by Claire Allan
He glances at them as he returns carrying two mammoth cups of coffee. ‘You don’t waste any time,’ he says with a smile.
‘Well, sure, it’s a Friday night and I’m sure you have plans that extend beyond meeting me for a chat,’ I smile. ‘So, I don’t want to keep you too long.’
‘I’ve no plans other than sitting watching The Late Late with Mum and Dad and to be honest, you’d be doing me a great favour to distract me from that.’
Niall Heaney has an easy manner. I can tell he would be comfortable in anyone’s company. I admire that confidence in a person, perhaps because I like to think I have it, too.
‘It would be a sin to keep you away from that treat,’ I say with a smile, and he laughs, the corners of his eyes crinkling. ‘So, we really should get down to business. You know I’ve spoken to Declan?’
He nods and if I’m not mistaken, a cloud passes over his face as he does so.
‘That must have been interesting,’ he says. ‘Declan has quite a take on things.’
‘About Kelly? And what happened?’ I raise my eyebrow.
‘About a lot of things. Poor Declan, it’s hard to know what went wrong with him.’
‘You both experienced an enormous trauma,’ I say. ‘I’d think that was enough to have an impact on anyone.’ I realise I’m mirroring the conversation I had with Declan less than twenty-four hours before.
Niall sits back, adjusting himself in his seat. ‘A lot of people witnessed a lot of trauma in those days,’ he says. ‘I don’t want to speak ill of my brother, but Declan has never really helped himself, if you know what I mean. Our parents did what they could to help us. We saw a counsellor for a while. Did he tell you that?’
I shake my head, genuinely surprised. Declan had made me believe they were just left to flounder – which both brothers did in their own ways.
‘I decided it wouldn’t define me. I mean, I don’t think I made that decision consciously, because I was only a child, but I made it all the same. I think I realised that life could be brutal and you had to make the most of it. Declan, he just never got past the realising life was brutal bit.’ His voice is thick with emotion as he speaks.
‘Can you tell me your memories from that day? The day you found her.’
‘Sure, you must remember it a fair bit yourself?’ he says.
I nod. ‘I remember how it all seemed so quiet. That it was like everyone forgot how to talk except to talk about Kelly. I remember seeing the grown-ups shaking their heads and crying.’
‘Do you remember how strange it was in school? We were all there, but none of us were learning. I don’t even think the teachers were even trying – they knew we were all distracted. I suppose they were, too.
‘I know that when the bell went, I just felt so fed up of being cooped up. Of all the quietness and the sadness. I just wanted to play with Declan and have an adventure, like we usually did.’ Niall’s eye contact is fleeting as if he is lost in his own thoughts. ‘I don’t think we thought it through. Well, I know we didn’t think it through.
‘No one was allowed out to play then, remember? I can only imagine how worried our ma must’ve been when we didn’t land home at the proper time. I do remember it was a total let-down,’ he says with a sad smile. ‘It was cold and rainy and once we were at the reservoir, we seemed to lose the excitement for it. We decided to give it up as a bad job, you know.’
I nod, scribbling as fast as I can in my notepad, even though my phone is recording everything he says.
‘Declan spotted her first. He didn’t know it was her, but we knew it was something … different. I went closer and I could see her shape, in the water. She didn’t look … well, she didn’t look real. It took a while for my brain to register what I was looking at. I’d never seen a dead body before hers,’ he says and sips from his coffee, pausing for a moment to think about what he’s going to say.
‘To this day, I don’t know why I did it. Morbid curiosity, or bravado, or just without thinking, I decided to poke it – poke her – with a stick.’ He colours and wrings his hands before continuing. ‘I’ve never forgotten that feeling. Of the stick, when it … There was a wound, you know, to the back of her head. That’s where I poked her. The stick went right in.’
I grimace and Niall must catch the expression on my face. He looks down as if ashamed.
‘It messed me up for a while,’ he says. ‘How could it not? Everything changed that day. I don’t think I was ever the same after, but – and this might sound a little callous, Ingrid. Don’t judge me. But I don’t think I’d have got where I am in life if I hadn’t had that experience.
‘I’m only sorry that Declan didn’t see it the same way I did. He spiralled, you know. Nightmares. Anxiety. Was very clingy. I remember that. Didn’t want to go back and play in the woods again, even though it was so unlikely anything like that would happen again.’ Niall shakes his head as if this response from Declan was completely over the top.
‘To be fair to him, I didn’t want to go back there and play either,’ I say and Niall bristles.
‘You see, I don’t understand that. There was nothing to fear. There were no bad guys hanging around. Jamesy Harte was arrested and in prison. There was no threat any more. People were just feeding off the drama, like they couldn’t get enough of it, instead of letting it lie.’
‘It was a huge deal!’ I remind him. ‘It’s not something people just got over. It had an impact. And it should have had an impact.’
He shrugs as if that is no excuse. ‘Perhaps. But it didn’t need to change everything. That was letting the bogeyman win, wasn’t it? We didn’t need to let him win.’
Chapter Twenty-Six
Ingrid
By the time I leave Niall, I’m exhausted. And confused. His version of the aftermath differs from Declan’s. According to him, it was his brother who changed – and no matter how much family and friends have tried to help him over the years, Declan still seems intent on a path to self-destruction.
And Niall is far from convinced that Jamesy Harte was framed. In fact, he is adamant that the right man went to jail and he should never have been released.
‘Life should have meant life,’ he’d said, his eyes darkening. ‘He should never have been allowed to see the light of day again. If you’d seen what I saw, then you’d think the same.
‘What he did to her, that wasn’t accidental. It wasn’t anything anyone with even an ounce of humanity could have inflicted on another human being. No one capable of doing that to a child should ever be allowed the chance to do it again.’ He’d stared at the table as he spoke as if this was something he’d thought long and hard about.
‘And you don’t think, as Declan does, that Jamesy Harte was an easy target? Jamesy himself says he was set up. That the evidence against him was circumstantial at best.’
Niall had sipped from his coffee, then shook his head. ‘I don’t buy that. There was always something off about him, don’t you think? He always made me feel uneasy. I remember how he would look at you girls, too. I didn’t understand it at the time – probably didn’t understand it fully until I was a lot older.
‘Then I knew. If it hadn’t been Kelly, it would have been someone else. It was only ever a matter of time with him. There’s a wrongness in him, and it’s a disgrace that he doesn’t even have the good grace to put his hands up and admit it instead of dragging all this back up again.’
I found it strange that two brothers with identical experiences of what had happened that day held views that were so divergent. That it had affected them both so differently. I had been so convinced by Declan’s version of events that I knew I had gone to the meeting with preconceptions that Niall would be thoroughly unlikeable. But he’d been charming, and warm. But just like Declan, there was something about him that I just couldn’t put my finger on.
I’m finding it hard to get my head around a lot of things, I think as I walk across the multistorey car park to find my car. It’s down to me to make
sense of it, for the book at least, I suppose. But given the day I’ve had, and the fact that I have been running on zero per cent for the last few hours, I decide to stop trying to unravel it all until tomorrow at least. All I want now is to go home, switch off my phone, slip into my pyjamas and crash over a trashy movie.
So, the last thing I need is to reach my car and see that all four tyres have been slashed. Immediately, the air is pulled from my lungs with fear. It has been a few days since the break-in – I was hoping that whoever was messing around last week has backed off.
Glancing around, aware that I am exposed on all I sides, I try to see if anyone is watching. I look for shadowy figures peering out from behind pillars, hooded people in cars. There are a few people milling about, but none of them look suspect. None of them have that air of evil lurker about them.
There’s a harried-looking woman, weighed down with shopping bags. A family with a child clinging on for dear life to a balloon from a fast-food restaurant. Two teenagers in hoodies who seem more interested in how far they can slide their hands into each other’s back pockets than wanting to vandalise anyone’s car.
I search for the nearest CCTV camera, hoping that there is one close enough that might have caught some footage of whoever has done this. I spot one, just about, which may or may not be pointed in the right direction. My tired eyes strain to focus on it.
I shiver. I’m scared. Tired. And angry. I’m just doing my job. Why can’t people realise that? I want to run, but I also want to sit down on the ground and cry. I just want it all to stop.
That’s when I notice a folded piece of paper under one of my windscreen wipers, which I cautiously reach for, knowing instinctively it’s not going to say anything pleasant. My hands shaking, I unfold it.
Three words are scrawled across it in jagged handwriting. Stark bold capitals, scored into the paper so that the nib of the pen leaves an indentation.
YOU WERE WARNED
I feel the tears spring to my eyes before a flush of anger takes over. I’m not a crier. I am not a person who gives in to emotion. I hastily brush the tears away and take a deep breath, then unlock my phone to call for help. Just as I’m dialling my garage to arrange for someone to fix my car, a security guard approaches me.
‘Miss, are you okay? Someone reported that your car has been damaged.’
‘Yes, it has,’ I say and nod towards it.
I hear his intake of breath. Clearly, he wasn’t expecting this. A prang maybe. A bump from someone who hasn’t learned how to park properly. A scrape from someone walking too close. Not four slashed tyres and a threatening note.
‘Um … I think … we should call the police,’ he says, lifting his walkie-talkie to inform his colleagues before I have the chance to tell him that it’s fine. That I’ll just get my car picked up by the garage and sort it.
There’s no chance of a quiet getaway and of drawing no attention to this mess. I know he’s right, of course. The police do need to be informed. And they need to work harder at finding out who is behind this. So far, they’ve come back with nothing more insightful than, ‘We think it would be fair enough to assume this is related to your interest in the Kelly Doherty case, and your interest in Jamesy Harte in particular.’
As luck would have it, DC Mark Black is the officer who arrives, along with that busybody colleague of his, DS Eve King.
‘Detective Sergeant,’ I say. ‘I’d like to say it was nice to see you, but …’
She smiles, seemingly not bothered by my words or my tone.
‘We heard it was you and after that carry-on at your flat, we thought it better that I came along and had a look. Someone clearly has it in for you, Ms Devlin,’ DS King says.
Is there a hint of a smile on her face? Maybe I’m being paranoid. I’ve every right to be, in the circumstances.
She pulls a pair of disposable white gloves from her pocket. After putting them on, she hunkers down and runs her finger along the cut into the thick rubber of the front nearside tyre. She repeats the process for them all, taking her time. A small crowd has gathered. Someone has their phone out and is either videoing or taking pictures. I ask DC Black if he can move people on and while he makes an effort to do so, it’s half-hearted at best.
‘We do say that people park here at their own risk,’ the security man says, ‘but we’ve never had anything like this happen before. Normally, it’s a couple of scrapes or a ding, but not this.’ He shakes his head. ‘I can check the CCTV, but it doesn’t cover every angle.’
DS King stands up. ‘I’d be grateful if you could do that. Perhaps DC Black could go with you.’
My heart sinks a little. I don’t want DC Black to go with him. I want him here, with his attempts to stop shoppers gawping at me. I feel heat rise on my face.
‘Look, I’m sure it’s nothing and I don’t want to waste police time, so if I can just call my garage to arrange pickup of the car, I’ll be on my way and you can be on yours, too.’
‘Do you have the note?’ DS King asks, ignoring my protestations that it’s most likely nothing, reaching into the pocket of her suit jacket and taking out a plastic ziplock bag.
Momentarily, I wonder what else her pockets hold. Is there an unending supply of police equipment, like some weird version of Mary Poppins’ carpet bag?
I stare at her.
‘The note?’ she says again, with less patience. ‘We’re told there was a note attached to your windscreen. I assume you have it?’
Reluctantly, I take the piece of paper from my pocket and hand it to her.
She opens it and examines it, her white gloves still on, before putting into the bag. ‘You were warned,’ she reads.
I notice DC Black look at her, then towards me. I do my best not to meet his gaze.
‘And you’re the only other person who touched this?’ she asks.
‘As far as I know.’
She tuts, shakes her head. I feel tears prick at my eyes again and yes, I’m still scared, but in this moment my primary feeling is embarrassment.
‘This is quite worrying,’ she says, her voice a little softer now. ‘We’re probably at the stage where we should discuss your personal security.’
Personal security? I see it through her eyes. This is another threat. Another attack. Another warning. That it happened on the day the article was printed in The Chronicle can hardly be coincidence.
‘Surely if whoever is behind this wanted to hurt me, they would just do it. They wouldn’t target my flat, or my car. They’d just go for me,’ I say, my voice shaking. I’m trying to reassure myself and failing miserably.
She shrugs. ‘It’s impossible to predict the behaviour of someone who behaves in this fashion,’ she says. ‘But what we can assume is that whoever it is, they intended to do real damage to your car. From the look of it they used a large knife to slash your tyres. They came prepared. They want you to know they are serious.’
The words imprint themselves in my mind. A large knife and they came prepared. ‘Impossible to predict.’ I feel a little dizzy.
‘Who knew you were going to be here tonight?’ she asks, although her words feel distant.
I feel a cool sweat break on the back of my neck; my skin tingles. I shake my head. ‘I don’t know. I mean … I met Niall Heaney, so he knew. And his brother, Declan, and … I don’t know,’ I say.
My words feel thick, wrong, in my mouth. I’m not usually one to lose my cool, but I am at serious risk of losing it now. Adrenaline propels itself through my veins and I find myself gasping for a deep breath of air.
‘Look, really,’ I say, ‘I’d just like to go home now. If I’m not making a complaint, then surely that’s an end to it.’ I scan the carpark for the quickest escape route.
If I keep an outward appearance of calm I’ll be okay, I tell myself. Don’t let them know they’ve rattled me. Don’t involve the police. Don’t give it the oxygen of attention. My breath comes in short, shallow gasps.
‘Ingrid,’ DS King says, a
nd I note she is now using my first name.
I feel her hands take mine.
‘Take a deep breath,’ she says, and I try, but there doesn’t seem to be enough air in this car park to fill my lungs.
I attempt to pull away from her. ‘Just let me go home,’ I plead, and to my shame, tears start rolling down my cheeks – and there still isn’t enough air to breathe properly. I hear her order someone to get a chair. There’s a commotion of voices and engine sounds, and a tannoy announcement – and it’s all just too loud and too much.
‘Ingrid, I’m not sure you’re hearing me. We need to consider the possibility that it’s not safe for you to go home right now. Whether you make a complaint or not isn’t really the issue any more. There was someone in this car park, who had in their possession an offensive weapon. Someone who intentionally caused a significant amount of damage to your car and who has left you a threatening note. Emotions are running high, Ingrid.’
Someone guides me to sit down on an office chair, which has been wheeled out from the security hut. I will my breathing to settle. I know I’m inadvertently putting on a show for anyone who can see what is happening. I feel sick. I’m worried I’ll humiliate myself completely and throw up. Panic claws at me. I put my hands over my ears to try to block out the noise and stop the buzzing in my head.
I’m aware of a phone ringing, of DS King stepping back from me. I notice her run her hands through her pixie crop, her expression immediately changing. It’s more serious. I notice she’s looking at me before she catches herself and turns away so I can no longer see her face. But I know, just know, that something bad has happened.
Something really bad.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Ingrid
I can’t take my eyes off DS King and when she ends the call, her hand drops to her side. She stands for a moment, then I see her shoulders rise as she inhales and then turns to look back at me.
Within seconds she is hunkering down in front of me, so that her eyes are level with mine.