Taken (Ava Delaney #4) by Claire Farrell Page B

just to hear
them confirm what we already know, at least we’re getting
somewhere.”
    “I suppose. Are
you sure about this though?” I gestured at the police station. It
wasn’t Peter’s local one, but Carl had discovered that one of the
officers who attended the scene was dead, and the others had been
scattered around the country. Only one remained in Dublin, and he
was who we were about to see.
    “Look, we’ll
never know if we don’t try.” He shifted his walking stick
awkwardly. “Let’s just talk to him and see what happens.”
    I followed him
reluctantly. I didn’t really want to face a Garda, especially since
the time I had basically mind-screwed one who had stopped Peter and
me on the way home one night. The station was tiny, and the phone
wasn’t ringing much, but we still had to wait fifteen minutes
before someone opened the hatch and took our query.
    “We’re looking
for Garda Whelan,” Carl said, standing up with difficulty.
    The Garda’s
face tightened. “That’s Sergeant Whelan,” he said snappily. “And
he’s on a break.”
    “It’s all
right, Andy,” a voice said from behind him. “I’ll handle it.”
    The hatch was
shut hastily, and a door to our left opened. A tall Garda stepped
through, a smile on his face. “I’m Sergeant Whelan,” he said, his
voice a soft mixture of Kerry and inner-city Dublin accents. “Can I
help you?”
    Carl and I
exchanged glances.
    “We’re looking
for information on an incident you attended about nine years ago,”
I said. “Two grandparents had their necks broken, a mother’s throat
was slit, and a toddler─”
    “Emmett
Brannigan,” he said, his face paling. “I’ll open a room for us.
Hold on.”
    He pushed the
door open again and headed back inside.
    I turned to
Carl, raising my eyebrows. “Kind of get the feeling he’s been
waiting for someone to show up and ask about Emmett Brannigan?”
    “Why would he
remember the exact name unless he thought it was extremely fishy?”
Carl asked. “Or he knows something strange.”
    “He’s pretty
young, so would he even have spotted anything weird back then?”
    He shrugged.
“He’s the only one close by, so we better make the most of him. Try
not to piss him off, Ava.”
    I tried and
failed to look offended.
    Whelan returned
with an anxious look in his eye. “Follow me.” He led us into a tiny
interview room that smelled like sweat and stale cigarettes,
despite the no smoking sign. As the Garda sat down across from us
at the small table, my stomach turned unexpectedly. We were about
to see a glimpse into Peter’s past, and Peter had no idea.
    “You’ve given
me a little turn,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. He looked
to be in his mid-thirties, and his eyes were too innocent for the
things he had seen. He was deeply tanned, with black hair and dark
brown eyes, but his skin had grown sallow once he said Peter’s
son’s name. “Nobody wanted to talk about that case. Nobody.” He
shook his head.
    “Can you tell
us anything?” I asked.
    His eyes
narrowed. “Why would you want to know?”
    Carl cleared
his throat. “There have been a lot of similar incidents over the
years. We’re trying to find some closure for our friend, the boy’s
father.”
    Whelan nodded,
his expression softening into one of pity and regret. “Peter.”
    “You remembered
their names,” Carl said.
    Whelan stared
at him. “I couldn’t forget their names if I tried.”
    “Sergeant─” I
began.
    He held up his
hand. “Call me Shay. This Sergeant crap has been the bane of my
life. Never mind that.” He shook his head again, and I could see we
had unsettled him.
    “Shay, then,” I
said, suddenly embarrassed. “Is there anything you can tell us
about that night? We’re pretty sure Peter has blocked out some of
what happened.”
    “Peter,” he
repeated. “I honestly thought he would have drunk himself to death
by now.”
    “He’s made an
effort,” I said wryly.
    Shay grinned.
He had a