I phoned Hendry and asked him to meet me for lunch, which, by the time he arrived, consisted of sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, eaten on a park bench outside the library. The sun was low in the sky and our shadows stretched along the pavement.
"Anything on Knox?" I asked, trying to eat and talk at the same time and doing neither with any great success.
"Fairly much what I told you yesterday."
"You didn't tell me you arrested her."
"Did I? I don't remember, but I'm sure I did arrest her. She was one of those characters everyone in the town knew. Rumour was that she was piecing off a bit of action to anyone in uniform who would give her a free pass." He added quickly, "Not that I ever availed of the offer myself."
"Was she working this side of the border or on the other?" I asked, wiping mayonnaise from my mouth.
"Both, I guess," replied Hendry. "She had quite a range of clients, all things considered. If she'd been inclined to mediate, she'd have been a one-woman peace process."
"No thoughts on what happened to her?" I asked.
"She's dead," Hendry said, in a matter-of-fact way, rolling his wax paper into a ball and pitching it at the bin beside our seat. The paper hit the rim and skittered onto the road. A woman walking past with her two children looked at it, then at us, and scowled. "I'd say she's buried under a housing estate, or in the woods, or under a beach or car-park somewhere," Hendry added.
"Who did it?"
"Hard to say, really. At the time, the IRA had 'disappeared' quite a few people: informers, non-informers, people who spoke out against them in the local shops. Disappeared and never seen again. Provos wouldn't admit it then, but it's coming out now. Tortured them to find out what they'd said, then dumped the bodies on building sites. So that was high up on our list. The other possibility was some customer, unhappy with the services she provided. Maybe a john she was blackmailing, threatening to tell his wife. Whoever did it probably never killed again. She just vanished."
"The newspapers talked about her 'dependants'. Who were they?" I asked, lighting a cigarette and offering Hendry one.
"Two kids. A boy and a girl. Damned if I know what age they were, though," Hendry said, drawing on the cigarette, then looking at the tip to ensure it had lit fully. He blew the smoke out with an audible sigh, wiping crumbs from his moustache as he pulled at it.
"What happened to them?"
"I've no idea. I'd nothing to do with the disappearance. I encountered her occasionally. Knew her by reputation, really." He looked at his watch. "I better go. Take it easy, you hear," he said, waving as he walked off back to his station. Then he stopped and came back. "Thought you might want to know. Johnny Cashell was up yesterday. Fined five grand. Got off light all things considered, even if in some ways he did the community a service!" he laughed.
After picking up Hendry's discarded litter, I returned to the car. So Johnny Cashell had been back in Lifford yesterday – shunting him right back to the top of the list of suspects for burning my car. And also putting him nearer the top of the list of people I had to speak to. First, I drove along the Derry Road to the new council offices, where I asked for the registrar. The woman who came out to help me was a heavyset, reticent lady, who seemed to whisper when she spoke. I explained to her that I was looking for birth certificates for the two Knox children, and gave her a general idea of the period in question. She took all the details, then told me she would call me when she had copies.
Next, I returned to Lifford, stopping off at the station to confirm what I already knew to be the case: the photograph from the site where Angela's body was found was the same as that taken from Ratsy's flat. Mary Knox. Williams had left a note saying that she and Holmes had gone with a police artist to get a sketch of the girl spotted with Terry Boyle the night he died. I headed straight for Clipton Place to confront Johnny Cashell over the arson attack on my house. It seemed, however, that he had been out the night before celebrating his release and, slightly the worse for wear, was now in the pub, searching for the hair of the dog.
As it turned out, I missed him in McElroy's bar. However, I did find out that Johnny had been there all of the day before – after his daughter's funeral – and had had to be carried into a taxi at three in the morning – which meant he was still lying comatose in the bar when someone torched my car – which meant he slid right back down my list of suspects.
Finally, when I had nothing left to do to avoid it, I drove back over to Lifford and to Powell's house. This time I pulled into the drive where Miriam's BMW sat alone. I knocked on the door twice and was about to turn and leave when I heard the slamming of one of the internal doors. Seconds later, Miriam pulled the front door open, her face flushed and her breathing heavy. Her breath smelt of cigarettes and drink. She stood in the doorway, leaning slightly against the doorframe, and smiled. "Come in," she said, and turned and led me into the living room.
"Debs said you wanted to see me, Miriam," I said, standing by the sofa.
"Sit, Ben, please," she said, doing so herself. As she sat, she ran her hands along the backs of her legs, as though to smooth out a skirt, but it was clearly force of habit, for she was wearing jeans and a white, man's shirt with the top buttons open wide enough to reveal the flush at the base of her throat and the swell of her tanned chest. She seemed to be aware of my gaze for, as she spoke, she fingered the collar of the shirt and rubbed her index finger along the length of her collarbone.
"I wished to apologize for my behaviour in your home the other night," she said, smiling at me girlishly.
"I need to apologize, too, Miriam, for what happened in the car."
She waved her hand, as though wafting my words from the air.
"No need, Ben. Just think of it as two old friends renewing their acquaintance."
"You wanted to speak about your father-in-law?" I prompted, already growing uneasy with the direction the conversation was taking.
"He saw someone again the night before last," she said.
"In his room?" I asked.
"Not quite. Outside. He said he saw shadows at his window, trying to peer in through the crack in the curtains."
I was reminded of our own experience several nights before. Could the two incidents be linked? "He didn't see their face?" I asked.
"No," Miriam replied. "I just thought it might be important."
"You could have phoned me with this, Miriam," I said, standing up.
"I know you're mad at me," she said quickly. "I know you hate me for what I did to you. With Thomas."
"I don't hate you, Miriam," I said.
"You do. You're right. It was horrid of me. But, I've paid the price for it. My wonderful husband. He's standing in the next election. It'll be the first time he's stood near me in years. His waitresses and nurses, they do it for him. He thinks I'm withered up. Used goods, he says." The words tumbled out without pause, as if Miriam were somehow aware that if she stopped now, she would never have a chance to unburden herself again. Or perhaps she just liked an audience. "Am I used goods, Ben?"
"I need to go, Miriam," I said, moving towards the door.
"You used to be a better man than this, Ben. I remember. I remember touching you. You were so excited you couldn't hold yourself back. I remember. You do, as well. I know you find me attractive. Oh, Debbie's a great mother, I'm sure. But would she do what I'd do? Remember you and me down by the water station? We have unfinished business, Ben. Let's finish it," she said, playfully. She moved towards me, swaying gently from side to side, her head lowered slightly so that she looked up at me through her fringe. "No one need ever know," she said. "Just a bit of harmless fun."
She was close to me now and I could feel the heat radiating from her body. Her skin seemed to emanate something more than warmth. I could smell again the exotic coconut of her skin and taste again her mouth, cold and sharp. I wanted to feel the soft tug of her lips. She put one hand on my chest, the tip of a finger finding its way between the buttons and rubbing the hairs of my ches
t. She ran her fingernail along the skin and something deep inside me began to well up. She smiled at me with her mouth, but her eyes remained slightly out of focus, as though she were not really there, and in their emptiness I saw my children and my wife. I felt again Deb's neck and the softness of her hair. I took Miriam's hand and lifted it from my chest, then moved away from her. Her smile wavered, as if she could not understand what had happened. Then it faltered completely as I moved backwards towards the door.
"Goodbye, Miriam," I said. "I want to go home to my family. I'm sorry if I gave you the impression that there was something else there."
She set her face defiantly against the shafts of winter sunlight streaming down the hallway. "Get out, you useless shit!" she spat. "See if your wife will be a whore for you on the back seat of a car."
As I turned to open the door, I came face-to-face with Thomas Powell, who flashed his most political smile. He looked freshly showered, his hair still damp and slightly spiked. He had recently shaved and smelt strongly of aftershave, despite it being late afternoon. "Have I missed something?" he said.
I did not tell Debbie of my visit to Miriam Powell, and all evening I debated with myself over the real reason for it. Miriam had sensed the unfinished nature of our relationship; but it was also vanity on my part. Miriam Powell would still sleep with me out of pity, or charity, or some obsessive need to debase herself even further.
Perhaps she wanted revenge against her adulterous husband. Perhaps she just wanted to enjoy herself.
If I had not seen the emptiness in her eyes, would I have gone ahead and given myself to her and given away all that was important to me? I told myself that I would not. And, as I kissed my children goodnight and curled up to sleep behind Debbie, I believed that to be the truth.
I dreamt that night of Miriam Powell. She and I were together in the back of a car, parked behind the cinema. We were kissing and her breath was hot and urgent against my ear as she pressed her cheek to mine. Over her naked shoulder, through the windshield, I could see the body of Angela Cashell lying on the grass. Debbie was standing over her, shaking her head. Miriam tugged at my shirt, flicking open the buttons, and I heard shouting. Rubbing the condensation from the window, I looked across to another car, parked beside us. The light was on inside and I could see Costello with a faceless woman. She had brown hair and brown eyes and her body was scarred and abused. She looked at me and screamed. Then the car I was in began to move. Behind me, flames forked out of the boot and I believed I could hear the petrol bubbling in the tank, ready to explode. My stomach lurched, and when I looked again, Terry Boyle was sitting beside me, the fetid smell of his breath and his scorched flesh thick in my mouth and nose, the charred remains of his hand clasped on my knee. Then Whitey McKelvey was driving, his face contorted and frozen, his hands lying useless on the melting wheel, which spun wildly out of all control.
Chapter Twelve
Sunday, 29th December
I awoke at four in the morning with an irresistible need for food. I settled for coffee and a cigarette, which I smoked at the back door as Frank lay in his basket, watching me with critical eyes. I went out into the garden, which was frozen under a clear night sky. The stars were bright and numerous. The moon was almost new and as thin and curved as a curl of lemon rind. I inspected the outside of Frank's shed while I walked to keep myself warm. At the back, hidden under the branches of the fir hedge, I finally found where the boards had rotted and broken and Frank had been squeezing in and out. Inside the shed, the hole was hidden behind bags of cloths that we had used to cover furniture when we had painted the house. I saw, too, the stain of blood on the floor from the night of the hunt and knew, though I had tried not to think on it, that if Frank were killing livestock, sooner or later he would have to be put down.
I lay on the sofa that night, unable to dispel the thought that whoever had attacked my home would do so again. I sat awake till dawn. Then, having turned on early morning TV, I must have fallen asleep. I woke cramped and uncomfortable, my face hot and stubbly. My eyes were dry and sore and my skin smelt of salt and sweat. Penny stood looking at me, her head bent to one side.
"Did you and Mommy fight?" she asked, with a matter-of-factness that I found disconcerting in my five-year-old daughter.
"No, pet. I couldn't sleep, so I came down here," I said, trying to smile, while I stretched the crick out of my neck.
"Why?" she asked.
"Because I couldn't sleep and didn't want to wake anyone else."
"Okay," she said. "Can you move, please? I want to watch television." Then she sat down at the end of the sofa, having given me just enough time to lift my head out of the way.
As I showered, I ran over the dream of the night before and resolved to face the thing I dreaded: confronting Costello over Mary Knox.
For the second time in a week, I found myself walking up Costello's tarmac driveway, my innards constricted. The morning sky was a brilliant blue, the white shreds of cloud contrasting all the more strongly. The sun shone low in the sky, struggling to clear the mountains in the east. However, the temperature had dropped again overnight and a skin of ice was forming on the water in the concrete birdbath in the centre of the Costellos' front lawn.
Emily answered the door and smiled in a confused way. "Is something wrong, Benedict? You look terrible."
I could not look her in the eyes, holding in my pocket the diamond ring that her husband had given to a prostitute twenty-six years earlier. The eldest Costello child was thirty-five.
The Super appeared behind her, tucking his striped shirt into his voluminous brown corduroy trousers. "Benedict," he said, smiling. "Come in." He had not yet shaved and his hair stood slightly on end.
"I'd like a word, sir. If you don't mind," I said, refusing to cross the threshold into their home out of respect for Emily.
He looked a little startled, but nodded and lifted a heavy quilted coat off the hooks beside the door and followed me out to the car. "What's up, Benedict? Is this about McKelvey again?"
I took the ring out of my pocket and held it up between my thumb and forefinger.
"Cashell's ring," he said. "So what?" Then he saw the photograph which I took from my pocket and he said simply, "Ah."
"Who was Mary Knox?" I asked, making it sound more personal than I had intended.
"Let's go for a drive," he said.
In 1976, Ollie Costello was a sergeant with Lifford Garda. He had been married for ten years. On a June night, when the sky was royal blue and the moon was white and low above the hills, he was passing the Coachman Inn nearly an hour after closing time and noticed lights shining from the gap under the closed doors.
He hammered on the double doors and was finally admitted. As the noise of the revellers died around him, he saw a group of men crowded around the edge of a platform which doubled as a stage for the local auctions. None of the group had noticed Costello yet, for their attention was fixed on a woman who stood on the stage above them in the process of peeling her petticoat and underwear from her sweating body. The men cheered as inch after inch of white flesh was exposed, while the woman writhed and wriggled to some silent music that pounded in her head. It was a spectacle both ridiculous and strangely sensual.
"Right, madam, that's enough," Costello said finally, banging on the wooden platform with his truncheon as the gathered spectators hastily dispersed.
"Ain't never been called a madam before," she said, winking down at him while she continued to gyrate, almost naked. He climbed onto the stage, struggling to shift his weight sufficiently to pull himself up, then removed his jacket and put it around her, suddenly conscious of the half-moon of sweat which had darkened the underarms of his shirt.
She wrapped his jacket around her, holding it closed with her hands, and swayed slightly, dizzy as a result of both her dancing and the drink she had taken. Costello put his arms around her to steady her, and took her to the Ladies, where he stood guard while she got dressed. Then he led her out to his c
ar before returning to the bar and cautioning the owner, Harry Toland, for his breach of license.
When he got back to his car, the woman who had said her name was Mary, was sprawled in the back seat, pulling the foot of her tights down slightly to shift the hole in them from her big toe to one of the smaller ones. The car smelt of cigarette smoke and drink and sweat and feet and worn stockings. Costello wound down the window and took out his notebook. He flicked on the light in the car and asked the woman for details. He cautioned her that she could be charged with lewd behaviour and asked if she had someone she wanted to contact. As he did so, he watched her in the rear- view mirror, suddenly aware that the beads of perspiration clinging to her face and chest were making him vaguely excited.
She said she'd heard there were men in Lifford who liked to dance with single women. She told him she was alone. Then she took out her cigarettes and lit one. He told her she was not allowed to smoke in a Garda car and she smiled at him with her eyes. She asked him if he smoked and he said, "Sometimes". She took the cigarette from her lips, her lipstick thick around the brown filter, and extended it towards him. He resisted as it touched his mouth, then dragged from it, smiling at her as he exhaled.
She lit another cigarette for herself and told him of her children, a boy named Sean and a girl called Aoibhinn. She spoke of how worried they would be when she did not come home that night. Finally she suggested to Costello that if he let her go home, instead of arresting her, she would perform an act on him which he'd enjoy.
He sat in the front of the car, suddenly cold and warm, excited and scared and unable to reach a decision that would calm the rush of adrenaline he felt. And for a few moments, all thoughts of his wife and children left him and he convinced himself that he deserved some fun in life. He told himself that Emily would never know and so would not be hurt.
He started the engine and drove to the area of waste ground where the old asylum used to stand. He sat in the darkness while she climbed between the two seats and sat beside him. He turned his face away from the streetlamps and closed his eyes and thought only of his breaths that quickened and shallowed until he swore he would hyperventilate. When she was finished, he opened his eyes again and started the ignition, while she put on her seatbelt and fixed her make-up in the vanity mirror. Then he drove her the quarter mile to the border and let her out of the car. She thanked him, and he almost reciprocated. Then she closed the door, waved in at him sadly through the side window, and turned and walked into the shadow of the Camel's Hump, the massive British Army checkpoint which had dominated the area for most of the Troubles.
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