Gallows Lane idm-2

by Brian McGilloway

Her face was badly bruised and puffy, her eyes both blackened with the impact of the smash. She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue frequently as she spoke. I held her hand in mine as we stood by her bed, and was reminded of her doing the same for me just the previous evening.

  ‘What happened, Caroline?’ Costello asked.

  ‘Where’s Peter?’ she asked, her eyes wide in panic.

  ‘He’s with us,’ I said. ‘Debbie’s watching him. He’s okay. Are you all right?’

  ‘Sore,’ she said, attempting to smile. ‘Can’t remember what happened. I felt. . I felt really tired — really heavy. There was a smell I. . I. .’ She faltered.

  ‘Was anyone else involved?’ Costello asked, but she shook her head.

  ‘Just so tired. So tired,’ she repeated, her eyes wet with tears.

  ‘I’m glad you’re awake, Caroline,’ I said, leaning over and kissing her on the forehead. She squeezed my hand lightly.

  Before we left, we stopped in with the doctor to check on her progress. He seemed reasonably happy with her, though he had some concerns about her blood oxygen.

  ‘Was she suicidal?’ he asked, inexplicably.

  ‘God, no,’ I said. ‘Why?’

  ‘The only time you see blood levels like that is when someone tries to gas themselves in their garage,’ he explained. ‘Make of that what you will.’

  Costello phoned through to the station and asked a team to go out to the car wreck and see what they could find. By the time we arrived, four of them had already gathered at the site.

  My car was lying on its roof in a ditch about ten feet below the road. The undercarriage glistened with the remnants of the previous night’s rain. The bonnet was concertinaed against the windscreen, the deflated airbag hanging useless from the steering column. Spare change, CDs and a packet of cigarettes from the central compartment now lay on the headlining of the car. The once white upholstery of the headlining was stained with a mixture of ditch water and Caroline’s blood.

  ‘Have you men found anything?’ Costello called down to the team from the roadway, the incline prohibitively steep for a man of his limited mobility.

  One of the officers held aloft a blackened rag. ‘Very simple, sir. Someone stuffed this in the exhaust pipe,’ he called. ‘Fumes would have knocked her clean out with the windows closed.’

  As I thought about it afterwards, it made sense. Both of us had felt nauseous, both of us had complained of headaches; certainly lack of oxygen would have exacerbated my panic attack. It would also have explained the smell in the car. On the way to and from Decko’s, the windows had been open, at least affording some clean air. However, by the time Caroline left my house, she had the windows closed against the rain. It also provided an explanation for her blood oxygen levels.

  Of course it also meant that the crash was deliberate and that Caroline had not been the intended victim; it was my car, after all. Debbie’s words about my making martyrs of my family echoed in my head. Because of me, Caroline was in hospital; her son was sitting, frightened and lonely in a strange house. It was one thing to put my own life on the line; someone else’s was a very different matter. I considered how I could possibly make it up to Caroline. In the short term, at least, all I could do was track down whoever had done this thing.

  In fact, Costello asked that very question.

  ‘It could have been in connection with Decko,’ I suggested. ‘The remaining gang member, perhaps? Or it could be something to do with the Doherty case. Or someone with a grudge. Peter McDermott?’ After a pause I added, ‘Or Patterson and Colhoun?’

  ‘Harry and Hugh would have nothing to do with this, man. I know Harry gets worked up, but this goes beyond the pale.’

  ‘Whoever it was, I guess it’s the follow-up to the sympathy card and the bullet, and the brick through my window. Looks like they meant business.’

  ‘’Twouldn’t be either of the lads, Benedict, no matter how Harry blusters.’

  Despite his assurances, I did not share his evaluation of Patterson and Colhoun, and I would have something to say to Patterson in particular, the first chance I got.

  As we drove back to the station, I wound down the window and smoked a cigarette. Costello asked me what was on my mind. I could not, of course, tell him that I was considering the fact that my handling of this case had, perhaps, been responsible for both the death of Decko O’Kane, and almost my own partner’s. In addition, my comments to Costello regarding the legitimacy of the guns find some days earlier had prompted the arrest of Peter Webb, who had, in turn, ended up dead. Every turn I had taken in this case had placed someone else in the firing line. Instead of solving crimes, I seemed to be perpetuating them. Perhaps it was time to pack it up, I thought.

  My anxiety was not eased by the news, when we reached the station, that Decko’s DNA test had come back. Whoever’s skin had been found under the nails of James Kerr, it had not been Declan O’Kane’s.

  Just after lunch I received an unexpected phone call.

  ‘I heard about your partner, Williams,’ the voice said. ‘Shitty enough; she has a kid, is that right?’

  It took me several seconds to place the voice. ‘Helen?’

  ‘Aye. How’s she doing?’

  ‘Fine,’ I said.

  ‘I have some news for you. About the stolen drugs,’ Helen said, the excitement rising in her voice.

  That got my attention.

  ‘A tip-off from a contestant in a local kick-boxing thing. Another contestant in that tournament was disqualified after winning the final. He was on steroids. Turns out he was also on our breast drug. The guy he beat has lodged a complaint.’

  Our, I thought. ‘Have you a name?’ I asked.

  ‘Darren Kehoe; he’s a-’

  ‘Bouncer in Letterkenny. I know him.’

  ‘Do you want to go see him?’ she asked. ‘I might need a hand, if he’s big.’

  I thought of the man squeezed on to a sofa in his boss’s office, and the footage of him throwing Karen Doherty into the street the night she was killed.

  ‘I’ll be with you in twenty minutes,’ I said.

  I signed out a car, and made my way to Letterkenny. Helen met me at the station there and we drove up past the Oldfield sweet factory to Kehoe’s address. He lived in the end house of a terrace. The entrance gate swung on one hinge, the small front garden had long overgrown with weeds. The wood of the door was crumbling with dry rot, the paintwork blistered and peeling.

  Kehoe answered the door after we’d been knocking for several minutes. He wore sweatpants and a T-shirt and was clearly only just getting out of bed. Instinctively I glanced at his arms, thick with knots of muscle but completely free from tattoos of any sort.

  ‘Late night?’ I asked.

  He looked at me blankly. ‘Early morning,’ he grunted, then turned and went back into his house, leaving the door open by way of invitation for us to do the same.

  We followed him into the kitchen. While we spoke he poured himself a bowl of cereal and rooted around his sink to try to find a clean spoon. Having settled on the cleanest, he turned to face us, shovelling cornflakes into his mouth as he did. When he spoke, it was through mouthfuls of cereal.

  ‘Is this about that girl?’ he asked.

  ‘Should it be?’

  He shrugged. ‘Can be if you want. I don’t know nothing.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘This is about something else.’

  ‘You were involved in a kick-boxing competition recently, is that right?’ Gorman asked.

  He stopped eating momentarily, raising an eyebrow in suspicion.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You were disqualified, we’re told.’

  He put the bowl down on the counter and placed his two hands behind him, the massive palms spread against the counter edge.

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘Why were you disqualified?’ Helen asked.

  ‘I’d say you know, if you’re asking. Nothing to do with the Guards, anyhow.’

 
‘That’s not completely true, though, Mr Kehoe,’ I said. ‘Taking steroids is one thing; taking stolen cancer drugs is something completely different.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nolvadex, I think it’s called. The breast cancer drug that you were also found to have taken? Where did you get it?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘A batch was stolen from a pharmacy in Lifford a week or two ago. As you’re the first person locally to be found with it, we suspect that you must know something about the theft.’

  Kehoe’s face blanched. He stared stupidly from Gorman to me and back, his expression almost bovine.

  ‘I didn’t steal them. I was given them; I swear to God.’

  ‘Who gave them to you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘How convenient,’ I said. ‘It wasn’t you, you know nothing. Who’d have thought it — one more innocent man accused in the wrong.’

  ‘No, I swear,’ he said, with enough conviction to make me think that he was telling the truth. I didn’t credit Kehoe with sufficient guile to lie so convincingly.

  ‘Some guy gave it to me at the tournament.’

  ‘Who?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Bullshit, Darren. Give me a name, or we’re taking you in now; in your fucking sweatpants if we have to.’

  Kehoe panicked, his eyes round and terrified. ‘Please, no. Thompson’ll fire me if I get arrested. Part of my anger-management deal.’

  ‘What?’ I asked, incredulously, and Kehoe explained.

  Kehoe had taken up kick-boxing at school. In fact, he’d progressed well in local competitions, up until he was nineteen. Then things seemed to plateau. No matter how hard he trained, how carefully he balanced his diet, he didn’t seem to progress any further, didn’t seem to have the edge his competitors had.

  Then, one evening, after another failed competition in Newry, someone suggested that Darren should try to build himself up with steroids. He’d never get any further without them, he was told. And so, after a few weeks’ resistance to the idea, Kehoe bought some body-building steroids online. The results were amazing. He felt better than ever, seemed to develop strength surpassing his own muscle capability, started to feature in the winners’ lists again. One of the side effects of this, however, was that Darren found himself losing his temper with increasing frequency, and increasing violence. ’Roid rage, he called it. The last straw came when Kehoe had battered a teenager messing around in a club he worked in, an attack which left the boy in intensive care for a month. By agreeing to anger-management classes Kehoe had got a suspended sentence and probation instead of a jail term. He stayed clean of the steroids the whole way through his probation, which had ended six months prior to our conversation.

  Of course, Kehoe wanted to compete again, and so had started taking the steroids again, though in lower doses, to prevent the rage he had felt previously. This time however, he experienced a different side effect: moobs. It was for these that a fellow competitor had given him tamoxifen during his most recent kick-boxing contest.

  While he had been speaking, things began to slide into place. I should have seen it before. ’Roid rage. I asked Kehoe to explain it.

  ‘Something to do with hormones,’ he explained simplistically. ‘They make you lose your temper really easily. Incredible Hulk stuff, like. You can’t control yourself. You just want to. . smash,’ he concluded.

  ‘Enough to kill?’

  He looked at me, his eyes devoid of cunning. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Enough to kill.’ No one spoke for a second and he rushed to fill the silence. ‘The steroids were my own,’ Kehoe said. ‘I admit that. It was stupid, but I’ve been out of practice. I thought they’d build me up quick. But this guy seemed to know I was on them. He made a comment about my chest — “bitch tits”, he called them.’ Kehoe glanced at Gorman and lowered his head in shame. ‘He said he could sell me something to control them. I only bought one box, I swear. I have them upstairs.’

  Without asking he rushed out of the kitchen. I made to go after him, lest he were trying to make a run for it, but he turned up the stairs and we heard his footfalls thudding above us. He returned with the half-empty box.

  ‘Check with Christine Cashell if that was from the same batch,’ I said to Gorman, handing her the box. It was her case, after all.

  ‘Who was this guy?’ Gorman asked again.

  ‘I swear, I don’t know. The competition people will be able to tell you — I think he was competing.’

  ‘It seems a bit far-fetched that you’d buy drugs off someone you’d never met before,’ Gorman said. ‘He could have been selling you anything.’

  ‘I know his face,’ Kehoe argued. ‘I’ve seen him around the club, like. Big bald guy. Tattoo on his arm.’

  ‘What tattoo?’ I asked, straightening up.

  ‘That thing from the GPO; Cuchulain, was it, on a tree, like, with the crow at his head?’

  Helen Gorman headed straight to Letterkenny station to contact the man Kehoe told us had organized the event in Derry. At best, he would give us a name; at worst, a list of competitors from whom we might be able to identify our suspect. Either way, the drugs theft, and the murder of Karen Doherty, and the attack on Rebecca Purdy depended on our getting a name quickly. While Gorman was doing that, I thought of two possible sources.

  Dr John Mulrooney was having his mid-afternoon tea when I called. I explained to him the background and all that Kehoe had told us. He nodded his head as I spoke.

  ‘’Roid rage is a very real phenomenon,’ he said. ‘Basically, it happens in someone with an extreme dependence on steroids. Whereas you or I could feel a little angry and control it, these people explode. And of course, because they’re on steroids, they have massive muscle behind that rage. What’s the connection?’

  ‘I think the person who killed the Doherty girl was on steroids. The description Rebecca Purdy gave us matches the one that Kehoe has given us of his pusher.’

  ‘Of course, one of the physical side effects of steroids are moobs, Ben,’ Mulroney said, warming to the impromptu science lesson. ‘Steroids cause massive amounts of the male sex hormone, testosterone, to effect masculization of the body. You’d expect growth in facial hair, deepening voice, increased libido.’

  ‘There might be a problem. Our guy can’t perform, according to Rebecca Purdy. Attempted to, but couldn’t. . you know.’

  Mulrooney stood and leaned against the edge of his desk, his voice rising in excitement. He wagged his finger to emphasize his words as he spoke. ‘Well, you see, that would make sense. Too much testosterone and the body converts it into oestrogen. Which causes feminization.’

  ‘Moobs,’ I said, nodding my head to show I followed his argument.

  ‘Absolutely. And also impotence,’ he added, with a smile. ‘If your guy is stealing tamoxifen to decrease his moobs, the chances are he’s also experiencing impotence.’

  ‘So, he picks up a girl. Takes her somewhere quiet, but can’t follow through.’ I began to reason out the scenario as it might have happened. ‘That would explain the unused condom we found with Karen Doherty’s body.’

  ‘He loses it, explodes, beats her to a pulp,’ Mulrooney continued. And if he’s a boxer — or, in this case, a kick-boxer — on steroids, it would certainly explain the damage he inflicted.’

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

  ‘Ben,’ he called as I reached the door. ‘If you come face to face with this guy, take him down before he gets too close. He’ll tear you apart and not even realize he’s doing it.’

  Having confirmed in my own mind the likely scenario behind the attacks on Karen Doherty and Rebecca Purdy, I had only to swallow my pride and face the one person who might be able to help me.

  Peter McDermott was plastering one of the houses on Hannon’s building site when I arrived. The sun was high in the sky, the odd ragged cloud making little difference to the searing heat. I had removed my jacket and tie, but still felt overdres
sed.

  McDermott was stripped to the waist, his skin slick with sweat, his back solid with packs of muscle. He looked over his shoulder at me as I approached, then continued with his plastering.

  ‘Mr McDermott. I was wondering if I could have a word.’

  ‘I’ve nothing to say,’ he replied, still not looking at me. ‘I don’t know anything about stolen drugs, or battered girls, or anything else you feel like pinning on me.’

  ‘I need your help, actually,’ I said.

  That got his attention. ‘And I would help you because. .?’

  ‘Someone who took part in your kick-boxing tournament killed Karen Doherty. A big man, bald, with a tattoo of Cuchulain. Does that mean anything to you?’

  If it did, McDermott wasn’t showing it. He squinted down at me, against the sunlight.

  ‘And why would I want to help you?’

  ‘He drugged, attempted to rape and battered a fifteen-year-old girl, Mr McDermott. I believe it wasn’t you, but you have to understand, I can’t let that happen and do nothing. I need to find the person responsible before he does it again.’

  ‘Do you know how to plaster, Inspector?’

  ‘No,’ I said, a little bewildered.

  ‘You’re no plasterer, then.’

  ‘None,’ I agreed.

  ‘And I’m no copper. So, fuck away off now and do your job yourself. I know nothing about it.’

  I stared blankly at him for a second, numbed slightly by his apparent lack of the most basic humanity. Finally, I gathered my thoughts.

  ‘How did you do?’ I asked.

  The question seemed to knock him off guard. ‘I got beaten in the final. Won by default.’

  ‘Darren Kehoe beat you?’ I asked.

  ‘Just because he was doped,’ he spat, then continued, ‘Now’s we’re getting all pally, I hear your friend was in an accident?’ I was unable, from his tone, to determine the sincerity of his inquiry.

  ‘That’s right,’ I said.

  ‘It wasn’t me, before you bring me in for that, as well.’

  ‘Can you help me?’ I asked, not wanting to indulge him any further.