Disappeared by Anthony Quinn Page B

might be right, that whatever her husband had been guilty of, it was not spying for the security forces. He felt wary, interested. He was following the tracks left by Joseph Devine, but the two of them were circling above a deeper mystery, one shrouded in a darkness to which his eyes had still to adjust.
    He had no more questions to ask Tessa Jordan. Before he left, he promised to keep her up to date with any developments in the case.
    “What about the burnt-out bin?” she asked.
    “I’ll send an arson team ’round to examine it, see if any clues were left behind. I’ll also put a patrol car on the street to keep watch. It might deter any further attacks.”
    This time at the door, Tessa Jordan shook hands with him. Daly glanced up the staircase, but the shadowy children had gone. The street was still quiet when he got into his car. He glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the teenage boy standing on the doorstep with his mother. Together, they looked like two survivors just crawled out from the crater of a bomb.

11
    C hief Inspector Ivan Donaldson pointed to the reinforced security gates at Derrylee Police and chewed vigorously at his thick mustache. A black panic still hung around the watchtower and gates, even though it had been a decade since a mortar bomb last rattled the cups and saucers in the police canteen.
    “Those gates survived countless bomb attacks, but now they’re to fall before the gaze of architects and planners,” he complained. “Do you know the local rag has branded this station the ugliest building in Northern Ireland?”
    Daly noticed that Donaldson’s mustache chewing was a little noisier than usual and that the chief appeared perturbed.
    “Looks like we’re under attack from the forces of good taste, sir,” said Daly, staring at the scorch marks and dents that covered the metal gates. For years they had acted as a magnet for grenades, rockets, and all sorts of homemade incendiary devices. Now as part of the demilitarization process, they were to be pulled down and sent to the scrap heap.
    Earlier, Daly had walked into his office to find the chief poring over his notes into Devine’s murder. The detective had felt an instinctive uneasiness, a reflex he could no more control than that resulting from a struck knee.
    At Donaldson’s suggestion, they made their way across the car park toward his large gold Audi.
    The chief inspector clicked his keys and checked beneath the car. Inside, he started the engine and switched on the heater.
    “Sometimes I wonder if we’re any safer than we were during the Troubles,” he remarked.
    Daly stared at the windscreen and waited for Donaldson to continue. The leather seat was comfortable, and he began to turn over images in his mind from his interview with Tessa Jordan. The car was a good place for a briefing. It allowed them both the opportunity to avoid eye contact. The engine ticked idly, and for a moment Daly thought the chief’s voice might prove to be a pleasing soundtrack as he drifted toward the gates of sleep. Then the tone of Donaldson’s voice changed abruptly.
    “There’s one thing I want to make clear, Inspector,” he said. “Special Branch isn’t involved in the investigation into Devine’s murder. But they have been advising me on the bigger picture. It’s important you should be discreet.”
    “About what?”
    “Talking to anyone about what the case throws up. Full stop.” His voice had stiffened.
    Daly shifted his body toward the passenger door.
    “Especially about any link to the abduction of Oliver Jordan,” the chief continued. “In their opinion, that avenue would complicate things.”
    Donaldson turned to look at Daly. His face was blank, but his concentration was like that of a gambler at a roulette table, waiting for the spinning ball to find its slot.
    A long silence filled the car.
    “I think Devine’s death complicated things in the first place, sir,” replied Daly.
    Donaldson was undeterred. He returned