Ask No Questions

by Claire Allan

  ‘Just a nightcap after a busy week,’ I say. ‘Can I get you a cup of tea?’

  ‘A swig of the Jameson would suit me better, but tea will do,’ he says, and I put the kettle on to boil.

  I can’t help but shiver as it bubbles and whistles. Bernie’s description of what happened to Liam is all too fresh in my head. I turn to see Declan look around the flat again before sitting down at the dining table.

  ‘So, what have you heard about what happened?’ I ask him. ‘You said you had a lead.’

  He stands up again. He’s on edge and it makes me nervous. I watch as he wanders to the window, pulls back the curtain and looks out for a while.

  ‘Yeah, well. I heard it was mistaken identity.’

  This doesn’t marry with what Bernie told me. The attack was personal, exceptionally personal, and prolonged enough to know that any mistaken identity would have been noticed.

  ‘Who told you that?’

  He taps the side of his nose. ‘Word on the street, you know. You’ve your sources, Ingrid, and I have mine.’

  ‘And who were they really looking for, then?’

  I watch his face for any tells, any change in his demeanour or presentation. He stalls for a moment.

  ‘Someone from the next street over. Drug debt, I’m told. Had been warned to pay up lots of times and it seems people finally ran out of patience.’

  ‘Surely drug dealers would know who their own customers were?’

  He blinks, his mouth hangs open just a little. ‘They never do the dirty work themselves, Ingrid. You know that. They send the heavies in.’

  He pulls the curtain back over and sits down on the sofa. I hand him his cup of tea and sit opposite him.

  ‘I’m surprised that you didn’t come up. From what I’m told, you’re never far from a breaking story. A real Lois Lane,’ he says, blowing on the steaming tea and taking a sip.

  ‘I was working elsewhere,’ I say. ‘And, you know, even journalists get the night off every now and again.’

  ‘Elsewhere? That’s right. You were meeting your very own Superman,’ he smiles.

  It’s a sad smile and then he breaks into song – a bastardised version of ‘My Perfect Cousin’ by The Undertones, replacing ‘cousin’ with ‘brother’.

  ‘I hope he treated you well,’ he says, and I can’t help but feel this is the real reason for Declan’s visit. To check up on what happened with Niall. Perhaps even to check if Niall is here with me.

  ‘It was a business meeting, for all intents and purposes. But he was very polite, yes.’

  ‘I suppose he had a lot to say about me?’ he asks.

  ‘No more than you said about him, but with respect, it’s not really about either of you. It’s about Kelly and what happened to her.’

  ‘With respect,’ Declan said, his face serious, ‘what happened to Kelly happened to all of us. We were all touched by it, Ingrid. Even you. Every single one of us changed that day and don’t tell me you don’t know that to be true as much as I do.’

  I don’t want to get dragged down this rabbit hole again.

  ‘Look, Declan. It’s been a bastard of a day, so if there is anything you want to tell me – anything new – then just get to the point and tell me. I’m tired and I’m not in the mood for riddles or trying to make anyone else feel better about things.’

  He blinks. Taken aback by the harshness of my tone. To be honest, I’m a bit surprised by it too, but it’s clear that Declan Heaney has made up some stuff and nonsense about what happened in Creggan just to come here and find out how my chat with his brother went.

  ‘Sorry for giving a shite,’ Declan says. ‘I just wanted to check you were okay after you met with him. You don’t know him like I do.’

  ‘I don’t know either of you, Declan,’ I say. ‘Not any more. Just because we played together twenty-five years ago, it doesn’t mean we have any knowledge of each other now. Niall didn’t tell me anything to alarm me. He didn’t behave like a madman. The only person behaving strangely is you, coming to my flat again for a second night in a row. We aren’t friends, Declan. We’re barely even acquaintances.’

  He doesn’t speak for a moment. Then he stands up and walks to the kitchen, pours his tea down the sink and says he must be going. I don’t do anything to stop him. I just want him out of my flat.

  I jump as the door slams shut and he leaves, but I refuse to feel bad for how I spoke to him. I just lock the door, pull the chain across and put the chair back in front of it before going to bed.

  I can deal with everything else – the car, the Dohertys, how uncomfortable I feel – tomorrow.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Declan

  Saturday, 26 October 2019

  Declan Heaney wakes under a black cloud. For the first few moments of consciousness, he can’t quite figure out why. He often wakes up like this – angry at the world for every reason and no reason at the same time. Being angry at himself for waking up to another day is nothing new. But today, today there is something more.

  He senses it as he stretches, smells the stench of his own morning breath on his pillow. He senses it as he scratches himself, wondering when it was he stopped waking up with an erection. Is it because of ageing? Or something else?

  He thinks about the last time he had sex. It has been at least two years, probably three or four if he’s honest, and it wasn’t anything to write home about. A drunken fuck on the sofa at a house party with a woman he didn’t know and never saw again. Not that he was sure he would recognise her even if she walked past him on the street.

  He is never going to be anyone’s romantic lead, he thinks. And his mind flits to Ingrid and her apartment by the river. The pale pinks of the cushions on her sofa. The soft lighting of the lamps she has dotted around her room.

  There are no bare bulbs hanging pitifully from the ceiling in her world, he thinks. He thinks of how her home smells. A mix of floral scent, of her apple-scented shampoo. Clean, comfortable, warm. He thinks of how her dressing gown felt on his skin while she dried his clothes for him. The thought that it had also touched her skin – maybe her naked skin – stirs his limp dick into action. He feels it start to harden and he wonders whether or not to have a wank. It might lift his dark mood, to imagine the things he could do with Ingrid. The things he could do to Ingrid.

  She’d annoyed him last night. She’d been cold. Angry. He knew he probably shouldn’t have called at her home again. It was stupid, but the thought that she had spent some time with Niall had set him on edge. He had to check she was okay. Actually, he had to check that Niall was not in her flat. Or in her bed. That would’ve been too much for him. If Niall got her, too.

  Had he not warned her about him? And she went anyway – met him in spite of what he’d said. And then he’d heard about that incident at the Doherty house and that seemed like the perfect excuse for him just to call in. He was only watching out for her.

  She was his. She had been so kind to him when he’d bumped into her last week. Chatting to him. Taking him for a cup of tea. Treating him like he was someone important. Someone of use to her.

  And she had been kind to him back then, too. When they were children. He remembered that, even if she didn’t any more. He remembered how, as they had all walked to the chapel for Kelly’s funeral, lines of children walking in pairs, Ingrid had slipped her hand into his and given it a little squeeze.

  ‘Just be brave,’ she had said to him.

  He thought then, looking at her, that he could be. He could be brave. He could stop being scared for just a few minutes.

  Ingrid Devlin with her blonde hair and her pale skin. Her slender fingers and her gentle curves. She oozed class now. A professional lady. A successful journalist and writer. He’d even seen her interviewed on The Late Late Show about her books.

  He couldn’t stay away even if he tried. He was drawn to her. If he could just explain to her everything he knew about that night then maybe she wouldn’t be cross. She wouldn’t look at h
im with the disdain she had in her eyes last night, as if he was an annoyance to her. She might look at him differently. She might give him a chance. Let him do the things to her that he wanted to do. There were so many things he wanted to do. He’d take his time, enjoy every inch of her body. These are things he thinks about as his hand moves faster and faster until he feels his body spasm with the force of his climax, her name on his lips.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Ingrid

  The sheaves of paper on my table are mocking me. My laptop remains closed. Normally I’d get up, make myself a cup of coffee then sit down and get straight to work.

  This morning, I’ve made the coffee, but I’m curled on the sofa cradling the mug in my hand and I don’t know where to start. It has all become so complicated and I don’t know who I can trust any more.

  This is darker than I ever thought it could be. Darker certainly than anything I have tackled before. I had tossed and turned all night. Thinking about the Dohertys and their new nightmare. And about Declan and the dejected look on his face as he left. I’d been unnecessarily cruel to him.

  And as for Jamesy? I’d try to call him later. Maybe arrange to meet him again. I’d make sure no one could possibly have any clue about our meeting. I’d have to be careful about it. I doubt whoever was behind the attacks on my flat or my car would give me any more chances before I, too, might feel the kind of retribution Liam Doherty had.

  Taking a sip of coffee, I realise it has long since gone cold. The bitter taste makes me wince and I get up to make a fresh cup, which I realise I will probably just stare at again until it, too, goes cold.

  I’ve just flicked the kettle on to boil, when my phone starts to ring. It’s Ryan.

  ‘Ingrid,’ he says when I answer. ‘How are you this morning?’

  ‘I’m okay,’ I lie, because I’m still mortified for crying down the phone last night.

  ‘That’s great,’ he says. ‘There’s a press conference at Strand Road Police Station at noon about the incident last night. I’ve arranged for Tommy to cover it. I just wanted to make sure you knew.’

  I take a deep breath. ‘There’s no need for Tommy to go. I’ll go myself.’

  He pauses. I hear an intake of breath.

  ‘Ingrid, are you sure? Things are getting heavy.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ I say. ‘And I’ve only half an hour to get ready if I’m to be there on time, so if you don’t mind …’

  ‘Okay. If you’re sure. Just get what they say. File the copy. Leave it at that. You don’t have to make this bigger than it needs to be. It’s not worth it. We need you safe. I need you safe,’ he says.

  There’s a hint of affection in his voice. I’m shocked by it. This time it’s not about health and safety or insurance. It’s about his need to have me safe. It’s possible that he genuinely does care about me. While that might feel too uncomfortable a shift in our dynamic, right now I’ll take it. I need to feel like I matter to someone in the middle of this madness.

  ‘I’ll get the copy up on the website as soon as I can,’ I say to him. ‘And I’m okay, Ryan. I’m not taking any chances.’

  The truth is, of course, that I don’t know if I’ll be taking any chances.

  I’m ready to go in just twenty minutes, which gives me enough time to walk to the police station, given that my car is still in Foyleside car park.

  It’s only when I’m standing at my front door, opening the locks and getting ready to go out, that I realise my heart is thudding and I’m holding my breath. What has always been so familiar to me now feels scary. I don’t know what I will find around the next corner. I don’t know who to trust. I don’t want to go out, but I have to.

  I force myself to exhale, trying to calm the shuddering of my breath. I remind myself it’s daylight. I will be walking along a busy walkway. I will be safe. I am heading in the direction of the police station. It will be fine.

  Putting one foot in front of the other, I fight back the fear. I’m just doing my job. I’m safe, I tell myself. I’m safe.

  Maybe if I say it enough times, I’ll start to believe it.

  I’m not the only reporter at the police station. I didn’t expect to be. There are representatives here from other newspapers, from the radio and from the TV. They are huddled together when I arrive, no doubt talking through what each of them has heard so far. I don’t think it’s a figment of my imagination that they appear to stop talking as soon as I arrive. They look flustered.

  ‘Ingrid,’ Aidan Devine from the BBC says. ‘Nice to see you. We didn’t know if you would make it or not. This is mad, isn’t it?’

  ‘Why didn’t you think I would be here?’ I ask, bristling at the question.

  I can see some of the other reporters look down to their feet, desperate not to catch my eye.

  ‘Well,’ Aidan says, ‘I heard you were in a bit of trouble yourself last night. Your car? And that incident at your apartment block? Do you think it might be linked to all this?’

  I shrug. ‘I suppose the police will tell us that,’ I say coldly. ‘But if you’re asking in some sort of roundabout way if I’m responsible for what has happened to Liam Doherty, then no. I’m not. I just told their story. That’s all. Any of you would have given your eye teeth for that story, too.’

  ‘You’ve been talking to Jamesy Harte, from what I hear,’ Nuala McLaughlin from one of our rival papers says as she pushes a stick of chewing gum into her mouth.

  For as long as I’ve known Nuala, she has been trying to quit smoking, and hiding the telltale smell of cigarette smoke on her breath with Wrigley’s Spearmint.

  ‘That has nothing to do with anything,’ I say.

  ‘I think Liam Doherty might say differently,’ Nuala says.

  She says it in a manner to sound like jokey banter, but I know there’s a sting in her tail.

  ‘The Doherty family have no problem with me,’ I say, and am extremely grateful to see the doors open to the police station and the police press officer, Sue Clarke, walk out ahead of DI Bradley and DS King.

  Their expressions are set, serious and sombre. Sue Clarke thanks us all for coming out, especially on such a cold day. We nod and say it’s not a problem, even if it is. She hands out paper copies of the statement and if I’m not mistaken, she gives me a sympathetic look. I imagine she knows exactly how I’m caught up in all this mess. I’m sure I’m the talk of the station by now.

  Doing my best to show no reaction whatsoever, I take it from her and cast my eye over it. It doesn’t say anything that isn’t already out in the public domain, and part of me wishes I’d stayed at home and asked Sue simply to email the statement over.

  Sure, I wouldn’t have been here for any questions, but it’s not like I don’t have a degree of an inside track on all of this. I set my phone up to record then join Aidan and Nuala and all the others in a huddle in front of the police. DI Bradley, of course, will do the talking. He stands there, officious-looking in a black overcoat, his salt-and-pepper hair perfectly coiffed.

  ‘If we could have your attention, please,’ Sue says, even though we are all already clearly focused on the people in front of us.

  ‘Thank you all for coming,’ DI Bradley says. ‘At around 20.00 hours last night, police from Strand Road received a report of a serious assault in the Creggan Estate. A man in his sixtes had been set upon by three unknown males at his home in Malin Gardens. There, he was subjected to a brutal and terrifying ordeal in which he was savagely beaten before his attackers poured a kettleful of boiling water over him.

  ‘The attack occurred in front of his wife, who the men restrained. The man was taken immediately to Altnagelvin Hospital, where he is currently receiving treatment for his injuries.’

  He pauses, for dramatic effect, I imagine.

  ‘The men are described as being in their thirties, and of average height and build. They were wearing dark knitted balaclavas, dark-coloured jackets and jeans. Two of the men had local accents. The other is said to have had a Belfas
t accent. They left soon after the attack, walking in the direction of Broadway.

  ‘Police are appealing for anyone with information about this attack or for anyone who may have seen anyone acting suspiciously in the area to get in touch. We would say again that the nature of this attack was particularly depraved, and the police will do everything in their power to find those responsible and bring them to justice.’

  DI Bradley nods to Sue, signalling that he is finished. He has barely taken a breath before Aidan asks his first question.

  ‘Are the police willing to confirm that the victim of this attack was Liam Doherty, the father of murdered schoolgirl, Kelly Doherty?’

  ‘At this stage, the victim of the assault has asked not to be identified,’ DI Bradley says.

  ‘But the dogs on the street know who it is,’ Aidan says. ‘There are videos on social media from outside the Doherty house.’

  ‘As I have said, the victim of the assault has requested that he is not identified at this stage,’ DI Bradley repeats.

  There is a collective sigh of frustration.

  ‘Has Jamesy Harte been spoken to by the police regarding this matter?’ Nuala asks.

  ‘At this stage there is nothing to indicate that Jamesy Harte is in any way connected to the events last night,’ DI Bradley says. ‘And we’d really appreciate it if the media didn’t facilitate the spreading of rumours to that effect. I’m going off the record here, folks. This is a very sensitive case, not only in terms of what actually happened last night, but also because of the issues surrounding the Doherty family. No doubt, you’ll be aware of Mr Harte’s announcement of his intention to try and clear his name, and the increased media attention on the story as a result of the anniversary of Kelly’s death.’

  I feel myself colour. He’s not blaming me, exactly. But he might as well be all the same.

  ‘Our priority at the moment is to find the men responsible and bring them before the courts,’ he said. ‘Now, ladies and gentlemen, I appreciate your time here today and your cooperation on this matter,’ DI Bradley says, cutting off Nuala before she can ask another question.