Borderlands ibd-1

by Brian McGilloway

  "What happened to him?" I asked, nodding over at Harvey and the boy.

  "He ran into a baton," Williams said. "Lucky I stayed here with you. Where would you men be without women, eh?" She put her arm around me and pressed her head against mine, and in that brief moment of warmth I could only ask myself the same question.

  "I'm sorry I… you know… raised my hand to you," I managed to say as she helped me towards the flickering blue lights cutting through the branches of the trees around us. She patted my shoulder lightly in what I took to be a sign of forgiveness. "I shouldn't have hit him, either," I added.

  "No one needs to know, sir," she said. "These things happen, eh?"

  I nodded, grateful for the opportunity to forget that my shame at hitting the boy had been equalled by the satisfaction I had felt in doing so.

  Three uniforms kept the irate group of travellers at bay as the two boys were placed in separate cars and taken back to Lifford. I wanted to go with McKelvey, but Costello wouldn't allow it, telling me I was to get to the doctor's surgery before anything else. Holmes and Williams took McKelvey, but promised not to begin the interview without me.

  The snow was falling so fast that the windscreen wipers of the car would not clear it. It had lain dry on the car bonnet like powdered sugar and now blew back onto the windscreen as we drove.

  The doctor gave me a tetanus shot and stitched and bandaged up my hand, showing me first where the skin and ligaments could be pulled back to reveal the yellow-white bone beneath. Again, the bile rose in my throat and I had to swallow it back to stop myself being sick. As he gave me a bottle of painkillers, he broached a subject I had not wanted to consider.

  "I've taken a blood sample for testing, you know," he said, looking me in the eye. I nodded and did not speak. "HIV, hepatitis, that kind of thing; I'll get the results for you quick as I can. There's a three month incubation period with HIV, though; might have to get that done again in the spring. It's unlikely, Inspector, but all the same – better be safe than sorry, eh?"

  "Safe…" I said, unable to articulate the thoughts which darkened my mind.

  Now I sat in the patrol car as we carefully wound our way down the snow-covered streets of Lifford and slid to a halt outside the station, nausea continuing to gnaw at my stomach while I tried to reassure myself that McKelvey was too young to have diseases such as those the doctor had mentioned, yet acutely aware that his age, perhaps, made it all the more likely.

  When I got into the station, several people whose faces I hardly recognized enquired after my health and some patted my back or shook my uninjured hand. The doctor had elevated my arm in a sling – for comfort, he said, but it had the effect of drawing attention to the injury.

  I was shuffling up to the interview room when Costello appeared, two steaming cups of coffee in his hands. He offered me one.

  "How's the hand?" he said, motioning towards my arm with his own cup.

  "Fine. I'm on a painkiller trip. I'll tell you, I can understand the attraction of drugs."

  Costello laughed, thinking I was joking. "Feeling up to talking to our latest visitor? We held back, just for you."

  McKelvey was in our holding cell, sitting on the edge of the lightweight metal bench which was suspended from the ceiling with thick wires. He was wearing black jeans, which were moulded to his legs and groin, and a pair of Nike trainers. On top he had been wearing only a white T-shirt when we picked him up, but someone in the station had given him a blanket which he had wrapped around himself. His hair looked bleached blond, almost white at the tips, like an albino, and despite its length, his ears stuck out almost at right angles to the side of his head. One of the earlobes had a nick taken out of it; the other was pierced with three gold studs. His face was thin and narrow, his eyes wide and blue, his cheekbones high, all of which, combined with his skin-tight trousers, gave him a feminine appearance. One of his eyes was badly bruised, the lid almost shut, and the knocks he had received had affected his nose, for he spoke with a harsh, nasal twang.

  Harvey cuffed McKelvey and led him up to the interview room where we had set a table and enough chairs for McKelvey and the murder team. When McKelvey was brought in and sat down he slouched automatically and reached over to lift one of the cigarettes from the pack I had left in front of me. I put the packet in my pocket after taking one myself. If necessary, we could offer him one later in barter for information.

  Costello introduced all present for the benefit of the twin tape recorders which were running beside us. Costello then asked McKelvey, for the second time, to confirm that he had waived his right to a solicitor. McKelvey laughed and said something unintelligible which we took to be agreement.

  "Liam. Do you understand why you are here today?" Costello asked as a gentle opener.

  "Aye. CSA. Can't take knickers off a bare arse, know what I mean."

  We looked at each other, trying to make some sense of what he had said. Eventually Williams said, "What? Could you… could you explain that for us, Liam?"

  "CSA. But you should be thanking me. Them sluts were sluts till I got them up the duff. They don't realize that, but they're slags and nobody respects them, see? Then I get them up the duff. They get respect then, wit' their sprogs. All claiming benefits anyhow. I get them slags respect. An' a good seeing to," he said, winking at Williams, "know what I mean, like."

  "Jesus," Williams said disgustedly, "it would take more than drugs, son." Costello shot her a warning glance.

  "Liam, did you know Angela Cashell?" Costello asked.

  "Fuck's sake, course I do. Haven't I jus' tol’ you. She was a slapper – no one'd go near her. I got her respect."

  "You got her respect," Holmes interrupted incredulously. "How exactly did you do that?"

  "I'm not talking to you," McKelvey snapped, literally spitting. Costello announced that the interview was suspended for a break and called us outside, leaving Harvey in the interview room with the boy.

  "What in God's name is going on in there?" he asked as we came out.

  "He thinks he's been lifted for not paying child support," Williams explained. "The CSA in the North."

  "He also seems to believe that by leaving girls pregnant, he's doing them a favour by removing the stigma of being a 'slag' and replacing it with the honour of being a single mother to a litter of little Whitey McKelveys," I said.

  "And he seems to think that Angela Cashell was pregnant, too."

  "Was she?" Holmes asked with concern. "You know, that would be a double murder."

  "No. If she was pregnant, the autopsy would have shown it. The question is why did he think she was pregnant?" I said.

  "Unless she told him she was," continued Costello. "But why would you want that piece of shit to think he was father to your baby. Especially if there was no baby?"

  "Perhaps she wanted to keep him," suggested Williams. "Maybe she thought he was going to dump her, so she said she was pregnant in the hope that he'd stick around. Or maybe she thought she was.

  At that age, it's difficult to rely on the time of the month. If you're a week or two late, you convince yourself you've been caught."

  "Do you?" I asked, smiling.

  "Oh yes," Williams said. "And it doesn't stop when you're past being a teenager."

  "Maybe she wanted money. Tells him she's pregnant and needs money for the baby," I suggested.

  "Or for an abortion," Williams agreed.

  "Maybe McKelvey thought she was pregnant and killed her to avoid having to pay anything," Holmes suggested.

  "No," Williams said. "You heard him in there. He doesn't give a shit how many babies he has, he has no intention of paying for them anyway. Why would one more be any different?"

  "Shit," I said, as a growing realisation dawned. "That scuppers one theory."

  "What?" Holmes asked.

  "Well, we know that McKelvey did a runner when he saw Johnny Cashell looking for him after Angela died. We'd assumed that that was a sign of guilt for her death. But what if it wasn't?
"

  "You mean, what if he thought Johnny was after him for getting his daughter pregnant?" Holmes said.

  "Exactly," I said.

  Costello nodded towards Holmes and Williams. "Look, I'd like you two to sit out of this one," he said. "We'll try him first," he said to me, "with you leading. If we don't get anywhere, we'll swap. Okay?"

  I could tell that both were annoyed about being left out of the interview. As the two of them headed into the room beside us, where they could watch and listen unseen, I asked Costello why in particular he had excluded Williams, who had been getting on fine.

  "Don't want to have a lady have to listen to that kind of chat. No place for a girl like Caroline," he said, his tone serious, his face set. I wondered whether to point out that comments like that would have him before an industrial tribunal for sexist behaviour.

  In the end I said nothing, but followed him into the room, taking time to nod in the direction of the two-way mirror, through which I knew Williams and Holmes would be watching.

  We sat down and I took out a cigarette and lit it. I could see Whitey's gaze following the smoke and he licked at his lips and fidgeted in his seat.

  "So, you knew Angela Cashell?" I asked and he confirmed that he did. "What about her father?"

  "Bloody lunatic," he said.

  "Why?"

  "Psycho bastard tried to burn me fuckin' home down. Should be liftin' him, not the likes of me."

  "Why did he come after you Liam? Why'd you think he tried to-"

  "'Cause she were up the duff," he stated, folding his thin arms across his chest.

  "What? Because you got her pregnant?"

  "Aye, why else?"

  "Not because he thought you'd killed her?" I asked, as casually as possible.

  "Aye, right." He laughed. "Me kill her. What would I kill her for? Wasn't she givin' me me hole?"

  "You're a born romantic, Liam," I said, earning a glance from Costello.

  "What about drugs, Liam?" Costello asked.

  "What about them?" he said, grinning inanely. "Yes, please," he laughed, looking from Costello to me and back to see if we shared his estimation of his sense of humour. Neither of us spoke. "Oh, sorry, sir, I forgot. I'd never do that." He spluttered a laugh again, spittle bubbling on his lips.

  "No drugs, then Liam. Not for you?"

  "I don't do drugs. I'm telling you; I don't need them."

  "Not even something to get you in the mood, you and Angela maybe. Before… you know?"

  He giggled strangely. "I don't need nothing, me. You might at your age, but not me."

  "What about Angela? Was she taking drugs?"

  "I don't know. Ask her. Give us a fag, mister."

  Costello thumped the table with such force it made me jump, whatever the effect on McKelvey. "We can't ask her – she's dead. So watch your mouth, son."

  For a moment McKelvey looked slightly stupefied, but quickly regained his bonhomie. He behaved as though this whole thing was a big joke – three friends having a laugh. "Aye, good one. What? Have you got me in for murder, like? Aye, right."

  "Actually, we do Liam. So I'd start answering some questions if I were you, son, starting with where you were on Friday night." Costello leaned forwards on the table as he spoke, his size formidable in such a small room.

  McKelvey was silent a moment, his face aghast. Then he shouted, "Piss off! You're not pinning nothing on me. I want me lawyer." He leaned to look around us at the mirror behind us. "Oi, you in there. Get me a lawyer. I want me lawyer."

  "Listen, Liam. It's very simple, son," I said. "We have a number of questions which we would like you to answer. If you help us, and answer them fully and honestly, we'll have you home this evening. If not, you're in here over Christmas until the court opens on the twenty-seventh. Help us and we'll see you right."

  McKelvey said nothing. He folded his arms sullenly and slouched further in his seat, staring at some indistinct point on the scarred surface of the table. I hoped we had deflected his attention away from his request for a lawyer – it would only complicate things. "Where were you on Friday night last?" I asked, taking his silence as a sign of reluctant acceptance.

  "Don't remember," he said, without looking up.

  "Try!" Costello said.

  "I was in Letterkenny. With me cousins."

  "Where?"

  "About."

  "Where about?" I asked.

  "Everywhere! I don't know, do I? I had a few drinks in me," he spat.

  "When did you last see Angela Cashell?"

  "Last Tuesday, I think."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Aye, of course I'm sure."

  "So you remember what you did last Tuesday, but not Friday?" Costello queried.

  "I got off, didn't I? 'Course I remember it."

  "You didn't see her, say, on Thursday night?"

  "Are you deaf?" He leaned towards the tape recorders and raised his voice for comic effect. "I haven't seen her since Tuesday. Do you understand?" This final phrase he said as a deaf person might. Then he laughed forcibly, any real bravado having long since abandoned him.

  "So, if I told you we have video footage of you and Angela Cashell on Thursday night together in Strabane, you'd say I was lying would you?"

  "Aye. I didn't see her on Thursday, alright?"

  "Okay, okay, Liam, whatever you say." I looked to Costello, signalling that I was done for now.

  "Tell me, Liam, I have to ask. Angela Cashell was a good-looking girl. Whatever attracted her to you?"

  "Animal fucking magnetism, isn't it?" he said, not missing a beat, his teeth exposed in a grin.

  "But seriously," Costello said, not breaking his stride either, "what attracted her? Drugs? Money? What?"

  "I gave her things nobody else could," McKelvey said, almost offended that his charms were not immediately apparent.

  "What? Scabies?" I asked and thought I heard a snort from behind the mirror, where Williams and Holmes were still watching. I immediately regretted the comment, but Whitely spoke before I could apologize.

  "Aye, babies," he said, though I was unsure whether he actually misheard me or just chose to ignore what I had said.

  "There must have been something else," Costello said. "Were you paying her?"

  "No!" McKelvey replied, beginning to redden. "She needed money sometimes. That's the way she is. I gave her it if she was stuck. Said her da was a bleeding tightwad."

  "Did she ask you for money when she said she was pregnant, Liam?" Costello asked with conspiratorial warmth.

  "Aye. Said she needed two hundred quid to take care of it, know what I mean? Couldn't ask her da."

  "What did you tell her?"

  "Told her it wasn't my problem."

  There was a pause while Costello seemed to consider something, biting at the inside of his cheek. Finally he asked, "Would you have taken care of her and the baby?" The relevance of this question was lost on me.

  "Not my problem. She got a shag. What more does she want?" He folded his arms on his chest and nodded once, with arrogance, as if to emphasize his position. "Know what I mean?"

  Costello shook his head sadly, and I realized the question had been personal: a vain attempt to see if there was even a shred of decency in Whitey McKelvey.

  "Liam," I said, redirecting the interview, "I want to go over some stuff, because I think you've not been totally honest with me. So I'm going to ask you once more. Were you giving Angela Cashell drugs?"

  "I said no already."

  "Were you buying her drugs or giving her money for drugs?"

  "I gave her money for stuff. I don't know what she spent it on."

  "What about the ring, Liam? Did you give her the ring?"

  "What ring?"

  "Gold ring, greeny-blue stone in the middle with diamonds around it. You know the one. You lifted it in Letterkenny a month ago. Tried to sell it in Stranorlar. Refreshing your memory now, Liam?"

  "That. I sold it," he said, refusing to look at me, staring inst
ead at the mirror behind me. "Some bitch bought it off me in a disco."

  "Who?"

  "Don't know."

  "Where?"

  "Don't know," he said, smiling.

  Costello stood up, suddenly. "This interview is concluded at 7.55 p.m. on Wednesday 24th December." Then he turned off the tapes and called into the intercom beside the machines. "Would someone come in and take this piece of shit to the cells?" He added softly and a little sadly, "Then hose this place out…" Finally, he turned to McKelvey and said, "You disgust me, you… fucking animal," as if he could think of nothing worse to say. His shoulders slumped, as though he realized that Whitey McKelvey, of all people, had somehow inveigled him into revealing a side to his character that he would rather not have acknowledged, and he left the room.

  "You shot yourself in the foot with this one, buddy." McKelvey said nothing, but gave me the finger. Then, when Harvey came over to take him down to the cells, I too left the room and joined Costello and Williams and Holmes next door.

  "Well?" I said.

  "Not much, is there?" Williams said. Then she smiled, "I liked the scabies line though."

  "It was a cheap shot," I said.

  "It's him," Holmes said. "He's a liar through and through. We know he was with her on Thursday night; sure we have it on tape. If he's lying about that, he's lying about the whole lot." He snorted with derision. "I say we charge him now."

  "No," Costello said. "We've seventy-two hours. Hold him over Christmas. We'll start again on Boxing Day. If we need to, we can charge him then. Let the wee shite stew for a few days without his turkey and ham. Agreed?" We all shrugged assent. "The only problem now is who'll do tonight?"

  It's difficult on any night, never mind Christmas Eve, to get volunteers to man a station in a village the size of ours. Generally, one of us takes a mobile and the station is locked up for the night. McKelvey had screwed that up. Someone needed to be in the station while he was being held.

  "I'll do a session before midnight," I said. "Debbie will divorce me if I do the whole night. Anyway, Penny is singing solo at midnight Mass tonight and I can't miss it or she'll divorce me, too."