Bleed a River Deep (Inspector Devlin Mystery 3)

by Brian McGilloway

  Leon was sitting in the holding cell in Lifford. Someone had left him with a black eye and a purple bruise on his jaw. It had yet to be established if it had been one of our men or one of Hagan’s who had caused the injuries. No one was in a rush to find out.

  He sat hunched on the lower bunk. His height meant that he had to stoop to prevent banging his head on the upper one. His skin was pale but darkened with stubble. On his left cheek, just below his eye, he sported a small home-made tattoo of a Chinese symbol, almost obscured by the bruise. His hair was dull with grease and rat-tailed in dreadlocks. He wore stone-washed drainpipe jeans, tattered at the hems. The laces of his workmen’s boots had been removed.

  The Army jacket he had worn when he shot at Hagan lay on the floor. He was rolling a cigarette when I came in, though he would not be allowed to smoke it inside.

  He glanced up at me, then ran his tongue along the pasted edge of a Rizla paper, rolling it into a cigarette and twisting the end. Then he started on another to add to a small pile on the bed beside him.

  I sat down on the plastic chair opposite him.

  ‘Hi, Leon,’ I said. ‘I don’t know if you remember me—’ I began.

  He glanced up again. ‘I remember you. Fearghal told me you were based here now. How’s Tom?’

  ‘He’s fine, Leon,’ I said.

  ‘Tell him I said hi,’ he said, then went back to rolling his cigarettes.

  ‘So, what was the point of today, then?’ I asked.

  ‘To scare the shit out of that prick,’ Leon replied, measuring out a pinch of tobacco and teasing it out the length of the paper.

  ‘And us,’ I added.

  Leon shrugged, then twisted his head sharply to flick his dreadlocks over his shoulder.

  ‘Why, Leon?’ I asked again.

  ‘He’s a dickhead,’ he stated, as if this explained everything.

  ‘I understand why you might not like Hagan,’ I said. ‘I have my own issues with him, but I wouldn’t shoot at the man.’

  ‘That’s your choice,’ he said.

  ‘Did Janet Moore give you a ticket?’ I asked.

  Leon didn’t look up, but for a brief second he paused in his cigarette production. He did not, however, answer the question.

  ‘She had two tickets, Leon. One for her, one for her husband. Her husband obviously wasn’t there. What’s the connection between you and her?’

  He looked at me from under his brow, then licked the edge of the paper slowly, still holding my gaze as he did so.

  I went into Patterson’s office. We had not spoken since the incident earlier. If either of us expected the other to apologize, we were both to be disappointed.

  ‘I believe he got his ticket from Janet Moore,’ I said.

  ‘Which she got from you,’ he stated, the accusation clear.

  ‘I want to bring her in, to establish the connection between her and Bradley.’

  Patterson shook his head, but didn’t look at me. Instead he fidgeted with a number of paper clips that he had twisted together on his desk. ‘Not a chance,’ he said, dropping the clips on to the desk and steepling his fingers. ‘You’re being stood down for a week or two.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ I said.

  ‘You’re suspended, for two weeks,’ he explained. ‘It’s just been one balls-up after another recently, Devlin. You shouldn’t be doing this job, and you’re going to get someone killed. You’re to have a few weeks to assess your position.’

  ‘Assess my position?’ I asked incredulously.

  He nodded his head gravely.

  ‘You’re fucking kidding,’ I said.

  He smiled coldly. ‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘Though I’d be lying if I said I didn’t derive some pleasure from this.’

  ‘You’re a prick,’ I said, angrily.

  ‘Whatever you think,’ he said, picking up the clips again. ‘Now get out. And do us all a favour and don’t come back.’

  I stared at him for a few seconds, wondering if it was worth continuing the discussion, but he had already dismissed me. I got up and walked out, leaving the door lying open.

  Chapter Eleven

  Tuesday, 10 October

  I slept late the following morning. Debbie had left, to take Penny to school and Shane shopping for Hallowe’en costumes. I ate breakfast in my dressing gown, padding around the kitchen aimlessly, not entirely sure how to spend the first day of my suspension. The fence at the front of the house needed painting, but a thick head of cloud was gathering towards Letterkenny and the first fat drops of rain were already exploding in puffs of dust along the roadway outside.

  At around ten-thirty I heard a knock at the door. Expecting it to be the postman, I opened the door only an inch or two so as not to reveal the fact that I was still wearing my robe. I was a little surprised, and even more gratified, to see Jim Hendry standing there, a greasy brown-paper bag held aloft.

  ‘I brought the gravy rings, if you make the coffee,’ he said.

  ‘Is this a peace offering?’ I asked.

  ‘Thought I’d help you celebrate the first day of your suspension.’ He glanced down. ‘But get dressed, for God’s sake.’

  I directed him into the kitchen and went upstairs to change while Jim filled the kettle. By the time I came down he had two mugs of coffee set on the table and a plate of gravy rings, the sugar coating sparkling.

  ‘Tough luck with the Hagan thing,’ he said, raising his mug in salute. ‘Nothing you could have done about it, from what I’ve heard. Bit shitty of them to blame you for it.’

  ‘One in a long list of recent fuck-ups, Jim. As you know yourself.’

  Hendry nodded. ‘Understandable, I suppose. Still a bit harsh.’

  ‘So, what brings you over to the enemy territory?’ I asked.

  Jim produced a folded piece of paper from his pocket. ‘I got you a name on your car from the other night. Thought you might be interested. Then when I called the station to tell you, they told me you were off indefinitely.’

  ‘So you came to commiserate. Thanks, Jim,’ I said. ‘I appreciate it a lot.’

  He waved away the sentiment, a chunk of gravy ring in his hand. ‘I’d miss you, Devlin, if you stopped illegally coming into the North and causing chaos. Where would the craic be in having somebody over here who does things the old-fashioned, legal way?’

  ‘True enough,’ I said. ‘So who’s the car owner?’

  ‘Some guy from Ballykelly, Michael Hines,’ Jim said, handing me the paper. ‘I did a quick background check on him, but nothing showing; not so much as a speeding ticket.’

  I didn’t recognize the name. ‘What age is he?’ I asked, scanning the sheet for his date of birth.

  ‘Mid-fifties, from what I can remember; why?’

  ‘One of the guys had a pony-tail, seemed a bit older than the other. I didn’t get a great look at the second; he wore a cap, though I think he had black hair.’

  ‘Do you want to call Hines or will I?’ he asked.

  I shook my head. ‘I’d need to see him face to face, in case he is one of our guys.’

  ‘Our guys?’ he said, smiling lightly. ‘OK; let’s take a run to Ballykelly. You might be suspended, but I’m not.’

  ‘You’re coming?’ I asked, a little surprised.

  ‘Of course,’ he spluttered. ‘Sure the bloody crime was committed over on my side. Besides, I’m the only one with any authority in the North.’

  Michael Hines, when we found him, was indeed in his mid-fifties, but any remnants of greying hair he had left certainly wouldn’t have been enough to scrape into a pony-tail.

  He explained that he’d sold his car several months earlier, through a local classifieds page.

  ‘I filled in the form and everything,’ he said. ‘I’m not responsible.’

  ‘Do you remember who you sold it to?’ I asked. ‘You didn’t get his name, by any chance?’

  Hines shook his head. ‘I can’t remember,’ he said. ‘Paul something. He was a foreigner. I have it written d
own somewhere, though I don’t have his address now, before you ask.’

  ‘What kind of foreigner? Black, Asian, American?’

  ‘If he’d been black, do you not think I’d have mentioned it right off?’ he said. ‘He was European; Polish or Russian, or one of those new countries.’

  ‘What colour hair did he have, do you know, Mr Hines?’

  ‘Black,’ he stated. ‘With a scar running along here, now that I think about it,’ he added, pointing out the approximate area of the scar on his own skull. ‘I’ll just get the name for you,’ he said, turning back down the hallway.

  ‘So, where do we go from here?’ Hendry asked as we headed back to his car.

  ‘The Migrant Workers’ Information Centre,’ I replied. ‘I think I know who “Paul” is.’

  At the migrants’ centre we were told that Pol Strandmann had taken a few days off work. With some persuasion Hendry managed to get an address for him, in Ballymagorry, just outside of Strabane.

  ‘Would you recognize him as the other guy in the car?’ Hendry asked, as we drove up the road.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘The driver was wearing a cap.’

  ‘Best we can do then is to rattle his cage a bit, see what happens,’ Jim concluded, tapping out some internal rhythm on the steering wheel as he spoke.

  ‘We can at least find out how he can account for the car ending up burnt out,’ I said.

  The house was at the end of a row. Greying lace curtains blocked out the windows; the grass in the yard was overgrown, the dandelions a good foot high. I thought of the contrast between this and Karol Walshyk’s home.

  Pol answered the door almost as soon as Hendry had hammered on it. He wore skin-tight jeans and a pair of baseball boots, laced but untied. His T-shirt sported an image of a smiley face. Pol held a rollie cigarette in his hand. He leant against the doorjamb, his legs crossed at the ankles, put the cigarette in his mouth, his eyes squinting against the smoke.

  ‘I know your face,’ he said, nodding at me. ‘What do you want?’

  Jim answered. ‘I’m PSNI Inspector Hendry. You’ve met Garda Inspector Devlin before, I believe. Can we have a word?’

  Pol held his position for a second longer, as if considering Hendry’s request, then shrugged and stood aside so we could enter the house.

  The living room was furnished in a basic manner. A small settee was against one wall, in front of which was a badly scored coffee table on which sat a box of tobacco and a packet of Rizlas.

  In the far corner was a new-looking television, a DVD player and a satellite receiver. A few prints hung on the walls; on the mantelpiece was a photograph of a young woman and two children.

  ‘Is this your family?’ I asked, picking up the picture.

  Pol glanced at the picture and nodded curtly. ‘So, is this about the car? Have you found it?’

  ‘We have indeed,’ Hendry said, sitting on the edge of the settee.

  ‘It was stolen from outside my work on Friday. I called the police station in Derry and reported it.’ He glanced from Hendry to myself.

  ‘We found it burnt out in Strabane, after it had been used in a shooting,’ Hendry said.

  ‘That’s terrible,’ Pol said, though his voice was devoid of emotion. ‘Was anyone hurt?’

  I could have sworn he glanced at me when he asked this, though if he did it was too brief to be obviously significant.

  ‘Thankfully not,’ Hendry said. ‘So, what time was your car lifted?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I noticed it gone that night. I was out with some friends after work. Came back to the car park after ten and noticed it was gone. I called the police then.’

  ‘Can your friends verify that you were out with them until after ten?’

  ‘I’m sure they could,’ he said. ‘Though they’ve gone back to Poland, I’m afraid. Not much use to you.’

  Hendry shifted in his seat. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, taking his mobile from his pocket. ‘I’ve a call to take.’

  He went outside and I guessed he was phoning the Derry station to see if and when Pol had called the car in.

  ‘I remember you now,’ Pol said, as we stood in the silence following Hendry’s departure. ‘You were looking fora Chechen.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Did you find him?’

  ‘We’d never lost him,’ I said. ‘He was dead.’

  ‘That’s terrible,’ he repeated.

  I examined the scar on his skull as we spoke. The tissue was puckered, the line uneven. It seemed more livid this evening, the skin shiny red.

  ‘That’s a sore-looking cut,’ I said.

  He instinctively touched at it, and grunted in agreement.

  Hendry came back into the room again and nodded at me. ‘I think that’s us, Mr Strandmann. Maybe you’ll arrange to pick up your car. We’ve brought it to the station in Strabane. You can send your insurance people to see it there if they want.’

  ‘Piece of crap anyway,’ Pol said. ‘I picked it up cheap when I came here.’

  Hendry filled me in on what he had learnt as we drove back to my house. Pol Strandmann had reported the car stolen at ten-thirty on Friday, which was an hour after I’d been shot at. That didn’t mean that he was involved though.

  ‘What do you think?’ Hendry asked me. ‘Did you recognize him as the driver?’

  I shook my head. ‘Much as I wanted to. There’s something not right about him, though.’

  ‘Cheap, crap car and a top-of-the-range TV and Sky? He’s getting money from somewhere, and it’s unlikely to be the Migrant Workers’ Centre.’

  ‘We can’t lift him on that. Maybe he’s just not sending as much to his family as he should be. Enjoying the good life here.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Hendry said, unconvinced. ‘Though we’ve nothing on him unless you or the wee lassie you had running around with you recognize him. Or if we find that houseload of Chechens you lost.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Friday, 13 October

  The rest of the week passed fairly uneventfully, though daytime television eventually drove me to fence-painting. I was just finishing the last stretch, on Friday morning, when a car with a Dublin registration parked at the bottom of our driveway.

  I was pleased to see Fearghal Bradley. He came up the drive a little sheepishly, and extended his hand.

  ‘Benny,’ he said.

  ‘Fearghal,’ I replied. ‘What brings you out here?’

  ‘I . . . I thought I’d call and see how you were doing. I’d heard you’d been sidelined. I’m sorry. For Leon.’ He wrung his hands as he spoke, his face twisted in a frown.

  ‘How is he?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s . . . he’s OK. He got charged with misuse of firearms or something. Bailed at ten thousand to appear in Letterkenny at the end of the month.’

  I nodded my head, having guessed as much. He’d never do time for the prank, but a high bail would be a sufficient smack on the wrist. And if he stayed over the border and missed his court appearance, they’d still made ten grand out of him.

  ‘An expensive prank.’

  Fearghal nodded, but did not speak, and I got the impression that something else was preoccupying him.

  ‘And how’s Kate?’ I asked.

  I thought I heard Fearghal groan involuntarily. ‘Weston’s giving her to Hagan as a gift, after what happened. She’s going to be sent to America.’

  ‘I’m sorry—’ I began, but Fearghal finally said what was really on his mind.

  ‘I feel shitty doing this, but I need your help. Leon needs your help.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked.

  ‘Have you heard about the Eligius break-in?’

  I felt my face muscles tighten, even as I tried to keep smiling. ‘Probably best if we go inside,’ I said.

  Eligius was a US defence company which had opened several years ago outside Omagh. At the time it had attracted a lot of bad press, not least due to the US involvement in Iraq and the perception that the newly employed
people of the town would be able to watch the fruits of their labours explode over Baghdad on Sky News. As it turned out, the factory was producing a microchip for inclusion in armoured personnel carriers, though the offices were also the European headquarters of the firm.

  I had heard about the break-in on the news that morning. The previous evening, four people had broken into the Eligius offices and had unrolled an anti-war banner from the windows at the front of the offices. One, a well-known local figure called Seamus Curran, had shouted anti-American slogans through a loud-hailer to the gathering press and police.

  At one point, several computers were thrown from a first-floor window and, later, a number of burning sheets of paper. Television images had shown, from a distance, the other three people involved in the break-in, but none of them clearly enough to be identifiable. Fearghal, however, assured me that there was little room for doubt over Leon’s involvement.

  ‘The fucking idiot called me from the offices last night. They brought him out just after three this morning.’

  ‘Why did he do it?’ I asked.

  ‘Another one of these bloody publicity stunts.’

  ‘Why come to me? What can I do?’

  ‘We were hoping you could put in a good word for him. With the cops up North.’

  I said nothing, but Fearghal obviously read my feelings clearly.

  ‘Look, I know he’s fucked things up here for you,’ he said. ‘If you don’t want to help him, I’d understand, but help me. Please.’

  *

  I called Hendry, who was able to give me the name of the arresting officer in Omagh, though by the time I phoned, Leon and his three co-accused were already on their way to appear in court.

  I changed out of my paint-splattered clothes as quickly as I could, but by the time we reached Omagh the Eligius Four, as they had been dubbed, had already appeared before the magistrate. The barrister representing them spoke briefly with Fearghal, explaining what had happened during their appearance. He named the four men, though the only name I knew other than Leon’s was Seamus Curran; he had been in the papers some years back over a miscarriage of justice. In the 1970s, Curran had been one of a number of men arrested on terrorism charges in England, who had been denied legal representation and had confessions beaten from them. Curran’s conviction had finally been overturned several years ago with an unspecified settlement and an apology from the Home Office. Whether or not he had been political before his arrest thirty years ago, his time inside had certainly politicized him, and he was frequently pictured in the local papers leading demonstrations against one thing or another, though without affiliation to any particular party. The other two men’s names meant nothing to me.