Gallows Lane (Inspector Devlin Mystery 2)

by Brian McGilloway

  I shoved my way over to the exit, which led out to a side alley and eventually to the car park. The crowd seemed to thicken around me, pushing and jostling, like cattle, towards the promise of fresh air. When I brushed past one couple, the girl shrieked and her male partner grabbed at my arm and shouted something unintelligible. Finally, I made it out through the doorway.

  ‘Which way did he go?’ I shouted to the smokers standing around, but most of them were too drunk or stoned to notice or care. One girl pointed up the alley, towards the car park. I glanced in the opposite direction which seemed to lead out on to the main road.

  I turned and jogged up the dark alley as the girl had suggested, my chest heaving, the warm night air burning my lungs. I really needed to stop smoking. After a couple of hundred yards I had to stop and lean against the gable wall of the building to my right to catch my breath. I bent double, wheezing, my lungs feeling like they would explode. That sensation returned, as if the alley had lengthened or altered in some other way. I looked at my hands and they seemed to belong to someone else.

  ‘Fuck,’ I thought. My stomach churned and I thought I would be sick. I leaned my arms on my knees for support as I tried to steady myself, my breath catching in my throat.

  Then I heard the screech of brakes as a car turned in from the car park, its headlights dazzling me as they raked across the mouth of the alley. Several beer crates stacked against the wall careered off the car’s bonnet as it sped towards me. I had nowhere to go, nothing to hide behind. I squeezed myself against the wall just as the car passed me, cracking my leg. As it pulled out on to the road, I was able to see the model and colour – a silver BMW coupé. But I had been unable to see the registration plate in the glare of the lights, nor did I get a good look at the driver as he’d passed, other than his hand and arm clamped on the wheel, and a baseball cap which obscured his face.

  *

  A barman brought me a cup of tea while I sat in Thompson’s office, looking back over the security footage, hoping to see my assailant. The best image was the one Rebecca had spotted, of the man walking towards the toilets. It confirmed that he was the man I had chased, but wasn’t clear enough for us to make an identification.

  I was feeling fairly shitty about the whole thing until I was reminded that we had at least an eye witness when one of the Garda officers from outside came in and said, ‘There’s a boy in the toilets wondering if he can leave now?’

  ‘Bring him in,’ I said.

  The ‘boy’, it transpired, was actually in his thirties and was called David Headley. He was remarkably lucid and sober, which he explained was due to his being designated driver. ‘It’s my wife’s birthday,’ he said. ‘She still insists on coming to places like this.’ He winced slightly and nodded at Jack Thompson. ‘No offence.’

  ‘None taken,’ Thompson replied. ‘I only come here because I work here.’

  ‘Anything you can tell us about the bald man in the toilets?’ I asked.

  ‘He didn’t wash his hands,’ Headley said, smiling at his attempt at levity. ‘I didn’t really see his face. He stood beside me at the urinals. Kind of intimidated me. I couldn’t pee when he was standing there. Then you panic that he thinks you don’t really have to pee, you just like standing beside men at the urinal. I kept my head down, I’m afraid. Didn’t see much.’ He blushed slightly as he spoke.

  ‘You didn’t notice a tattoo, did you – on his arm?’

  Headley brightened up with that. ‘Yeah, I did. Really detailed. A picture of Cuchulain, I think.’

  Cuchulain, the hound of Ulster, is a mythical Irish folk hero, famed for his strength and bravery in battle. More particularly, I remembered that he had suffered battle frenzy, much like the Norse berserkers. He was a warrior both of great skill and great violence. He is traditionally depicted in death, leaning against a tree or a stone pillar, a raven near his shoulder, having tied himself upright to continue fighting his enemies, even when mortally wounded. The image had been famously re-created in a sculpture in the General Post Office in Dublin commemorating the Easter Rising of 1916. Certainly that image of Cuchulain which I remembered would seem to fit with Rebecca Purdy’s vague description of a man standing at a tree.

  ‘He was our boy, all right,’ I said, wondering at the personality of someone who would sport such a tattoo.

  Thompson allowed me to use the first-aid kit in his office to treat my injuries. My knee needed little more than bandaging, but it made me feel older than ever as I limped through the crowd on my way out of the club. I saw Helen Gorman standing at the bar, a tall young man talking to her. She caught my eye and smiled, then rolled her eyes in mock exasperation. Her companion followed her gaze, looked me up and down quite obviously, and continued with his discussion, satisfied that I posed no threat to his evening’s plans.

  The air felt warm and dry on my face as I hobbled towards my car and I suddenly felt very tired, and a little alone.

  Debbie was sleeping by the time I got home, so I sat downstairs for a while at the kitchen door and had a cigarette. The attack in the club reminded me that I had forgotten to take any more of the beta-blockers John Mulrooney had given me. I took out the box of tablets, read the list of side effects, and decided to leave them for now.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Sunday, 13 June

  We attended early Mass the next morning. The air felt superheated, the atmosphere inside the church warm and heavy. As we were leaving, I saw Agnes Doherty making her way to her car, a young boy holding her hand. When she saw me, she stopped.

  ‘You must be Sean, is that right?’ I said to the boy as I approached. ‘And how are you, Miss Doherty?’

  ‘Jesus, Agnes’ll do. How is the . . . how are you?’ she said, stopping herself mid-sentence.

  ‘Fine. The investigation is going well, I think. I’m certain we’ll get the man responsible. We have some very promising leads.’

  ‘I heard there was another attack,’ she said, shooing her son into the car.

  ‘Yes, a young girl. She’s recovered, though; given us a very good description. As soon as I have something I’ll let you know. I promise.’

  She nodded, looking into the distance, considering unspoken thoughts. ‘If you get a chance, Inspector, don’t arrest him. Just shoot the bastard and have done with it, will you?’ Almost as soon as she had said it, she blessed herself and muttered, ‘God forgive me,’ then went to climb into her car.

  I put my hand on her shoulder to stop her. ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘We’ll make him pay.’

  ‘Not nearly enough,’ she stated simply.

  Williams and I sat in the office later that day, discussing the case. I told her all that had happened in Club Manhattan, the sighting of the suspect, and the subsequent events in the alleyway.

  ‘Are you okay now?’ she asked. ‘Shouldn’t you be off work, or something?’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ I said. ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘You need to be more careful,’ she said with annoyance.

  ‘I know. Anyway, what do we know now?’ I said, fidgeting with the notebook that lay open on the desk in front of me. ‘About our man?’

  ‘We know he’s big and bald. We know he drives a silver BMW and we know he has a tattoo of Cuchulain.’

  ‘Actually,’ I said, ‘we know he has several cars: black, red and silver.’

  ‘We also think he might be a boxer, or fighter of some sort.’

  ‘Possibly,’ I agreed.

  ‘Fair enough,’ Williams said. ‘So let’s hit all the local gyms, see if anyone recognizes the tattoo. Maybe follow up Peter McDermott again, too. See if he found anything for us.’

  ‘Let’s just gather our things. Nowhere will be open today anyway. Besides, the NBCI people will be arriving tomorrow. I’m going to take my paperwork home with me and get it sorted for them. And I have to go to Sligo for this bloody interview tomorrow as well.’

  Caroline placed her hand on top of mine. ‘Don’t worry. It’ll all be fin
e. You’ll see,’ she said, smiling a little sadly.

  I spent the rest of Sunday with Debs and the children, trying desperately to forget that the following morning would see the arrival of both the NBCI detectives and the panel which would be conducting my interview. But despite our better efforts at levity, neither Debbie nor I could escape the looming presence of Miriam Powell in our lives once more.

  Debbie was quieter than usual that evening, half answering questions and absentmindedly dropping conversations mid-sentence. She stood with her back to me in the kitchen, her arms deep in the sudsy water, staring, motionless, out at the back garden where Frank was playing with one of Shane’s small footballs.

  ‘I still don’t know what to say tomorrow,’ I said, hoping that Debbie would tell me what to do and thereby allow me to abdicate responsibility. That thought reminded me of my more recent action involving Declan O’Kane’s car.

  ‘What?’ she said, still turned from me.

  ‘I said I don’t know what to say tomorrow,’ I repeated.

  ‘I don’t know, either, Ben,’ she replied sharply. ‘Say whatever you want to say.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I said, walking over behind her and wrapping my arms around her waist from behind.

  She shrugged out of my hold, tutting with annoyance. ‘Nothing’s wrong,’ she said. ‘I can’t make up your mind for you.’ She lifted the tea towel from beside the sink and rubbed vigorously at her hands and arms.

  ‘Should I tell them about Patterson planting the drugs?’ I asked.

  She turned and looked at me quizzically for a moment. ‘You know, honesty isn’t always a virtue, Ben. Don’t delude yourself into self-righteousness.’ She handed me the balled-up towel and walked away.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Monday, 14 June

  The long promised thunderstorm rumbled across Donegal throughout the night, flooding the fields and creating a sheen of dust and grease on the roads that would result in several accidents before lunch.

  At around three-thirty, above the rumbling of the storm, a louder smash woke me from my sleep. Debbie was already awake and out of bed, going to check on the kids in case one of them had fallen out of bed. But I knew that the noise had come from below and had a suspicion I knew what it was. I wasn’t wholly surprised when I went down to the living room to find the rain lashing in through a broken window pane, a chunk of red brick resting on the carpet amongst a nest of shattered glass.

  For the first time since being made a DI I wore my Garda uniform. I had to be in Sligo for noon, which gave me time to get into the station and leave the paperwork I’d prepared for the NBCI team with Williams. On my way in I remembered to stop at a call box just on the border and called the station. There was little point in having Kerr’s tract in O’Kane’s car, if no one knew it was there.

  When I got into work, the place was quiet. I spotted Miriam Powell’s car parked on the street outside and assumed she was in for some last-minute pointers from Costello before she set off for Sligo. Patterson wasn’t about, though I knew his interview was scheduled for mid-afternoon.

  Just after nine-thirty, Burgess told me there was a call for me. I imagined it was Debbie, phoning to wish me good luck or to offer some advice. I was wrong.

  ‘Devlin?’

  ‘Yes, who’s this?’ I did not recognize the voice. It sounded local and was clearly a man’s though, as he spoke, I got the impression he was holding something between his mouth and the receiver to disguise himself. Which meant it was someone I knew, or someone who thought that I would know his voice.

  ‘Keep your fucking mouth shut, all right?’

  I was caught totally off guard and stuttered a few times as I tried to speak.

  ‘Keep your mouth shut and keep your nose out of other people’s business. If you don’t – your wee girl gets one in the head. Don’t think I’m bluffing.’

  ‘Who is—’ I started to say, planning to make all kinds of threats of my own, but the line was dead and whoever had called had simply slipped back into anonymity.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ someone said, and I looked up to see Williams standing above me. Her face seemed to distort and twist and the room suddenly shifted sideways.

  I felt her hand on my shoulder and she squatted beside me. She placed the flat of her hand against my face and looked me in the eye and I was aware of her talking to me, soothingly. I looked into her eyes and felt the softness of her skin against my cheek. I felt my panic begin to recede, almost saw the greyness lifted from the air around me, and heard again the hushed murmuring of the office which seemed to have paused in my panic. And I saw Williams’s eyes, the tapering of her chin, her mouth, her lips parted and slightly reddened. I placed my hand over hers.

  ‘Are you okay?’ she asked.

  I nodded, my throat too dry to speak.

  ‘What happened? Another panic attack?’ She whispered it as she spoke, almost as if it were a shared secret.

  ‘A phone call,’ I finally said, holding on to her hand even as she removed it from my face. She sat on the chair next to me and held my hand in both of hers.

  ‘What about?’

  ‘If I don’t keep my mouth shut, they’re going to do something to Penny,’ I said, and my panic began to rise again. I tried to stand up, to move, to do something decisive, but my legs failed me and I sat again. Williams intertwined her fingers in mine, distracting me again.

  ‘Jesus, Ben. Do you know who it was? Tell Costello.’

  Her face was so close to me, I could feel her breath in mine. We looked at each other, but neither of us moved, neither of us attempted to disentangle our hands.

  ‘There’s been a call,’ she finally managed. ‘About Kerr—’ she began, but she was interrupted.

  ‘Inter-Gardai relationships have become very intimate.’

  I looked up at Miriam Powell who smirked at us. I believe I blushed.

  ‘I hate to interrupt but I just wanted to wish you good luck with the interview, Inspector. I’m sure you’ll be most impressive.’

  I left for Sligo soon after, driving slowly enough to stay well behind Miriam. At the Regional HQ I was directed into a small waiting room, in which two other Inspectors were already sitting. Though we didn’t know one another, we shared small talk to dispel our nerves, while trying to forget that we were competing for the same spots on the promotions list. The elder of the two, a man from Downings, told me it was his fifth time before the panel. The younger, from Sligo, was up for his third attempt. When I told them it was my first they laughed and visibly relaxed. The Sligo man was called into the adjoining room where the panel were sitting, and I took the opportunity to nip outside for a smoke. By the time I returned, the Downings man was being led into the room. He winked at me as he closed the door behind him.

  Finally, fifteen minutes later, I was called in.

  The panel consisted of three people, Deputy Commissioner Jim Garrison and two civilian members: Miriam Powell, and a man whose name I couldn’t catch, who worked for Aer Lingus.

  ‘Inspector Devlin is one of Lifford’s most well-respected officers,’ Miriam began by way of introduction. ‘I know he takes his work very personally.’

  Then the questions began.

  Generally, they asked about basic stuff: crime numbers, beat support for detective work, clearance rates, motivating staff and balancing budgets. Inevitably, however, the questioning turned to recent activities.

  ‘Things seem a little out of control up there at the moment, Inspector,’ the airline manager said. ‘Quite a number of killings – no arrests as such. It’s a bit of a wild frontier you’re policing.’

  ‘NBCI are coming in today to assist us with the investigations,’ I said. ‘Besides, we’re very hopeful for a breakthrough very soon. We’re closing in on one of the killers; I’m confident we’ll get him in the coming days.’

  ‘Drafting in NBCI,’ he replied. ‘You’re happy with that? Being able to delegate; ask for help when needed?’

  I was u
nsure whether it was a question or a statement, so I said nothing, in case he hadn’t finished.

  ‘I’m sure Inspector Devlin has done his best,’ Miriam countered. ‘All things considered.’

  The other two nodded silently and looked at me. I felt my panic begin to rise again as I realized I couldn’t just get up and walk out. I felt trapped, was finding it difficult to swallow, as though something were lodged in my throat.

  Then Deputy Commissioner Garrison spoke. ‘Some concern has been expressed over these guns and drugs finds over the past months. Some reservations about the validity of the finds. Any comments, Inspector?’

  I took a deep breath, swallowed hard and began to speak.

  When I got outside, I felt exhausted, my muscles aching as if after an hour’s workout. I called Debbie to let her know how it had gone while I had a smoke. Then I got back on the road, planning to grab some lunch when I reached Lifford station. Any chance of a break was soon lost, though. Caroline Williams was sitting in our office, working through the case files with three men who introduced themselves as detectives from NBCI.

  The most senior, Inspector Donal Dempsey, stood up and shook hands, before introducing his colleagues – Sergeants Tommy Deegan and Adam Meaney.

  Dempsey nodded towards my clothes; ‘We don’t dress this well in Dublin. Is it formal here or something?’

  ‘No, I . . . I had an interview,’ I explained.

  He nodded and smiled. ‘I’m only taking the piss – Caroline here told us already.’

  ‘Oh,’ I replied, returning the smile.

  ‘Well,’ he said, rubbing his hands together. ‘Caroline has gone over the case with us too; we’ll handle the Kerr and Webb killings, as they seem to be connected. You can concentrate on the Duffy killing.’

  ‘Doherty,’ I corrected. ‘Karen Doherty.’

  ‘Sure, Doherty. Sorry,’ he said. ‘You okay with that division?’ Before I had a chance to answer, he continued, ‘Of course, we’re not here to step on anyone’s toes. Think of us as an extra resource.’