Gallows Lane idm-2

by Brian McGilloway

  She heard the thud of his car door, the roar of the engine, the scattering of grit as the car sped off. As she stood up, she caught a final glimpse of his rear lights receding on the road ahead. She could not remember the registration number — in fact, she thought for some reason that there had been no registration plate.

  Finally, she made her way up to the road and flagged down a minibus driver, who brought her to the hospital.

  ‘It was like. .’ she said, reflecting on her attacker’s failure to complete his planned assault. ‘It was like he couldn’t get a. . a thingy.’

  Several minutes later, I sat at the nurses’ workstation in the middle of the ward, while the young registrar who had examined Rebecca filled me in on her injuries. The first question I wanted answered was the one Rebecca’s father had tried to ask me: had his daughter been raped?. According to the registrar, who introduced herself as Lauren, the evidence supported the girl’s story. She had been beaten but, crucially, had not been sexually assaulted.

  ‘She’s lost her virginity, though,’ Lauren said. ‘Doesn’t want her dad to know. Happened with some boy when she was thirteen.’

  ‘What about her injuries? Anything serious?’

  ‘Enough for us to keep her for the day, I think,’ she said, brushing her hair back from her face. As she did so, I noticed that she had painted her nails with blue polish, over which she had painted tiny stars.

  ‘She’ll be okay, though?’ I asked.

  She nodded, biting at her thumbnail. ‘Should be.’ She paused for a moment, then continued. ‘Not really my place to say it, but there’s something systematic in the pattern of her bruising,’ she said.

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘The bruises from her attacker’s fists are really close together. And the lividity seems uniform across them.’

  ‘I’ll welcome any suggestions, Doctor. Say what’s on your mind.’

  The register took a deep breath, as if reconciling herself to something, then spoke. ‘I don’t want to colour your investigation, but — those punches were delivered by someone used to hitting hard and repeatedly. Someone who does it frequently. If I were you, I’d be looking for a boxer.’

  She looked at me, her eyes empty of expression. ‘But that’s only my opinion.’

  ‘Good enough for me, Doctor,’ I said. ‘Thanks.’

  In the car on the way home, I told Williams that the doctor’s comments supported Rebecca’s story.

  ‘Is it the same man?’ she asked.

  ‘Same MO, certainly. Same failure to follow through on the attack. Different car description, though.’

  ‘He could have changed his car,’ she suggested. ‘Judging by the state he left Karen Doherty in, his last car must have been covered in blood off his clothes alone.’

  ‘So we work on the assumption it’s the same person each time. But keep an open mind.’

  ‘Fair enough. So, let me think; do we know any boxers?’ Williams asked, her eyes flashing with anger.

  ‘We’ll bring him in. See what he says,’ I agreed, though she had not actually named McDermott. ‘But his alibi still stands from the last attack, Caroline. And anyway, his tattoo doesn’t sound like the one we’re after.’

  ‘But he has form for beating up a woman, and is training daily to beat the shit out of other men.’

  ‘Agreed,’ I said, attempting to placate her before her anger grew further.

  She looked at me, then turned and looked out of the side window as I drove. ‘Jesus Christ!’ she spat.

  As I thought of my own child, I shared her anger. And I reflected on Rebecca Purdy’s final comment to us. It seemed sad somehow that this girl, barely more than a child herself, should be subjected to a form of attack she had not adequate vocabulary to describe.

  Peter McDermott was lifted within the hour. Williams specifically requested that she be the one to put him in the car. He sat in our interview room in training bottoms and a T-shirt. His legs were spread apart, arm arched, his hand gripping his knee, which jittered seemingly uncontrollably. He had been training in a boxing club in Ballybofey when he had been picked up, Williams told me. She had taken some pleasure in arresting him in front of the other fighters.

  He had finished tea he had been given when brought in and had begun picking the cup apart, the polystyrene breaking into tiny balls between his thick workman’s fingers. I pitied whoever came up against him in a tournament. I pitied even more the two girls who suffered such brutality at these or similar hands.

  Williams started by asking him again about Karen Doherty, though we had established by this time that he had a seemingly secure alibi.

  ‘This is shit and you know it,’ he replied when asked where he was the night she died. ‘Next question.’

  ‘What about last night? Where were you last night, Mr McDermott?’

  ‘I was out at the club,’ he said, and my adrenaline immediately kicked in. Williams must have felt the same for she glanced at me.

  ‘What club?’ she managed to ask, her voice dry.

  ‘My boxing club. I told you, I’m in training. You can ask any of the guys down there. You saw most of them there today when you lifted me.’

  ‘What time did you leave the club?’ I asked.

  ‘Eleven-thirty, thereabouts,’ he said, shrugging slightly. ‘Why? What have I done now?’

  ‘A fifteen-year-old girl was assaulted last night in Letterkenny, Mr McDermott — probably by the same person who killed Karen Doherty. So, where were you after your club?’

  He looked from Williams to me and back. His knee was pumping up and down frantically now, his arm muscles flexing visibly as he tightened his grip, the green dragon tattoo rippling across his forearm, as if alive. His shoulders seemed to hunch involuntarily, his elbows tight against his sides, his free hand balling and releasing in rhythm with his knee.

  ‘Are youse kidding me? You brought me in about a fucking fifteen-year-old. I’m no paedo. This is a fucking joke. Get me a lawyer.’ He folded his arms across his chest which heaved with each breath. His jaw muscles flexed as though he were chewing on something hard.

  ‘Do you think you need a lawyer?’ Williams asked.

  ‘Yeah. I’m gonna press charges against you shower of shite for false imprisonment.’

  ‘You’re not being falsely imprisoned, Mr McDermott; you’re helping us with our inquiries.’

  ‘And why the fuck should I do that?’ he asked.

  ‘Because someone is attacking teenage girls. Someone of your size, with your profile, even a tattoo, just like you. And while they’re still on the loose, you’re still under suspicion.’ I then added, ‘Do you like your neighbours?’

  He cocked an eyebrow, immediately suspicious.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Do you know what happens to people when it comes out they’re on the sex offenders’ register? Do you think you’ll be welcome long?’

  He leapt from his seat and roared. ‘You’ve nothing. You’ve fu-’ He did not, however, get a chance to finish his statement, for Caroline Williams had already drawn her baton and cracked him swiftly on the collarbone. She quickly followed it with a second strike to his upper back, the thump of the stick against the solid pack of his muscle sickeningly loud. McDermott crashed to the floor, knocking his chair skittering across the room.

  He rose unsteadily, his body visibly jittering with adrenaline, his chest and shoulders heaving. ‘You fucking bitch,’ he spat.

  Williams had already strengthened her position, widening her stance slightly, baton raised, her own frame shaking with anger. She was breathing heavily, her face damp with sweat, her eyes hard. As best I could, I positioned myself between her and McDermott.

  ‘Mr McDermott,’ I managed. ‘You train with these people. Ask around.’

  ‘Why?’ he said, his rage dissipating slightly.

  ‘Civic duty,’ I responded, then glanced at Caroline who was lowering her raised arm. ‘And self-preservation,’ I added.

  Chapter Twelve


  Wednesday, 9 June

  The following morning I overslept and had to phone into the station, claiming I had a call to make regarding Kerr. In reality Penny and Shane helped me make Debs breakfast in bed, which actually meant that Penny buttered the toast and Shane stood shouting, ‘Tea, Mama!’ at the bottom of the stairs, shaking on the security gate we’d set up there to stop him climbing.

  Having fed Mama, the three of us had breakfast and watched cartoons. What this actually meant was that Penny and Shane watched cartoons and I cleaned out Harry the Hamster, who had already been relegated to the corner beside the radiator.

  Then Jim Hendry phoned and invited me to join him at the driving range in Lifford, and I knew it was going to be a bad day.

  ‘You could at least have brought a club with you,’ he observed as I sloped towards him, hands deep in my pockets.

  ‘All I had at home was a hurling bat,’ I said, ‘though watching your form, anything might help.’

  ‘You’re a funny boy,’ he said, timing his swing for an effect which was lost by virtue of the fact that his club sliced the mat several inches shy of the ball, which teetered on its tee, then rolled off.

  ‘Is there a name for that move?’

  ‘You’re putting me off my swing. I came over here for peace,’ he said.

  ‘You called me,’ I pointed out. ‘Personally, I’d be happy never to set foot in a golf club.’

  ‘I found out something for you,’ he said, lining up another drive. ‘Something which you didn’t hear from me and which I’ll deny telling you.’

  ‘Hence the venue, Deep Throat.’

  ‘Exactly — and I pray to God you’re thinking of the same film I am when you make that reference.’

  ‘So what did you find out?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said, then swung, this time hitting the ball neatly with a satisfying crack that sent it soaring up the field before us.

  ‘So you didn’t tell me nothing,’ I said.

  ‘Do you want to know this or not?’ he said, placing another ball on the tee.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, suitably chastened but no less confused. ‘I appreciate your help, Jim; honestly.’

  He swung again — rewarded by the ball’s exit from the shed. Finally content that he had not embarrassed himself in terms of golfing prowess, he turned and spoke directly to me.

  ‘Three years ago, I’d have got in real trouble for what I’m telling you; understand that. I looked up Webb in our files. And I found nothing.’

  ‘Nothing. What does that mean?’

  ‘It means one of three things, Ben. The straightforward reason would be that he lived a perfect life and we never had any cause to deal with him, no disputes with neighbours, no speeding, nothing.’

  ‘Which is fairly unlikely. Especially if Kerr named him when he was arrested.’

  ‘Exactly. If Kerr named him there would have to be something — even if only to say we’d checked and there was nothing to it.’

  ‘So what are the non-straightforward reasons?’ I asked, though I was beginning to have suspicions of my own, suspicions which might explain the appearance of a British Special Branch agent on our side of the border.

  ‘The other reason is that Special Branch has his file. And that’s what I shouldn’t be telling you. The Special Branch files are kept locked in a separate office from all the others; we can’t get near them, unless one of Special Branch is willing to share something with us.’

  ‘Which means Peter Webb was a spy?’

  ‘An agent, technically,’ he agreed, then added hastily, ‘or else, the third possibility, he was under witness protection from way back. I could be totally wrong on this, Ben. It could be totally innocent. But, adding two and two together, it’s hard not to come up with-’

  ‘Double-O Four,’ I said grimly.

  ‘Quite. Certainly it would explain why he was never questioned over the Castlederg job if one of the people involved named him under interrogation. Or at least, it explains why there’s no record of him having been brought in. As I say, of course, he could also have been a protected witness. Which amounts to fairly much the same thing.’

  ‘I wonder if Kerr’s file mentions him naming Webb?’ I said, not wanting to ask directly for Hendry to share information from his files with me twice.

  ‘I thought you’d ask, so I checked. His file is expurgated to the point of being unreadable. There are pages missing from his statement.’

  ‘Shit,’ I said.

  ‘Exactly; and you’re standing in it. If I were you, I wouldn’t ask too many questions about Peter Webb. If Kerr’s done a runner, I’d let him run. Don’t think for one second that Special Branch wouldn’t come over the border. Normal rules don’t apply with those boyos.’

  ‘They may have already,’ I said, and told Hendry about the man in Christy Ward’s shop and the old university friend who had visited Webb on the night he died.

  ‘Sounds about right,’ he said when I’d finished. ‘I don’t recognize the description; it could be anyone. But I can’t snoop into Special Branch, Ben. Looks like there could be some upward movement in our place soon — don’t want to be caught airing our dirty laundry in public. Team player and all that.’

  ‘I thought golf was a sport for one,’ I said, smiling weakly, feeling suddenly exhausted at the thought of the case and all that I suspected would be required to see it through. And the thought of the dispute with Patterson, and the upcoming promotion in our own station.

  ‘Bottom line, Ben: Webb was working for Special Branch, in some capacity and at some time. Take that as a given now; you’ll never find out any more about it. And your English friend who was with him the night he died? I’d say he was on the Larne-Stranraer ferry two hours after leaving him. And that’ll be the last you hear of him as well.’

  ‘That might explain why Costello was ordered to let Webb go after he was arrested. Orders from above, apparently.’

  ‘Yep,’ he said, nodding his head to emphasize the point. ‘You’ll just have to accept that Webb worked for someone on my side. Whether they had anything to do with his death, I’d say it’s doubtful. There are no big hitters involved in this. Webb was probably retired years ago. They probably sent someone to debrief him after they’d heard he’d been arrested.’

  I began to wonder how they knew he’d been arrested. Maybe Webb had got in touch with them. They were able to put pressure on Costello before Webb got out, so he contacted them from jail. And without a mobile that would mean he’d used the station phone. The realization hit me almost physically. ‘Shit,’ I said, louder than intended.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Hendry asked, picking a ball out of his basket. ‘You look awful!’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. And thanks for the info.’

  He waved the comment aside. ‘None necessary. Pay for another basket of balls there for me, would you?’ he said, dummying a swing.

  I headed back to the station and dug out the log for the day of Webb’s arrest. Patterson had been the arresting officer, unsurprisingly, and had signed Webb in on 31 May at 20.03 p.m. A quick call to Telecom Eireann provided me with a list of phone calls for that evening. I guessed the number Webb would have phoned would be either a Northern or a mobile one. I found three, all fairly close together.

  I took the numbers down to our office and called the first, which turned out to be for a pizzeria in Strabane. The second was a landline which connected with a pub in Sion Mills.

  ‘This is Peter Webb,’ I said, when the phone was answered.

  ‘Congratulations,’ a female voice replied. ‘Who’s Peter Webb?’ Hardly Holmesian detective work, but enough for me to claim I’d dialled a wrong number. I then tried the third number, a mobile.

  It rang seven or eight times before someone finally answered. A male voice. English accent.

  ‘Who’s this?’ he said, by way of greeting.

  ‘Peter Webb,’ I said.

  The line went dead.

  I redialled. It rang four time
s.

  ‘Who the fuck is this?’ the man on the other end snapped.

  ‘Peter Webb,’ I replied a second time.

  The man did not speak for a few seconds. Then, ‘No it’s not. Now who is this?’

  Time to come clean, I thought. I’d obviously hit a nerve with Webb’s name alone.

  ‘My name is Inspector Devlin. I’m investigating the murder of Peter Webb. Who’s this?’

  ‘Well, I assumed you’d know, seeing as how you’re the man phoning me,’ the voice replied with a note of humour. ‘Or are you pissing in the wind?’

  ‘I’m guessing you’re Special Bran-’ I began, but the line had gone dead.

  I tried again a third time. The call was answered quicker this time.

  ‘You don’t take a message, do you?’ the man said. ‘I’ve nothing to say to you.’

  ‘I don’t believe that’s true. If you didn’t want to speak to me, you wouldn’t keep answering your phone.’

  The man laughed, a little coldly. ‘So, Webb was murdered?’ he said.

  ‘We believe so, yes.’

  ‘And what do you want with me?’

  ‘I’d like to talk to you. About him.’

  He did not speak for a few seconds and I could sense he was thinking about it. Finally he said, ‘I’ll get back to you.’

  ‘Do you want my mobile number?’ I asked.

  ‘No need,’ he said.

  ‘What should I call you?’ I asked, eager to keep him on the line.

  A pause. ‘Mr Bond,’ he said, laughed once and then hung up.

  Just as I put down the phone, Burgess blundered into the office. Sinead Webb had phoned moments earlier in a panic, having sighted the prowler around her house once more. She sounded genuinely frightened, he said. Would I take a look, since I had dealt with her last time?

  Despite Burgess’s report, when I arrived at her home several minutes later, Sinead Webb seemed to have regained control of herself. She laughed a little forcibly, said she had panicked. She thought he must have been frightened off. Still, her hand shook as she struggled to light a cigarette, and her voice threatened to crack as she spoke. She laughed again nervously as she tried to blame her jumpiness on the events of the previous days.