Borderlands

by Brian McGilloway

  "I'm sure my client will do his best to help the Garda," Brown said. Then he and Holmes went back into the interview room.

  "So, what do you think, guvnor?" Williams said, stressing the last word.

  "I think Holmes is right." Her face fell slightly. "That was bloody good work, Caroline."

  She blushed. "What about Donaghey?" she said.

  "Check where he died. Contact the station involved and see what they say about his death."

  "Do you think there's a connection?" she asked.

  "I don't see how there could be, but best check, eh? Meantime, we wait to see if McKelvey turns up in Ballybofey."

  "Why Ballybofey?" she asked, and I filled her in on all that I had learned that morning. Then Williams went to her desk, while I began to work through some of the many message sheets that had gathered on my desk since Angela Cashell had died.

  The top pile related to Terry Boyle. Apparently he had been seen in three different pubs on the evening he died, though no one remembered him leaving with anyone. Someone had run a standard record check on him the previous night and had reported that he was charged with possession of marijuana in Dublin when a first-year student. He got off with a fine and community service. An appeal for information had just started to filter out through the media - by tomorrow, I expected my messages pile to have grown considerably. I read and was able to scrap immediately the note from Williams, saying that she had got a possible hit with the ring in a second-hand jewellers' in Stranorlar, and couldn't wait for me to return. She added that Holmes had gone out to pick up Lorcan Hutton.

  Burgess had left two notes that morning to say that Thomas Powell had phoned enquiring about the state of inquiries regarding his father's intruder. Burgess had spelt both words correctly, though had used them the wrong way around.

  On Saturday night, five cars along Coneyburrow Road had had their wing mirrors smashed off by a drunken man seen staggering along the road. The following day, all five owners had phoned to say that the culprit, a local schoolteacher celebrating the Christmas holidays, had called on each that morning and apologized before offering to pay for all damages.

  That same night, four bottles of gin were stolen from an off- sales office at the back of the local pub. The thief had tried to escape out of the toilet window, dropping and smashing three of the bottles in the process.

  On Sunday morning, a Derry man phoned to report seeing a wild cat along the main Lifford road the previous night as he returned home in a taxi following a wedding. He was unable to describe colour or size - only that it was dark and bigger than a normal cat.

  Finally, while I was sitting there, the pathologist's report was left on my desk by Burgess. Terry Boyle's identification had been confirmed using hospital notes which mentioned two breakages in his femur from childhood accidents. Cause of death was attributed to a single gunshot wound to the head, delivered at point-blank range from a handgun. He had certainly been dead before his car was set alight. Stomach contents revealed he had drunk in excess of the legal drink-driving limit, which made me wonder whether he had stopped in the lay-by where he was killed to sleep off the drink. There was no sign of the drug which had been found in Angela Cashell's stomach, which further convinced me that the two killings were linked by nothing more than geography.

  An hour and three coffees later, I became aware of a figure standing before me and looked up to see Garda officer John Harvey, a young uniform with light brown hair and glasses, holding his cap in his hand.

  "You wanted to see me, sir?" he said.

  "Did I?" I asked.

  "Yes. Sergeant Williams said I was to see you about the stolen ring. I was the one called to the jewellers about it."

  I invited Harvey to sit, and he did, carefully, as though attending an interview. Harvey was a part-timer, but clearly loved the work and compensated for a limited intellect by being fastidious and deferential to all the full-timers in the station, especially detectives.

  "I brought my notes, sir. And a copy of the report I wrote." He smiled as he offered me the two typed A4 sheets and his notebook, in which he had recorded the interview in longhand. The notes confirmed exactly what Williams had told us, with a vague description of the boy, as provided by the jeweller in Stranorlar.

  "Could it be this Whitey McKelvey, sir?" Harvey said, eagerly.

  "Could be. Why did you go to the jewellers in the first place?"

  "Sergeant Fallon asks some of us part-timers if we'd go around local second-hand shops every so often with stolen-goods lists. I wasn't doing anything that day, so I volunteered. I don't know if he followed it up, though."

  I figured Fallon probably hadn't. Stolen rings were low priority; simply by sending someone like Harvey out to check, Fallon had covered himself should anyone make a fuss that their loss wasn't being treated seriously. In reality, we all accepted that stolen goods generally stayed lost. I could also understand why Fallon picked people like Harvey to do the job: he had clearly approached it with the same seriousness as he would a murder inquiry. In fact, I decided to follow Fallon's lead.

  "John, perhaps you could help me with something else. Tommy Powell in Finnside Nursing Home claims he had an intruder in his room last week. I promised we'd send someone out to check. Would you take a run out, if you get a chance?"

  He nodded eagerly. "I'd love to," he said.

  "Thanks," I replied, looking back to my paperwork in the hope he'd take the hint and leave. He didn't.

  "My pleasure, sir. If there's anything I can do to help with the Cashell case. You know, I could . . ." He didn't get any further, as Burgess shouted that Costello wanted to see me.

  When I went into his office, he was speaking to someone on the phone and had a copy of the Belfast Telegraph on the desk in front of him. He spun the paper round to face me while he agreed with whatever was being said to him on the other end of the line. Then he pointed at an article on the front page, apparently a story concerning the latest UN debate over the efficacy of Hans Blix's Inspection Team, and the inevitability of a war in Iraq. I failed to see the relevance of the story and shrugged my bewilderment. Costello frowned and stabbed a finger at the bottom of the page, without interrupting his conversation. I sat down when I saw the short piece to which he had pointed, under the heading, "Puma on Prowl in Donegal?"

  The story told, in sensational detail, how sheep in the area of Lifford were being terrorised nightly by an unidentified creature. It also quoted an eyewitness, the Derry man who had spotted the creature on the way home from a wedding, giving a much fuller description than the one he had provided for our desk sergeant when he had phoned that weekend. He had, he said, contacted the local Garda, but felt that his complaint was not taken seriously. Now poor animals were suffering due to Garda reluctance or inefficiency. As a side-bar to the story, the paper had included a table of facts about pumas and what to do if you encountered one, including the suggestion that, when face-to-face with a puma, it is best not to panic, but rather pretend that it is not there.

  By the time I had stopped reading and put the paper down, Costello was holding the phone in his hand, the mouthpiece covered. "Do you know anything about this?" he said, lifting the paper, as though to check whether the story was still there, then throwing it across his desk. It skimmed across the polished surface and slid onto the floor. I picked it up.

  "A bit. The Derry man left a message. I only got it today. I thought we had more important issues."

  "Well, this might explain Anderson's complaints about his sheep."

  "Possibly," I agreed.

  "Except we look like spare pricks at a funeral not doing anything about it. RTE have been on the phone. Again."

  "Twice in one week. We've hit the big time."

  "Three times," Costello corrected me. "You got the pathologist's report, I take it?" I nodded. "What do you think?"

  I recounted my thoughts on reading it, including my view that perhaps Terry Boyle had parked at Gallows Lane to sleep off the effects of overdr
inking. Costello let me speak, then passed me a booklet of typed sheets.

  "Forensics' report," he said. "Bloody detailed. I've one of those forensics boyos on the phone, except he's put me on hold. Car was parked and the engine was off when he was killed, they say." With that, we both heard a tinny voice over the phone line. Costello listened for a few seconds before announcing that he was putting the phone onto speakers, which took rather longer than it might have. Eventually, I was introduced to Sergeant Michael Doherty, who had written the report.

  "We discovered a fair bit from the car, Inspector," Doherty began. "The victim was likely shot by someone standing outside the car. On the driver's side. We recovered the bullet from the bodywork behind the passenger seat. Ballistics tests are being carried out at the moment. I'll say this - it must have been a scare for whoever was sitting next to him."

  "Was there a passenger?"

  "Almost definitely. You see, blood spattering is a definite science, Inspector. When your victim was shot, his blood should have spattered all over the inside of the car. But around the passenger seat, there's significantly less blood than there should be. My guess is that someone was sitting beside him - someone who was covered in blood when they got out of the car. Now, their seats were pushed right back and, though your victim's clothes were badly burned, we can tell his trousers were unbuttoned and unzipped when he was killed, so I'd say he was up for some hanky-panky." Doherty laughed in a vaguely embarrassed way and continued, "The important thing is that your victim's window was wound down. Obviously the glass was blown out in the fire, but the mechanism was down near the bottom of the door."

  "His window was open?" Costello interrupted. "So what?"

  "The weather wasn't great that night. I don't know about you, but if I'm about to strip off for a bit of action in the back of the car, the last thing I'd do in the middle of winter is wind down my window. A bit chilly round the nether regions, eh?" His laugh rattled from the speaker again. "No, my guess would be—"

  "That he opened the window to his killer," I said.

  "Just so," Doherty agreed.

  "Why not just shoot him through the window?" I asked, as much thinking aloud as seeking a response.

  "Maybe whoever did it wanted to be sure that they had the right person. Or wanted to see his face. Or wanted to make sure they didn't hit whoever was sitting beside him in the car."

  "Maybe," I agreed.

  Doherty made a few final observations, then hung up. Costello had listened grimly to the whole conversation without speaking. He sat opposite me, his hands clasped. "So," he said finally. "What do you think?"

  "Seems like forensics have done the thinking for us: he picks someone up — or is picked up by someone - parks in the lay-by for a bit of sex; there's a tap on the door, opens the window and bang."

  "What about the person in the car with him? An accomplice?"

  "Hard to see it otherwise. How did his killer know where to find him, unless he followed him? Why not kill the passenger too? And why burn the car, unless they were scared that the passenger had left some evidence. Either that, or it was some poor innocent out for a night's fun who's wandering around Lifford in shock, covered in blood."

  "Jesus, Ben, we need to clear up some of this quick. Two killings in a week. We'll start to look incompetent."

  When I came out of the office, Harvey was still sitting opposite my desk. He stood when I approached, his cap held in his hand.

  "Everything alright, sir?" he asked.

  I nodded. "Can I help you with something else?" I asked, lifting some of the paperwork from my desk.

  "Sergeant Burgess asked me to tell you that Officer Moore from Ballybofey was on the phone, sir," he said. "He said it was important."

  Ten minutes later we were on our way to pick up Whitey McKelvey.

  Chapter Six

  Tuesday, 24th December

  It was late afternoon and the sky was the colour and texture of slate. The moon was beginning to shine from behind a thick bank of cloud that threatened snow, and the air was cold and dry.

  Three cars left Lifford station on the way to Castlefinn where, Moore had reliably informed me, McKelvey was staying with some cousins who were camped in a picnic area. I knew the place he mentioned. Learning from the problems encountered in Strabane, Donegal County Council had placed height-restriction bars across the entrance to all public areas - lay-bys, car parks and so on - to stop the travellers from using them. The group that had taken over the area outside of Castlefinn had arrived in the middle of the night in early August and had spent several hours dismantling the restriction bars. They then moved into the area en masse, before re- erecting the bars, thus apparently materializing in the picnic spot like a ship in a bottle.

  The area was not ideal for picking up McKelvey. While there were only two entrance/exit points, it backed onto an area of woodland and fields. If McKelvey made a run for it we would have difficulty catching him. We had decided that Holmes, Williams, Harvey and I would approach the caravans from behind, waiting in the trees in case McKelvey came that way. Costello himself, who knew the family, would knock on the caravan door and ask to see McKelvey in the hope that he might come peaceably Several uniforms would accompany him, while two cars blocked the exits.

  We stopped about a quarter of a mile short of the campsite and my team got out of the cars and began to pick through the bramble hedges that lined the road into the field beyond. By following the perimeter, we would eventually come up behind the site. The field was sodden from the autumn rains and it had now frozen into thick brown ridges like waves, over which we tripped and stumbled. We had misjudged how long it would take to reach the camp and Costello radioed several times, impatient to get moving. Just as we reached the treeline directly behind the caravan, the snow began. Great fat flakes at first, drifting lightly around us, like eiderdown. Then the snow grew thicker and fell with greater speed, gathering on the branches of the trees and settling on our backs and shoulders. Holmes began to stamp his feet and blow into his hands for heat. Williams shuddered involuntarily and Harvey offered her his jacket. Momentarily, she looked offended, then smiled and took it. I couldn't tell whether Harvey was blushing at her smile or from the cold, but I was left to wonder how consistently Williams practised her feminist beliefs.

  A buzz of static on the radio, and Costello announced that he was moving in. I drew my baton and saw the others follow suit. Holmes flicked open the catch on the slip for his pepper spray, and I wondered what he expected from a seventeen-year-old traveller boy. The snow fell increasingly heavily, the pattern of the falling flakes became almost hypnotic, and I realized that I was not paying attention to what was happening. I heard a thud as Costello knocked on the door. Then voices. Almost immediately, the curtains across the back window of the caravan, which was in darkness, were pushed back and the window opened. A small figure began to climb out, one thin leg first squeezed through, then another. Finally, the figure dropped silently to the ground and approached the trees between Holmes and Harvey. As the figure moved into the trees, Harvey flicked on his torch, momentarily lighting the startled face and the shock of black hair. Then the figure ran, with Harvey and Holmes crashing after him. I heard Williams shout and assumed that she, too, was after the boy.

  I was about to shout to them to tell them it wasn't the right person, when I saw a second figure climb through the window and make for the trees. This time there could be no mistake. Even in the darkness, the luminescence given off by the snow forming at our feet was enough to reveal the almost white blond hair and pale marble skin. Whitey crept along the undergrowth on his belly, seemingly impervious to the brambles and the snow. When he felt he was safe, he stood and began to pick up speed.

  He was about fifteen feet from me, moving quietly towards the fields. I can only assume that he did not hear me approach behind him over the din of the shouting and crashing of Williams and Harvey and the growing chorus of raised voices from the picnic area, where I guessed Costello was bein
g lectured on police discrimination.

  Eventually, I pushed out of the trees completely and, sticking to the perimeter of the field, was able to catch up with Whitey just as he emerged into the moonlight. I placed my hand solidly on his shoulder, my baton in the other hand, and began to speak.

  I recall exactly what happened next, viewing it as if in slow motion. Whitey turned his head and I saw in his eyes a mixture of fear and aggression at being cornered. Then he grabbed my hand and clamped his teeth on it. I felt his teeth cut through my flesh, until eventually they connected, jarringly, with the bone of my hand. I could taste blood in my mouth. He shook his head as a terrier might with a toy, before releasing my hand. I screamed. Then something inside me snapped, audibly almost, and I felt a surge of adrenaline rush through my system. Without thinking, I turned and swung my right fist into McKelvey's face. I felt the cartilage of his nose shatter beneath my fist, felt the hard crunch as my knuckles connected with his cheekbone and his teeth, and saw his head snap back as blood and spittle spurted from his mouth.

  He fell to the ground, legs splayed, and I lifted my foot and stamped down with my heel on his crotch. McKelvey doubled up, his face contorted with hatred and embarrassment, and I noticed a stain widen on his trousers as his bladder emptied. He looked at the mess he had made on himself, touched the wetness with his fingertips as though he could not believe his own eyes, and then held the moist fingers towards me. "I'll fuckin' kill ya," he spat, scrambling to his feet as he cupped his genitals in his hands.

  I almost chased after him again, until I felt a hand close on my arm and I spun to face Williams, my fist raised. I saw a momentary flash of fear, or something deeper, flit across her face, and I lowered my fist in shame, stammering my apologies. I watched as my colleagues crashed through the undergrowth in pursuit of the boy.

  Then the pain in my hand sharpened as the adrenaline dissipated; I doubled over with shock and pain and vomited into the snow, bile mixing with my blood, which appeared as black as oil under the moonlight. I felt momentary relief before a searing pain gripped my insides and I vomited again, retching over and over until I felt Williams's hand on my shoulder. I spat the sour taste out of my mouth, wiping away the thick strands of saliva with clean snow. Williams was busy wrapping her scarf around my hand and calling for help. Then, in the distance, I saw Whitey McKelvey being shoved towards me, Jason Holmes towering behind him with one hand clamped tightly on McKelvey's neck and the other holding his handcuffed wrists behind his back. When McKelvey stumbled and slid in the slush and snow, Holmes simply pulled on the cuffs, snapping the boy's arms back sharply, so he had to fight to regain his footing quickly or risk dislocating a shoulder.