Borderlands

by Brian McGilloway

  "Borderland," a voice above me said.

  Cashell spun around, his teeth bared like an animal. "Shut up!" he hissed. But Sadie Cashell was walking slowly down the stairs now, ignoring her husband, whose foolishness and pride had cost her her daughter.

  "Borderland," she repeated, looking only at Cashell. "It's too late, Johnny. Too much has happened." Then she turned to me. "Borderland. That's where Johnny was working. The Three Rivers Hotel. Borderland was a new disco hall they built around the time she vanished. They threw her body in with the foundations. I washed the blood and cement off his trousers," she explained. She stood halfway down the stairs now, and as she spoke something inside her seemed to be extinguished. With the slightest slump of her shoulders, Sadie Cashell seemed to age by twenty years.

  "You stupid bitch!" Cashell roared at her, standing in the doorway of the kitchen, a pint of milk in his hand. "You useless fucking bitch."

  I removed the gun from my pocket and with preternatural calmness, levelled it at Johnny Cashell. His jaw gaped open and he dropped the milk onto the linoleum floor, the white liquid stippling his legs.

  "Don't," I said. "Don't, Johnny. If I come back here and something has happened to Sadie, I will kill you. Understand that. I won't waste time on kickings or petrol, I will gladly put a bullet through your fucking heart."

  Then I backed down the hallway and pushed through the doorway, back out into the snow.

  The roads were deserted, save for farmers shifting hay between barns and fields. It took me ten minutes to get to the Three Rivers. On the way, I radioed through to Burgess in the station and asked for support at the hotel. I also asked about Holmes and was disappointed to hear that he had still not been found. It meant that Yvonne Coyle might still have an accomplice. That was if she was still in the area and supposing that Kate Costello was still alive.

  Just as I negotiated the final twist in the road, my phone rang. I recognized the number as Williams.

  "You spineless prick!" she snapped as soon as I answered. "If you think I'm not capable, tell me yourself."

  "What?"

  "First you send me to babysit a pensioner, then you send someone down to give me a hand. How dare you!"

  "What are you talking about?" I snapped.

  "Harvey. I'm sitting here in my car, watching him going inside. Do you not think I'm capable of sitting here myself?"

  "I didn't send Harvey down there, Caroline," I explained. "Why aren't you inside, with Powell?"

  "His daughter-in-law chased me out. I'm sitting outside, watching. Harvey arrived a few minutes ago. He's just gone in." Her tone changed. "I thought maybe you'd sent him to keep an eye on me."

  "For Christ's sake, Caroline, I sent you there because I trust you. Go in and see what Harvey's doing," I said, then thought better of it. "In fact, leave him in there and get over to the Three Rivers. I think that's where they are."

  There was a period of silence, long enough for me to wonder if my connection had been broken. Then Williams spoke: "Sorry, sir," she said.

  "Later, Caroline."

  "Yes, sir."

  The Three Rivers emerged out of the snow, skeletal and exposed. The windows had long since been smashed, boarded up and ripped open again. I drove up to the front of the hotel and got out of the car. I could just about make out the faintest tracks of tyres leading around the side of the building, though the snow was falling so thickly it was impossible to say how long ago they had been made. Returning to the car I followed the tracks carefully, the snow cracking under the wheels.

  I slid to a halt and checked to ensure I had my gun. Treading carefully, I reached a side entrance where I could make out more tyre tracks gradually disappearing under the snow. I approached the side of the hotel. Inside, the wallpaper was falling off and pieces fluttered in the wind like strips of flayed skin. On the exposed walls, graffiti was scrawled on top of the pink paint which someone had once applied as an undercoat.

  The carpet was still intact, though it was almost black, matted with dirt and sodden, so that, with each step, water welled up around my feet and my shoes squelched loudly. My eyes were just growing accustomed to the dimness when I turned a corner and walked into a patch of still grey light seeping in through a hole in the ceiling. Through it, stray flakes of snow pirouetted down.

  The musty smell of mice and another sharper, cleaner smell were carried on the wind. Beer cans, cigarette packets, used condoms, all lay discarded along the corridors. As I passed each doorway, I jerked my head in and scanned the room with my .38 drawn and cocked.

  Finally I came into a central reception area. In the corner was the door to what had once been a cloakroom. I could hear someone shifting in the darkness. I thought I could see a movement.

  "Sean? Yvonne?" I shouted. "Yvonne, this is Inspector Devlin. I know you're here. We're all around you, Yvonne. It's over, love. Why not come on out?"

  I waited, holding my breath, straining in the half-light to see if anyone would appear. I was about to call out again when I saw the diminutive figure of Yvonne Coyle step out of the shadows of the room, Kate Costello beside her, a Garda revolver pressed against her side. Further back, to her left, I could make out the outline of a man, sitting on the floor, his back against the wall, though it was too dark for me to see who it was.

  "It's over, Yvonne," I said, slipping my gun into my pocket. "Where's Holmes?"

  "Who?" she said.

  "Jason Holmes."

  "I have no idea what you're talking about, Inspector. Please. Throw your gun on the floor."

  "I don't carry a gun," I said, stretching out my arms.

  "I know that's not true. You took one out of your station the other night. Please. Throw your gun on the floor. Now," she added, nudging Kate with her own pistol.

  "Where's your brother, Yvonne?" I asked, glancing around in the semi-darkness in case he was hiding. But I began to suspect that I knew where he was. "He's not here, is he?"

  "Lie down on the ground, Inspector," Yvonne said. "Please don't make me hurt you."

  The figure slumped against the wall behind Coyle looked up. "Is that you, Devlin?" I realized that it was Thomas Powell.

  "You don't know who did it, yet, do you?" I said, realizing the significance of both Powell and Kate Costello being here. "You don't know who killed your mother. Ratsy was given away by the ring; I'm guessing he named Cashell and Boyle. But... you don't know who gave the order."

  "Which is where you can help me, Inspector," Yvonne said through gritted teeth. "Now lie down on the fucking ground."

  "Where's your brother, Yvonne? Did he kill Emily Costello? Murder an old woman?"

  I heard Kate whimper.

  "Keep talking, Inspector," Yvonne said, "and I'll shoot this useless bitch anyway." Again she prodded Kate with her gun. The girl's eyes flashed with panic, her face drawn in terror.

  "You've got the wrong person, Yvonne," I said, as I walked slowly towards her. "The rest of the station is outside now." I could make out Powell's outline, shaking his head. "You got the wrong person. Costello didn't kill your mother. I'm guessing Donaghey told you that, but he lied."

  "Then you have the chance to put the record straight, Inspector. One of these two has to die for what was done. You choose. You choose who should live."

  "I can't do that, Yvonne," I said, reaching slowly into my coat pocket for my pistol. "You know I can't do that."

  "Throw your gun on the floor, Inspector," Yvonne said. Then I heard her click the barrel of her gun into place and Kate Costello screamed. I took out my gun and threw it away from me, my hands raised in appeasement.

  "It was Costello," Powell shouted suddenly. "My father told me. We're family, for fuck's sake," he said, his voice cracking into sobs.

  "That's not true," I said. "I don't know who did it, Yvonne. Don't you think enough people have died already?"

  She moved towards me a little, the gun still held in her hand. "Why would Powell have killed my mother? How do you know it wasn't this ..." she ge
stured towards Costello, unable to sum up a word vicious enough to describe her or her father.

  "Your mother knew about some fraud he was running on these big companies he was bringing into Donegal. She went to the police. Donaghey worked for Powell. Donaghey lied to you, though. You can't believe anything he said. Yvonne, where's your brother? Please."

  "He's finishing things off. Going to see our father."

  And then I knew. "It's fucking Harvey, isn't it?" I said, desperately.

  She did not answer. The room lit up as if caught in the flash of a camera, and a sound like ice cracking in my eardrum echoed through the building. In that moment of intense light, Powell's face was lit up and I saw his expression of disbelief as a single horsetail of blood spurted from his body onto the wall behind.

  Kate Costello screamed hysterically now, while Coyle struggled to keep hold of her.

  I scrambled over to the slumped body, smelt the foulness under the cordite. The wetness of the carpet soaked up through my knees. But Powell was beyond help. "Please stop this, Yvonne." I managed to stutter.

  She released Kate now, who huddled against the wall, trying to make herself as small as possible, her body heaving with sobs.

  "I'm sorry you got involved, Inspector - really I am." Yvonne's voice assumed a singsong quality, as if removed from the squalor and the dead bodies surrounding her. "You remind me of my husband, you know. He's dead, too."

  I nodded. "I know, Yvonne. Look, it's not too late. We can sort something out." I knew, though, as I spoke, that my words were meaningless, born from desperation.

  "Can we?" She smiled at me, squatting with her gun inches from my skull, her fingers lightly brushing my face and lips. "I don't think so," she said, with the melancholy of a departing lover. "Much as I'd like to leave you here alive, Inspector, I know that you wouldn't let it go. Would you?"

  "My name's Benedict," I said. "Ben."

  I wanted to say more to her, to tell her that at some level I understood what she had done. I wanted to tell her that things could be salvaged, even though I knew that they were far beyond that point. "I spoke to Sister Perpetua," I said, a little too late.

  We both heard the sound of voices approaching along one of the darkened corridors. I thought I recognized Williams's voice, as ephemeral as those inside your head you when you are on the cusp of sleep. Coyle turned suddenly and strode over to where Kate Costello lay in a ball on the floor. I heard another sharp crack of the pistol, while I scrabbled about for my own weapon. As the shot hit Costello, I heard a soft grunting, then the sucking noise her body made as she tried to breathe.

  I heard Williams shouting now, and other voices, getting nearer. I tried to call out, but my mouth was dry and seized and the words died in my throat. Yvonne Coyle stood above me, her gun in her hands.

  "I'm sorry, Inspector," she said, then raised the gun.

  I would like to say that I looked death squarely in the face. I would like to say that I faced it bravely. But I did not. Instead I squeezed my eyes tight shut, already flinching as I waited for the shot, the searing heat of the bullet entering my body. In that last moment, it was not my life that flashed before my eyes, despite what people popularly claim. Rather, I grew intensely sad at the thought that I would never again see Penny smile, nor ever feel the softness of my son's hand as he touched my face while I bottle-fed him. I would not see again my wife, my rock, Debbie, whose touch alone conveyed more generosity of spirit than I could ever express. I felt tears burst from me, and then I heard the shot.

  When I opened my eyes, Williams and three uniforms were running up the corridor towards us, torchlights bouncing along the walls and ceiling. Beside me, her face as close as a lover's, her final breath dying on her lips like a parting kiss, lay Yvonne Coyle, her short blonde hair matted with her blood, her body still twitching. Part of her temple was missing, the white bone of her skull just visible amongst the blood. For a second I saw the ghost of something tug at the corners of her mouth, nothing more than a fleeting shadow, and then all was still.

  I reached over and placed my fingers against her face. Her skin was still warm and soft. I laid the palm of my hand flat against her cheek and whispered an Act of Contrition for her soul. In spite of myself, in sympathy for all that had happened to drive her to this, I leaned over and placed a single, light kiss on her forehead. Her skin yielded under my touch even as her colour faded.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Tuesday, 31st December

  Tommy Powell Sr had never really been in danger. Harvey had simply gone to Finnside to deliver the photograph of his mother. Unaware that everything was unravelling in the Three Rivers, he had quietly slipped out again. By then, Williams had left a note on his windshield telling him she had gone to the hotel to provide backup. Needless to say, he did not follow - if he had, he would only have seen his sister being carried out of the derelict building in a black body-bag, like the one Angela Cashell had been wrapped in just a fortnight previous. It was assumed that he had fled across the border, and patrols were set up, north and south.

  It transpired that I could have learnt his identity earlier that day from Armstrong. He had told me the IID file had recently been requested. If I had only asked, I would have been told that it was Harvey who had requested it and I could have warned Williams to arrest him when she saw him going into Finnside. On the other hand, had that happened, she would not have made it to the Three Rivers - and how different things might have been then.

  Kate Costello was taken to hospital in Letterkenny where she underwent emergency surgery. Jason Holmes reappeared just after one o'clock and was immediately arrested, though by that time I already knew that he had nothing to do with Yvonne Coyle or the killings. He did, however, confess to having a girlfriend over the border, with whom he had spent the night; someone he had met during one of his official canvassing visits to the clubs in Strabane. It transpired that he had been seeing her for almost the duration of his relationship with Caroline Williams. Williams sat in the interview room opposite him, listened to his confession silently, then went home.

  Yet again, I found myself in hospital being attended by the same harried registrar who had treated me the night before. This time she insisted that I stay in overnight, and Debbie agreed. Reluctantly, I sat alone and waited while Debbie went home to get me an overnight bag and to collect the kids from her mother.

  By 7.30 p.m. she had still not returned. I phoned the house several times and got no reply. I lifted my clothes, which were still dirty and damp, and checked that my pistol was in my coat, having retrieved it from the Three Rivers when the SOCO team had finished. Then, as unobtrusively as possible, I sneaked out, avoiding the nurses who were under orders to keep me confined to bed.

  I managed to snag a taxi at the bus stop ahead of a group of four revellers, replete with party hats and champagne bottles, celebrating the New Year. The village looked heartachingly picturesque, yet I could not shake the sense of emptiness with which the day's events had left me, nor the growing doubts about my family's safety. I tried phoning the station, but there was no answer and I guessed that those who weren't looking for Harvey had gone home for the festivities.

  The snow was falling faster now, leaving the hills bright. Both our village and Strabane were haloed with the reflected orange glow of the streetlamps. All around us, the world was white and crisp and cold. As the driver attempted the final incline up the hill towards my house, the car slid on the road, turning at a ninety- degree angle. He tried as best he could to correct our position and make the hill again, but this time the car would not move while he accelerated and, when he stopped, began to slide down towards the level again. Finally, the driver admitted defeat and told me he could take me no further.

  As he manoeuvred his way back onto the main road, I began to trudge up the hill. I attempted to run but the snow was too thick and my body too sore to make much headway. I should probably have considered conserving my strength, but I had a father's shortsightedness and the only
thought in my mind was the possibility that my children were in danger.

  When I was perhaps a quarter of a mile from my house, I heard the sound of an engine shuddering through the gently falling snow. A single weak light sparkled through the haze and the lumbering outline of a tractor appeared. I waved my arms, shouting for the driver to stop, a new hope flickering in my chest against the rawness of the winter wind on my lungs. Then, as the silhouette took form and substance, I saw Mark Anderson, perched high up in the cab of his old Ford. He slowed as he drew level with me and I called to him for help. He laughed, spat out the open window, then shunted into gear again and drove on, skittering snow over me.

  I screamed profanities in his wake, and pulled my pistol from my jacket, but it was an empty gesture. My screams, such as they were, were blanketed by the snow.

  I struggled onward, my ribcage feeling as if it would explode, my head throbbing. At one point I took a fit of coughing so hard that I spat blood onto the snow. Then, amongst the whispering of the snowfall, I heard a familiar yelping which I recognized as Frank's and I realized how close I was to home. As his barking continued I also had to acknowledge that Debbie would have brought him into the house by now, had she been able. I tried in vain to disregard what scene would be waiting for me when I finally reached my house.

  The house was in darkness when I finally got there, yet I could see thin skeins of smoke drifting from the chimney. I went around the back of the house, where Frank sat on the doorstep, his bandages bright against the brown of his fur. He whimpered slightly and limped towards me, his eyes mournful. His coat was matted and heavy with moisture; he had clearly been outside for some time.

  I opened the back door as softly as I could. Any element of surprise was lost, though, for Frank shoved his way through my legs and bolted into the kitchen, thudding against the chairs with enough force to knock one over. Almost immediately I heard Penny scream, a shout muffled quickly, and I knew that she, at least, was alive. I also knew that Harvey was here - waiting for me.