silence for few moments more, but still Conn refused to acknowledge him.

Eventually, he rejoined the others in the hallway.

‘I’m sorry
, Detectives. Clearly he’s not up to talking today – he can be like that sometimes.’

‘Perhaps it’s best if we leave it just now, and call back in a day or so
,’ Chris suggested. It was frustrating, but realistically all they could do for the moment.

In the meantime, he had to try and think of some way to get this enigmatic boy to talk.

Chapter
19

I dreamed of a haven, a place of infinite peace, of eternal beauty and everlasting happiness, and I found it – not in my dreams, but in reality.  It is a place of wind and earth, grass and water, horses and birds.  But what good is heaven when you are there alone? 

And so I became the guide…

I often wonder why I was chosen.  Is it my gifts, my ability to talk to a child, to calm their troubled mind?  Or that I can recognize the lost souls, the ones that have been battered by the winds, damaged by the cruelties that we hurl at the young?

And so I gather them in, the lost children
. I bring them here to a place where they can heal.  A place without fear, without evil, a place of infinite tranquility, where they can remain children for ever.

They do not fear me when I find them – they know that I mean them no harm.  They understand that my words are true, not honeyed invitations to a darker world – the world of adults, the world of pain – but rather, an invitation to a better life, a life without hardship.

And so I have gathered them here with me, have created this place we call home, this magical, mystical land across the water.  They are my family, and I am their protector, their father, and though some may disagree, ultimately their saviour…

T
he detectives were on their way back to the station from the children’s home when the call came. Reilly had driven her own car, and had early on left them far behind.

‘
Clondalkin station just called in an attempted abduction,’ a younger officer told Chris over the phone. ‘Guys in the responding squad car remembered us and called it in because the girl has red hair.’

Chris looked at Kennedy
. ‘You said “attempted” – the girl got away?’

‘
Yeah.  Apparently she started kicking up blue murder when he tried to snatch her. Some other kids nearby noticed, and seems the guy panicked and took off.’

Chris
’s pulse quickened. ‘Give me the address.’

[1 line break]

Springfield was an anonymous estate in Clondalkin just off the N7 heading west out of Dublin.

Chris parked the Ford by a quiet row of former local authority houses and double-checked the address. ‘Number forty-seven, this is it.’

Kennedy climbed from the car, and looked up and down the street. 
‘It’s quiet,’ he said.

‘
Maybe that’s why our guy picked it.’ Chris slammed his car door and held the gate open for Kennedy as they walked through.

The front door
of number forty-seven popped open before they had time to ring the bell. A blond woman in her mid-thirties, dressed in jogging pants and a
Guess
T-shirt, was waiting for them. ‘Are you the guards?’ she asked shakily.

‘That’s right.’
Chris quickly made the introductions. ‘We believe there was an attempted abduction on your daughter earlier?’

The woman who introduced herself as Tracy Carney nodded. She ushered the
m into a narrow hallway littered with kids’ toys, the hall table stacked with a few weeks’ worth of junk mail.

‘
Sorry about the mess,’ Tracy called over her shoulder as she led them down the hall towards the kitchen. ‘Four kids; you know what it’s like.’

As they passed the doorway to the living room, Chris glimpsed a gaggle of children sprawled out on the carpet, eyes glued to the television.

The kitchen was not much better. The counter tops were littered with dirty dishes, the table showed the remains of lunch – a bowl of baby mush, plates with left-over bread crusts, and empty crisp packets. Tracy grabbed the plates and the bowl, pitched them in the sink, and ran a dirty tea towel across the stained table.

‘
Can I get you anything – a cup of tea maybe?’

‘No, we’re
fine, we’ve just had lunch,’ said Kennedy hurriedly.  One look around the kitchen had been enough to discourage him.

‘
Suit yourself. How about you, Sergeant?’

Chris managed not to grin at being called s
ergeant.  ‘A cup of tea would be lovely,’ he replied.

Before she
could begin to organize the tea, there was a scream from the living room followed by loud shouting. Tracy groaned heavily. ‘’Scuse me a minute.’

She hurried off down the hall, shouting at the kids as she went.

Chris stood up, found the kettle and tried his best to fill it with water from the cluttered sink.

‘Jesus, d
o you have a death wish or something?’ Kennedy whispered.

‘
Wimp,’ Chris teased.  ‘Home interviewing 101; always accept a cuppa. Puts people at ease.’ He switched the kettle on, and sat back down at the table.  ‘Of course, in your case it’s too late for redemption. She’ll have already labeled you as stuck-up.’ He looked up and smiled as Tracy came back in.  ‘I put the kettle on.’