by Claire Allan
‘Controlling the coverage of her anniversary is a good way to do this,’ Ryan says. ‘And that’s what we’re doing. I know how sensitive this is.’ Ryan’s voice is softer now. ‘I was on the ground at the time, remember?’
‘As if I could forget,’ Liam spits, but Ryan doesn’t so much as blink.
‘I was in the position Ingrid here is in now – covering a story because it’s right that it’s covered. And I can assure you from the bottom of my heart that there will not be one word published in this paper that supports Jamesy Harte’s ill-thought-out campaign. He’s guilty, and he’ll remain guilty.’
‘She was my girl,’ Liam says, and he deflates even more. Shrivels into the ghost of a man who looks as if he could just blow away on the wind. ‘Do you understand that, Ryan? You’re a father yourself now. You must understand where I’m coming from?
‘My daughter’s killer, no matter what he says or does or what life he lives, or what lies he tells, I just want him to know he will get what’s coming to him. There’s no jail in the world that will compare to what he will feel on the day of reckoning. I have to hope and believe he will know no peace in this life or the next. I have to hope that he rots in hell. He can admit he’s guilty, or claim he is innocent until the day he dies, but he can’t run from God.’
As soon as I have loaded Liam into the taxi and paid the driver, I rush back into the newsroom and into Ryan’s office.
‘You haven’t sent that page yet, have you?’
‘The Doherty piece? I’m just sending it now before we have any more untimely interruptions,’ he says, his face set tight.
‘Can I just change one thing?’ I ask, and I know I’m pushing my luck. In fact, I am at the pointing of hefting my luck over the edge of a cliff.
He pushes his seat back from the desk and gestures at me to work at his computer.
I delete the existing opening paragraph and start to type.
THE FATHER of slain schoolgirl Kelly Doherty has told The Chronicle that he hopes his daughter’s killer ‘rots in hell’ and has ‘no peace in this life or the next’.
Liam Doherty has said he will never forgive the man who murdered eight-year-old Kelly in 1994.
It’s a stronger opener. I push my chair back and show it to Ryan. He shakes his head slowly.
‘I think I prefer the original, about her being a wee angel.’
‘That was watery, Ryan. And you know it. What’s up with you these days? Have you lost your nerve altogether?’
‘Hardly. If I’d lost my nerve, I’d have told Liam Doherty we’d pull the article. I would hardly have told him it was already away to print. Stop questioning me, Ingrid. You’ve no idea what we’re facing here.’
He reaches over me and hits send on the final article, with my new intro. We watch as the icon on the page turns to green, signalling that it has been sent to the press. My body sags with relief.
‘Tell me,’ I say. ‘Tell me what we’re facing.’
Ryan just shakes his head. ‘Just go back to work. There’s a paper to get out.’
Despite saving the story from being pulled, he sounds defeated.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Ingrid
I deserve the glass of wine I’ve just poured myself. I’ve my laptop open in front of me on my small kitchen table, a notebook to my side. There’s also a folder of newspaper cuttings and archive material from the original Doherty coverage, and some coloured Post-its so I can plan in earnest.
My book editor, a very serious woman by the name of Jane Thompson, had wasted no time in replying to my proposal about the case and has asked me to put together an in-depth editorial plan, as well as some sample chapters. She is confident, if it is as good as my previous non-fiction works, that she will be able to get it through the acquisitions process.
It might be a problem if the Dohertys are reticent to talk any further, but hopefully there is enough in what they have already told me to fill a couple of chapters. I had mentioned to Bernie that I may work on a book, I’m sure of it, so our interview material is fair game.
I try not to think about Liam Doherty’s face. His pleas just to let his daughter rest in peace. That he doesn’t want her to be part of any media feeding frenzy. I admit it makes me feel uneasy, especially if I take the line in the book that I believe Jamesy Harte to be innocent, but I can’t allow my feelings to get in the way of my work. That’s not how journalism operates.
At the moment I’m trying to piece together the information I have alongside the sources I’m likely to gain access to. It would be great to see the original police reports from the time. I wonder if the investigating officer is still on the force, or if he has retired. I’d love to interview him and get his take on it.
I should go through official channels for this information, but it has served me well in the past to have a friend or two inside the force who occasionally acts as an unofficial source. He can go digging without raising any red flags. He’s great for tip-offs, getting background info, finding out what the general feeling in the force is. Yes, Detective Constable Mark Black has proven to be quite useful in the past. That’s why I was so flustered when he showed up at my flat after the break-in.
It doesn’t hurt that he looks like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. No one would ever suspect him of passing on information to a journalist. He’s a nice guy. A bit naive, but I suppose that serves me well. Occasionally, I do feel a little guilty playing on that naivety, and on his fairly obvious crush on me. I’m not cold-hearted. It’s not his fault he’s not my type. Too clean-cut. Too good.
I call his number but much to my annoyance, it goes straight to voicemail. He may well be on duty, in which case his personal mobile might be switched off and in his locker. He doesn’t always carry it on him while on shift. I wouldn’t dare call him on his work-issued phone. I leave a message, not giving too much away, asking him to call me as soon as he can.
Then I set about listening to my interview with Jamesy Harte again. I don’t know if it’s because of the day’s events, or that I spent the morning with the Doherty family and visiting Kelly’s grave, but sadness about the whole situation washes over me.
There is no doubt the Doherty family have been left broken and no amount of time in the world will heal their grief. It’s so raw that it’s actually physically painful to watch.
But then I think of Jamesy. Small, grey Jamesy with what seems like not an ounce of wit about him. Like he could be manipulated – but I didn’t buy that he himself could be a manipulator.
‘I was an easy target. I’m not as smart as some of those people. You think I don’t know that I’m not clever?’ I listen and remember how he had tapped the side of his head as he spoke as if trying to get it to work properly. ‘I didn’t know big words, or what to say. I didn’t have a fancy suit to wear to go and see the judge.
‘No one wanted to help me, you know. Because they said I was wrong. They said I was bad and I’d done it. But it wasn’t me. I don’t know who it was, but I didn’t do it. My mammy used to tell me that Derry was the best wee city in the whole world. That we all took care of each other. But Mammy was wrong.’
There is an audible sniff. I remember that he became agitated. His long, skinny finger poking at the melamine table in front of us. His fingernails were bitten down to the quick.
‘People only like you if you fit in,’ he said. ‘You look different, or sound different, or act different and you’re out. I was out.’
His voice was laden with rage and grief. It’s understandable, if this was a great miscarriage of justice and he has lost seventeen years of his life to jail, and the life he has now bears no resemblance to the life he had before.
But back then, could that desire to be seen, by a community he felt excluded him, could that have really driven him to do something so horrific? No matter how I weighed it up in my head – I couldn’t see it. I just couldn’t picture him as guilty.
Which of course begs the question – if it wasn’t h
im, then who was it? And why?
I sit back, swill the dregs of my wine in the glass before downing it. Even though I’ve only had one glass, I feel a bit woozy. Remembering I haven’t eaten since lunchtime, I get up to forage in the cupboards for something quick and easy to make. I’m just heating water to boil some pasta, when the shrill buzz of my doorbell makes me jump.
I lift the handset and say hello. The grainy CCTV image shows a figure I can’t quite recognise. I squint, trying to see who it is, but the security light outside seems to be on the blink again. I glance at the door to my flat, locked, with a security chain just in case. I hate that I’m jumpy.
‘Hello?’ I repeat again, my voice no doubt echoing into the cold night air.
I’m about to hang up, when I hear a male voice answer.
‘Hello? Erm, hello, is that Ingrid? I hate these things …’
‘Who is it?’ I ask.
Sure as anything, I’m not confirming or denying my identity to anyone before knowing who they are. Especially not now.
‘Declan Heaney,’ he replies. ‘You know, from school.’
He sounds awkward, hesitant. There’s something, I don’t know, a little sad about the fact he is identifying himself as the person he was twenty-five years ago.
‘We met last week, up in Creggan,’ he continues. ‘I wanted to talk to you. About you know, the story?’
I have no idea how Declan Heaney got hold of my address. Yes, I’d given him my phone number, but I hadn’t told him anything about where I lived. Or at least I don’t think I had. I’m not sure how I feel about him being in my space.
Biting my lip, I reply, ‘I’m a little busy just now, Declan. Is it important? Maybe we could meet for a coffee tomorrow.’
I hate having a conversation with him, or anyone, over this bloody intercom system. You never know who is walking past and listening.
I hear him sigh. ‘I was kinda hopin’ …’ he says before his voice trails off, carried by the wind.
I hear the rain lashing against my windows and even though I’m often accused of not having a conscience, I feel a prick of something akin to guilt or pity.
It’s only Declan, I tell myself. I can trust him.
‘Come on up, sure,’ I tell him. ‘Top floor and go to the far end of the corridor.’
‘You’re a star bar,’ he says, and I wonder if I detect a slight slurring in his words.
I try not to think about it too much as I hit the button to unlock the door and let him in. As I wait for him to arrive, I look at my kitchen table and all the paperwork that is sprawled over it, as well as at my corkboard, where I have pinned coloured Post-its with key chapters I want to cover. I take down the green Post-it, which bears both Declan’s and his brother’s names, slipping it under my laptop. I’m not sure why I feel the need to do it. Declan already knows I want to hear his side of the events of that cold November night, but still, I just feel uneasy.
After shuffling the rest of my papers together into some sort of vague piles, I carry my empty wine glass to the sink and rinse it. Jumping as I hear a knock on my door, I take a deep breath and will myself to stay calm as I go to answer it.
Declan is soaked to the skin. His dark hair plastered to his forehead, a rivulet of water runs from the end of one thick strand and right down his nose. He doesn’t seem to notice, or care. His face is red with cold and his hands stuffed deep into his pockets, for what little use that will do him. It’s clear that his jeans are waterlogged and sticking to him.
‘It’s not too late, is it?’ he asks, and I definitely detect a whiff of stale beer from him. ‘I was out for a walk, you see, and then it started bucketing down and well, it was freezin’.’
He makes for a pitiful sight. ‘C’mon in,’ I tell him. ‘Let me get you a towel and a hot drink.’
I know he needs more than a towel to dry off. He needs to get out of those soaking clothes, but I have a dearth of alternatives to offer him and I’m nervous enough without encouraging him to strip off. I grab a couple of my biggest, warmest towels from the airing cupboard and hand them to him. He has peeled his jacket off and it has landed with an unceremonious thump onto my kitchen floor. I can already see the water leaching from it onto the tiles.
As he reaches out to take the towels, I notice two things. The first is that he is shivering with cold, and the second is that his hands – specifically his knuckles – are grazed and bruised. He’s had a run-in with someone or something.
His eyes follow my gaze and he pulls his hands away as soon as he’s realised I’ve seen the state of them.
‘You should see the other guy,’ he says with a small smile that most definitely doesn’t reach his eyes.
I absolutely don’t want to see the other guy.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I shouldn’t have come here. It was just, well, I didn’t know where else to go …’ His voice cracks a little.
‘How did you know where to find me?’ I ask him, the heavy sinking feeling still leaden in my stomach.
‘I … erm … it’s Derry, ye know. I asked around. Heard you lived down here and then looked at the names on the buzzer. Took a chance it was you.’
There’s something about how he says this that makes me shiver. Am I really that easy to find? The people who painted my wall found me easily, and now Declan, too. Unless … No, that’s stupid. I’m letting the events of the last few days get to me too much. Declan wouldn’t have any reason to warn me off talking to Jamesy Harte. Sure, he’s told me he’s not convinced Jamesy is guilty.
‘You could’ve texted or called,’ I say as Declan roughly toweldries his hair.
I can see water pooling slightly at his feet. His trainers are as soaked as the rest of him.
Looking at me with a curious expression on his face, he says, ‘I never thought of that,’ as if it actually is the first time such a possibility has even crossed his mind. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’
I could give him the real answer, of course, and say it’s a bit strange, but I’m still trying to get a feel for why he is here and what state he is actually in.
‘Of course not,’ I lie. ‘I’ll put the kettle on and make some tea.’
‘Would you have anything stronger?’ he asks, bold as anything, and I lie again.
‘Sorry. All out. Just tea here. Coffee if you prefer.’
‘Tea will be grand,’ he says, looking around, taking in my flat in all its glory.
It’s not huge by any means. In fact, it’s quite small, but I’ve spent a lot of money getting it just how I like it. Scandi-inspired, with just a smattering of cosy comforts, it’s always proven to be a haven of relaxation for me, from my pale pink velvet sofa, which cost more than a month’s salary, to the Eames-style dining chairs.
‘Nice digs you’ve got here,’ he says before shuddering with the cold.
I realise there’s no way I can let him sit down on that sofa with wet jeans on.
‘There’s a dressing gown on the back of the bathroom door,’ I tell him. ‘If you want to take your jeans off, I can throw those and your coat in the dryer or at least hang them on the radiator.’
Again there’s a delay, as if he’s just realising how wet he is, before he nods and gives a little laugh. ‘Aye. I suppose that might be an idea.’
Declan disappears into the bathroom, while I wonder if it’s more than just drink he’s taken. He seems a bit too out of it for it to be down to a couple of pints of beer. I make the tea, load the cups onto a tray along with some biscuits and carry the lot through to the living area. He comes back, looking ridiculous in my white fluffy robe, and hands me his clothes. It’s clear from his expression he’s now feeling a little embarrassed.
‘I appreciate this,’ he says. ‘I shouldn’t have come.’
‘You’re grand,’ I say. ‘Sit down and get warmed up. I’ll get these drying.’
When I sit down opposite him a few minutes later, he seems to be lost in thought. He is cradling the teacup in his hands as if drawing t
he warmth from it.
‘Declan,’ I say, and he startles at my voice.
‘God, I was in my own wee world there,’ he says. ‘Sorry.’
‘Look, it’s nice to see you, but I’m a bit confused,’ I begin. ‘I mean, I know we said we would meet up again some time, but I wasn’t really expecting you to turn up at my door.’
‘I don’t think I was expecting to turn up at your door either,’ he says. ‘Sorry, this must look all kinds of wrong. I just … well, Ingrid, have you spoken with Niall?’
‘Your brother?’ I ask.
‘One and the same. My mother mentioned he might be coming down to Derry to see you.’
There’s a hesitancy to his words, something that I can’t quite put my finger on.
‘As it happens, he contacted me through Facebook and I told him about the book I’m working on. You know, about Kelly.’
‘Is that what all that stuff relates to?’ he asks, nodding towards my dining table and my notebook.
‘It is,’ I said.
‘I always thought you’d do well in life,’ he says.
‘Well, I try my best, you know,’ I say.
‘Aye. I know. Look, I wanted to talk to you about Niall. I know he’s my brother – my twin, for God’s sake – and I do love him, but he’s not the person he appears to be. You know?’
‘I’m not sure what you mean,’ I say thinking of the perfectly polite and funny exchanges of messages I’ve been having with Niall since Monday.
He seems very nice. Genuine. Obviously quite different from the snot-nosed little boy I remember chasing me around the streets in Creggan while we played kiss chase or tig, but then I’m not quite the plaited-hair, scraped-knee precocious little girl I was then, either.
Declan takes a deep breath and puts his teacup down on the table. He doesn’t look at me when he starts to talk. Instead, he stares at the wall.
‘I know people look at me and they see a scumbag.’
‘No!’ I protest.
He laughs. ‘Come on, Ingrid.’
His hands are shaking. I’m not sure if it’s from the cold or because of what he’s about to tell me.