Gallows Lane idm-2

by Brian McGilloway

  Having called Martha Saunders at nine, I drove up to the house on Gallows Lane for nine-thirty and sat in the car, waiting for Kerr to show. I smoked a cigarette and listened to the radio. At nine-forty-five I got out of the car and wandered over to the front of the empty house, peering in through the windows. Then I sat on the doorstep and smoked another cigarette.

  At quarter past ten, bored with waiting, sweat already gathering in the small of my back, I checked around the side of the house, in case Kerr should be waiting for me in the back garden. It was then, I believe, that I caught sight of something which will never leave my memory. The body of James Kerr hung from the same oak tree on which Peter Webb’s corpse had been found. Except James Kerr had not been hanged. Bright silver twelve-inch nails had been hammered through his feet, pinning him to the trunk, his arms spread and nailed to the thickest of the lowest branches, one hand torn away slightly from the nail which had held it. His head hung limply on his chest, which was raised and barrelled by virtue of his outspread arms. His feet were crossed over one another, his entire form a grotesque crucifixion.

  I searched for vital signs, though I knew that I would find none. James Kerr had been dead for some time; his body was already cold and immobile, his face drawn and pale, his stubble dark against his skin’s pallor. His legs, held though they were by nails through his feet, were bent slightly, as though he were squatting, while thick divots of flesh were visibly absent from the kneecaps. Clearly whoever had crucified James Kerr had smashed his kneecaps to ensure that he would die quickly. In emulating Christ in his mission to forgive those who had betrayed him, it seemed James Kerr had also been fated to suffer a similar degradation and death.

  Within twenty minutes, most of the station and a substantial number of sightseers and ghouls had gathered in the garden and immediate vicinity. Costello sweated and puffed down the side of the house towards where I was standing with Williams. His face was scarlet, whether with the heat or his exertions.

  ‘Sweet Jesus,’ he said when he saw the body, blessing himself. ‘Sweet Jesus, boy, what did they do to you?’ He hobbled over to the body and peered closely at the face, angling his head as if through examination he might discover yet some truth in the old belief that the dying man’s eyes capture an image of his killer. But James Kerr’s eyes held no such secrets.

  ‘Jesus, Ben,’ he said, shaking his head, clearly unable to find anything else to express his revulsion at the scene. ‘What kind of. . of animal does this?’

  I could not speak — could hardly feel. Caroline, sensing perhaps my emotional torpor, took my hand in hers, intertwining her fingers with mine, and squeezed my hand softly. I smiled at her, then my vision blurred as I felt tears, both of anger and regret, begin to well. Williams put her arms around me then and hugged against me.

  ‘Come on,’ she said in my ear as she pulled away from me. ‘It’s all right.’ Then, so lightly I might have imagined it, she placed a kiss on my cheek.

  ‘Come on, son,’ Costello said, taking my arm and leading me out towards his car which had been parked in the driveway of the house, out of the direct line of vision of the crowd gathered on the street. ‘Let’s go get a drink.’

  We sat in his office and Costello poured us each a glass of the whiskey he had bought just days earlier to celebrate the guns find. ‘For the shock,’ he said. I swallowed the first quickly, then sipped the second.

  ‘This is an almighty balls-up, Ben,’ Costello said, loosening his tie and leaning back in his chair, his body angled towards the window which had been opened wide in a vain attempt to allow some air into the room. The blinds hung dead in the stillness; not even a slight breeze disturbed the browning leaves of his spider plants.

  ‘We’re going to have to bring in outside help. I mean — a crucifixion? In Lifford? It’s unbelievable.’

  ‘What about Kerr, sir?’ I asked, placing my empty glass on his desk.

  ‘What about him? God knows I feel sorry for the lad and I hope he didn’t feel what they did to him — but we gave him every opportunity to leave, Ben. He was a fool, though by Christ, he’s paid for it.’ He shook his head sadly and drained his glass, then refilled both glasses.

  ‘I haven’t got the least notion who did this, sir. I’ll be honest with you — I don’t know what’s going on.’

  ‘I know, Ben,’ he said, nodding slightly. ‘I think we can all tell that. Maybe it’s time you took a back seat. I have a feeling whether we want them or not, the NBCI will be drafted in to sort this mess out.’

  I stood up to leave and felt light-headed. It’s only the drink, I told myself. But, as I looked again at Costello, I suddenly felt as if I were standing in a vacuum. Almost instantly, my stomach twisted, sweat popping on my forehead, as my pulse thudded in my skull. A pain spread across my chest, my jaw tightening and, all at once, the thought struck me that I was having a heart attack.

  Costello stood and said something to me, but I could not connect with him, his words were a mumble. Then, with a sound like a rush of water or the thrashing of a bird’s wings, everything seemed to lose its colour and I knew that, unless I could get out of that space, that room, I would die.

  I turned and rushed from the room, out into the central concourse of the station, where empty desks awaited the return of their occupants, some of whom were, at that moment, standing guard by the body of James Kerr.

  And, as if the simple act of motion had been enough, the room suffused with colour again, and though my heart still thudded, its beats seemed to have lost their urgency. And I could hear Costello, who stood behind me, his hand on my back; ‘Jesus, Ben, are you all right? Will I call an ambulance?’ I looked at him, as if seeing him for the first time, a slightly lame old man who had aged visibly in the years since his wife’s death.

  ‘I’m fine. I just need to get a breath of air.’

  ‘Sounds like a good old-fashioned panic attack, Ben,’ John Mulrooney explained to me a few hours later as I sat in his surgery. He perched on the corner of his desk scribbling in his prescription pad, while I buttoned up my shirt and rolled down my sleeve having had my blood pressure tested. ‘Have you been under unusual stress lately?’

  I didn’t answer him, though clearly my expression told him all he needed to know; he grimaced slightly and said, ‘Fair enough.’ Then he stood up and tore a page from his pad.

  ‘These are beta-blockers. They regulate your heartbeat a little. You might never take another attack or you could take one in the car on the way home. That’s how they work. There’s actually nothing to be afraid of — it’s just your body firing off adrenaline when it’s not really needed. If it gets unbearable, take these. They don’t stop the panic. But they will take the edge off an attack, and give you a chance to see it through.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, though he obviously guessed from my tone of voice that I wasn’t entirely happy about having to take the tablets.

  ‘Alternatively, take a few deep breaths, slow and steady. Help you relax.’

  I thanked him as I took the script he offered me. ‘Actually, now I’m here, there was something I was wondering, John. Something that has come up in a different case. A heart drug as well, I think. ‘Moobs’?’

  Mulronney smiled slightly. ‘Are you sure they’re drugs, Ben?’ he asked.

  ‘Something to do with your heart, apparently,’ I said. ‘So I was told.’

  ‘Who told you this?’ he asked, genuinely confused.

  ‘A local druggie. Said moobs were something close to my heart? I’m guessing they’re heart drugs.’

  He attempted to suppress a laugh. ‘Jesus, Ben; moobs aren’t drugs; it’s short for man boobs.’

  ‘What the hell are man boobs?’ I asked, embarrassed both by my ignorance and the fact that Lorcan Hutton had taken a dig at my expense without my even realizing it. I may have folded my arms as I spoke.

  ‘Just what they sound like,’ he said, trying hard not to lower his gaze to my chest. ‘Your druggie friend was taking the piss, Ben.’


  ‘It was in connection with stolen drugs,’ I explained. ‘Tamoxifen, I think it was. Breast cancer drugs.’

  His smile faded and he began to nod his head a little more earnestly. ‘Well, actually, that would make a bit more sense. I’ve never heard of them being used for man boobs, but, in theory, they could be. Let me check it out, Ben. I’ll get back to you on it.’

  ‘Thanks, John,’ I said, getting up to leave.

  As I opened the surgery door, he called me back. ‘Oh, and Ben; try to learn to relax. If you need time off, I’ll give you a sick line.’

  ‘No thanks,’ I said. ‘I think I’ve already been given one.’

  If nothing else, the events of the day precipitated a thaw in the cold war at home. Debbie paled when I told her of the discovery of Kerr’s body and she was genuinely concerned when I told her about my panic attack and my visit to Mulrooney. She took the beta-blockers from me and read the label, examining the side effects which included circulatory and respiratory problems.

  ‘Do you think you need these, Ben?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘John said to take them if I had another attack.’

  Debbie nodded slowly, then put the tablets down. ‘What’s going to happen now, then?’ she asked.

  ‘The National Bureau of Criminal Investigation will probably send a team to work on the case. I might assist them with their enquiries — or I might be pushed to the side.’

  ‘None of this is your fault, Ben,’ she said, softly. ‘I know I said things yesterday, but none of this is because of you.’

  ‘Costello told me to send Kerr back up north; I didn’t. In fact I gave him money and told him I was going to trust him.’

  ‘That didn’t get him killed.’

  ‘It did. If I’d chased him, he might have given up his bloody thick-headed “mission” and gone off and got drunk or laid like any normal ex-con.’

  ‘You can’t tell someone with principles what to do, Ben. You of all people must know that. You still went to meet Kerr this morning, even after all that happened yesterday.’

  ‘That’s different.’

  ‘Why? You both seem to think you’re on a mission. Well, if that’s true, God may get His business done in unusual ways, but I don’t think He’s ever wrong.’

  I looked at her for a moment and believed that I saw something more than my wife sitting beside me.

  ‘You’re not the one hammered nails into James Kerr,’ she said.

  ‘Maybe it’s a collective responsibility, Debs. Maybe we’re all to blame. He lived rough; no one believed a word he said. He came back here to forgive the people who betrayed him. I can’t be the only one who sees religious connotations in this. What if we’re all to be judged for what happened to him?’

  ‘You’re not a judge, Ben. You’re a policeman and a father and a husband, and a man. Stop trying to be more than that.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Friday, 11 June

  For the second time in almost as many days, I walked through a sea of condolences on the way to my desk. Costello was talking to someone in his office, though I could not see who it was. Williams had gone to Letterkenny General to attend the autopsy on Kerr’s body which had finally been cut down from Gallows Lane after the forensic examination was completed.

  I sat in our office and opened a new folder. Starting with the robbery in Castlederg, I wrote down all that I knew with regard to Kerr.

  He had been part of a four-man gang, hired by Peter Webb. He recognized only Webb of the other three, though another one of them had seemed familiar. Despite Kerr’s having named Webb under interview, the RUC did not pursue the lead.

  Upon his return, Kerr was spotted several times around Webb’s land. Webb’s wife was having an affair. I assumed the person who was Webb’s Special Branch handler appeared on the night Webb died. After his death, Kerr again visited Webb’s house — this time to extort money from the widow, threatening to reveal details about Webb’s past.

  Then Kerr offered to hand himself in, after completing his mission; except someone nailed him to the same tree from which Webb had been hung.

  Clearly, Kerr had discovered the identities of the other members of the gang and had gone to confront them — or to forgive them, if he had been telling the truth all along. They were obviously not interested in his forgiveness and instead finished the botched job they had started years earlier when they shot him and left him for dead. Presumably there was more than one of the gang: Kerr was fairly small, but I doubted one man could both hold another to a tree and nail him in place at the same tree. That meant the remaining two of the Castelderg gang were alive and well — and still in the vicinity.

  And of course, Kerr’s identification of the gang members meant that either Webb had told him before he died — or Kerr had subsequently found out in some other way. But how? And did it mean that Kerr had been responsible for Webb’s murder?

  Unable to see past these last questions, I went out to get a cup of coffee. I was halfway to the kitchen when I heard Costello call my name. He was standing at his office door, gesturing me to go over. Leaving down my empty cup, I went into his office. Sitting in front of his desk, a smile dying on her lips, was Miriam Powell once again.

  Miriam Powell and I had been briefly involved in a relationship when we were teenagers, which concluded when she met Thomas Powell; a man she later married.

  Our paths crossed again when Debbie had shared a house with her during university. Miriam frequently took pleasure in reminding Debbie that she had known me first, hinting at sexual liaisons subsequently which had never actually taken place.

  Finally, we had met during the case which resulted in the death of her husband and, ultimately, her replacing him as an elected representative for Donegal. Briefly, during that time, we had flirted around the edges of an affair, sharing a kiss (drunken, on her part, at least) about which Debbie learned. By finally turning Miriam Powell down, I had unwittingly created an influential enemy.

  Now she sat and smiled at me, her face framed with dirty blonde hair which she had restyled and dyed before her election campaign. My enduring memory of Miriam Powell had been the scent of coconut which seemed to radiate from her skin. Recently, she had taken to wearing a different scent.

  ‘Benedict — lovely to see you,’ she said, standing up and leaning against me, kissing the air next to my face. She placed her hands on my shoulders for balance, briskly, then stepped away.

  ‘Miriam, good to see you again. Congratulations on your election. I’m sure you’ll do a fine job.’

  ‘Well, someone had to replace Thomas. Someone not afraid to say what needs to be said.’

  ‘I can think of no better person, Miriam. And I mean that in the nicest possible way,’ I said, attempting to be genuine. And failing.

  She smiled curtly. ‘Quite, Ben. Anyhow, I thought I would call and get some tips from Superintendent Costello here before this interview. I’m the civilian Chair of the panel.’

  ‘So I believe. It’ll be nice to see a friendly face during the interview, Miriam.’

  ‘Well, the problem, Ben, is the way these recent events have been handled. It doesn’t look good. I mean, someone being crucified on a tree in Lifford village? It’s kind of taken the glow off the finds Inspector Patterson made.’

  I nodded and looked askance at Costello who returned the look.

  ‘Obviously, you could be expected to provide the interview panel with details of the state of these investigations.’

  I nodded again, then had to clear my throat as I was unable to speak. ‘I’ll try to be as thorough as I can be, Miriam. Though, to be honest, I have a feeling that someone else will be running the case by the time of the interview.’

  ‘Perhaps you should keep your failings to yourself for the duration of your interview, Benedict,’ she said, then turned away from me in a manner that told me I was dismissed.

  Williams was sitting in the office when I finally made it back with my
coffee. She had made notes of the state pathologist’s findings and outlined the basics to me. She believed that at least two assailants had killed James Kerr. In the course of the attack he had grabbed or scraped at least one of his killers and skin samples had been recovered from under his fingernails. He had probably been beaten unconscious, then nailed to the tree, his knees broken to speed up his suffocation. He may have regained consciousness, may even have called for help, though the houses on Gallows Lane were so far apart that no one would have heard his cries. I preferred to think that he died without regaining consciousness. Finally, someone had smashed his sternum with the same hammer, causing substantial damage to his lungs and heart. If those who had betrayed Kerr and left him for dead eight years ago regretted not being successful then, they had left no opportunity for the mistake to be repeated this time.

  ‘It was hideous,’ Williams said, drinking some of my coffee. ‘Most of his injuries couldn’t be seen under his clothes when I saw his body yesterday. They really gave him a going over. It was. . brutal.’ She shook her head in disbelief, as though the gesture would shake free from her memory all that she had seen.

  I looked at the notes she had taken: a list of the injuries Kerr suffered; the findings of the autopsy; his clothes — the same he had worn the day I collected him; a list of his stomach contents (a bar of chocolate eaten several hours before his death); an inventory of the items found in his pockets — religious medals, € 8.73 in change and notes, a half-eaten packet of chewing gum. For some reason, something on the list seemed wrong to me, though I could not put my finger on it.

  I looked again at the timeline I had written when I first came in, trying to pinpoint the niggling doubt I felt. There was something about the money in his pocket. Something that just wasn’t right.

  ‘Caroline, you’ve down here that he had over eight euros in his pocket. Are you sure?’