Ask No Questions

by Claire Allan

  ‘That’s all we have for today,’ Sue says in a voice that makes it clear that the proceedings are over.

  DI Bradley turns and walks back towards the police station. DS King stays where she is, though, and as I slip my phone back into my bag, she approaches me.

  ‘Ingrid, do you mind if we have a word? Why don’t you follow me in?’

  I glance towards my colleagues – God knows the last thing I want is for them to see me being led into the station, in any capacity.

  ‘Give it five minutes and come back in. I understand this is sensitive,’ she says, following my gaze. ‘But we really do need to talk to you. There’s been a development.’

  ‘About my car? Did the CCTV footage show anything?’

  She shakes her head. ‘No, well. I don’t know. I think the area was too poorly lit to catch anything of note. But that’s not what we need to talk to you about. It’s about Jamesy Harte.’

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Ingrid

  DS King’s face is serious but when she speaks, she thanks me for waiting behind and leads me down a warren of corridors to an office where DI Bradley is sitting behind a desk.

  ‘Ingrid,’ he says. ‘Sit down.’

  ‘I wasn’t expecting an invite into your inner sanctum,’ I say, trying to keep my voice light. I don’t want him to know I’m rattled.

  ‘Well, it seems today is your lucky day,’ he tells me as I take my seat opposite him. ‘Look, Ingrid, I’ll cut to the chase here. First thing this morning, the police attended the address of Jamesy Harte to speak to him in light of the attack last night.’

  ‘You think Jamesy Harte has something to do with it?’ I ask.

  DI Bradley pauses. ‘Ingrid, at the moment, we are looking at all possible leads and talking to as many people as possible. Including Jamesy Harte, yes.’

  I nod.

  ‘The thing is, Ingrid, when we arrived at his registered address, he wasn’t there.’

  My mind whirs. He could just be out. At the shop. Out for a coffee. Something like that. It doesn’t mean anything, I tell myself, but then again, I’m pretty sure the police wouldn’t have me in the station talking to them about it if they thought he was out on a normal errand.

  ‘And?’ I say, my voice smaller, less confident, than I have heard it in a long time.

  ‘And, well, the police have been unable to locate him all morning. What we do know is that his neighbours heard a door slam and a car leave the street, at speed, in the early hours of the morning. There were signs that Jamesy Harte’s bedsit was left in a hurry. There was a full cup of tea on the counter, the TV was left on. And Jamesy’s wallet and phone were on his bedside table.’

  Anxiety pulls at me, dragging all of my muscles into tight spasms.

  ‘And do you have any idea where he went? Who with?’ I ask, even though I know that if they did, they wouldn’t have me here.

  DI Bradley shakes his head. ‘What we do know is that you were the last person Harte spoke to on his phone and that you have been in contact with him over the last few weeks.’

  ‘That’s right. I’ve interviewed him about Kelly’s murder and his claim he is innocent,’ I say. ‘That’s not a secret. I’ve told DS King this before. After the incident at my house, and the car.’

  ‘And he called you last night. What did he want to speak to you about?’

  ‘He’d heard something had happened to Liam Doherty and wanted to know if I knew any details.’

  ‘How had he heard about Mr Doherty?’ DI Bradley asks, to the room as much as to me.

  ‘It was all over social media in a matter of minutes,’ I say. ‘He probably saw it there. Or he had someone contact him. I can’t remember if he told me how he heard, but he didn’t seem to know a lot about it.’

  ‘And how did he seem on the phone last night? His manner?’

  I shrug. ‘He was quite agitated, upset even, when I told him I didn’t have any more information than he already had.’

  ‘So, you didn’t tell him about what you had learned at the hospital?’ DS King asks.

  I blush. I knew she would bring that up. Of course she would.

  I shake my head. ‘No. I didn’t. Look, I’ll be honest. You might find this hard to believe of me, but I’ve no desire to make things worse for the Dohertys. Bernie asked me not to tell anyone what she told me and I won’t. She seems scared, and I understand that.’

  I fidget in my seat, pull the arms of my jumper down to my wrists and then I take a deep breath. ‘He did say that he believed, and always believed, that Liam Doherty might be aware of some or all of what really happened that night. That he has kept quiet while Jamesy rotted in prison. He said maybe karma had caught up with him, or words to that effect.’

  ‘Has Jamesy given you any reason to believe he still has any contacts in Derry? Anyone here he would have any sway over?’

  I shake my head. ‘No. Absolutely not. I’d be certain of that. It’s been twenty-five years since he lived here. He’s been out of jail eight years and hasn’t set foot back in Derry. He’s too scared to and I believe that fear is genuine. I don’t think he has the wit about him to lie to that level.’

  DI Bradley nods. ‘You think he’s genuine? When you spoke to him, you had a feeling he was telling you the truth?’

  ‘I can’t be certain, but yes. I do feel he was being honest, and with everything that has happened in the last week, to me and now to Liam, I’m pretty sure he’s right. Something else is going on behind the scenes here.’

  I watch as DI Bradley glances momentarily towards DS King. If they have any idea of the truth of the matter, they sure aren’t letting me in on it.

  ‘How did the call with him end? he asks.

  ‘He hung up on me. He was upset. Maybe I should’ve called him back, but I was exhausted.’

  My face roars red with shame as I speak. DI Bradley makes a note of it and looks back at me. ‘Would you allow us access to any notes you have from your conversations with him?’

  I stiffen. That goes against every journalistic principle I hold. But if Harte is a danger to others, or himself, or me, then maybe I should. No. No, a journalist must protect their sources and their source material, no matter how unsavoury that source might be.

  ‘Where do you think he is?’ I ask.

  ‘We’re not sure, but we can’t rule out the possibility that he is either in Derry or on his way to Derry. Nor can we rule out the possibility that something has happened to him – that he may have been targeted too, in the same way Mr Doherty has, or that he is a danger to himself.’ DI Bradley’s expression is grim.

  I rub my temples. This is all such a mess.

  ‘I really don’t think I can give you access to my interview,’ I say. ‘But I can tell you that there is nothing in what he said to me during that official interview that would indicate he was a danger to himself or others. As for last night, he was agitated, yes. He was upset about the response to the article on social media. Worried it might draw attention to his location. But I really don’t think he would do anything to harm himself.’

  Oh, God, but I really hope he didn’t do anything to harm himself.

  ‘Ingrid, I understand you must be very unsettled by this,’ DS King says, her tone conciliatory.

  I can’t hold in a brittle laugh. ‘That’s a bit of an understatement,’ I say. The tissue I have been twisting around in my fingers is starting to dissolve. To my shame, I feel tears prick at my eyes.

  ‘You do know you can contact the police at any time if you feel under threat,’ DI Bradley says.

  I nod. I can’t speak because I’m afraid that if I do, I simply won’t be able to stop the tears from falling.

  ‘If I can say something to you, though. No story in the world is worth this.’

  Of course he would say that, I think, though his concern does look genuine. Then again, I seem to have lost the ability to read people properly just now.

  I steady myself. Switch back into professional mode.
<
br />   ‘What will you be doing to find Jamesy?’ I ask.

  ‘We have officers looking for him at the moment. Checking bus routes and the train station. Needless to say, if he makes contact with you again, we’d like you to let us know immediately.’

  I nod. ‘And Mr Doherty? How is he?’ I ask.

  ‘Medically, he’s ill but stable. Emotionally, he’s traumatised, as his whole family are.’

  I nod.

  ‘Ingrid, we really would ask that you stay away from the Doherty family at this time. They have asked me to pass that message on to you – and to all the media, just so you don’t think it’s personal,’ DS King says. ‘They don’t want any more attention brought to last night’s events.

  ‘At this stage, they have no plans to make any further statement about what has happened and, look, you were there at the hospital. You saw how distressed they were. You heard how awful this is. I know that might make for big headlines, but it’s not serving anyone to splash their trauma all over the papers.’

  ‘It is my job to report on the news and this is news,’ I say, because that is the truth.

  ‘I understand that. But there are ways to go about this without making things more difficult for the Dohertys. And, Ingrid, you have to consider if you could be making things more difficult for yourself,’ DS King says. ‘There will be a family liaison officer with Bernie Doherty at all times. We will know if you do try to make contact. You can be sure if we are watching then others are watching, too.’

  ‘You’ve been targeted three times in the space of the last week,’ DI Bradley interjects as if I’m not only too aware that I have already attracted the wrong kind of attention. ‘At the moment, we have nothing to identify who is responsible and can only assume the messages left are intended to warn you off any further reporting on this case. Given the varied locations of the incidents, we have reason enough to believe that someone may already be following your movements.’

  The lead weight in the pit of my stomach feels heavier. A wave of nausea washes over me.

  ‘We will of course try to find whoever is responsible for this, Ingrid, but you do have to consider how much you want to bait these people,’ he adds.

  I’m not used to letting intimidatory tactics get the better of me, but this time they just might.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Ingrid

  My mechanic has called and told me my car is ready and waiting for me in Foyleside car park with four new tyres. He doesn’t ask about what happened; he just tells me I can settle the bill with him on Monday.

  ‘There’ll be an extra charge,’ he says, ‘for a Saturday call-out.’

  I don’t argue, I just agree that I’ll sort it as soon as possible. All I really want to do now is to collect my car and get home, where I can lock the door and stay safe and warm. But there’s also a comfort in being among the crowds of Saturday shoppers. The Foyleside Shopping Centre is thronged with families out beginning their Halloween celebrations and shopping for decorations and costumes.

  Halloween is not done in any half measure in Derry. It’s a week-long festival of family-friendly workshops, events that bring the city’s historic walls to life with fire breathers and acrobats, light shows and storytellers. Thousands of tourists flock to the city for the big day itself, which always culminates in a huge firework display over the River Foyle.

  It’s as far removed from what it was like twenty-five years ago as it is ever likely to get. Back then it was very much a fledgling festival, a night of music in town. Children still focused on their own streets and their own celebrations.

  But now, as I walk through Foyleside, I’m surrounded by tired mothers, children dressed as witches and warlocks, princesses and superheroes. The build-up to the Halloween carnival is at fever pitch. There are a number of people offering face-painting and the queue would try the patience of a saint. Actors in costume move through the crowds, engaging with shoppers. I keep my head down.

  The further I walk through the centre, the more uncomfortable I start to feel. The adults in costumes are intimidating, witches with long, pointy fingers, a zombie with white contact lenses in. Someone is wearing a Scream mask, dressed as the killer from the Nineties movie. Underneath their costume they could be anyone. No one would know.

  ‘This way, my dear!’ a woman dressed as an old crone implores, her voice croaky.

  I turn my head, coming face to face with someone dressed as The Child Catcher from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. He waves an oversized lollipop in my direction. Sneers. It’s all part of an act, but I don’t like it.

  ‘Leave me alone,’ I hiss, and he steps back as if I’ve offended him, but I don’t care. I walk on.

  The noise is too much, it’s too warm. Too busy. I see people, street theatre actors, jump out to try to scare other shoppers. The air rings with screams and nervous laughter. It brings me back to that night, when I fell and I heard the screams on the air. ‘Stop!’ ‘Wait for me!’ ‘No!’ My memory is hazy now.

  Those voices, back then, were they male or female? Was Kelly among them? Was she calling for help? Imagine screaming for help and everyone thinking it was part of a game. Imagine the horror of realising no one was coming to help you.

  Someone brushes against me and I flinch. I look up and around at the sea of faces and realise any one of them could be the person responsible for the attacks on my car and my home. Among those happy families and young people wandering around with all the swagger of those in their youth might be the person who held Liam Doherty down, or the person who made the call to pour the boiling water over him. Did it even bother them, what they did, what they saw?

  God, Jamesy Harte could be in that crowd. Would anyone really recognise him any more? I hadn’t. As implausible as I feel it to be in my gut, could he really be behind what happened to Liam Doherty? What did he mean by what he’d told me last night?

  I feel as if the air is being squeezed out of my lungs. Each breath is starting to become harder than the last. I keep to the edges of the shopping centre, walk alongside the shop windows. I reach my hand out to steady myself on the cool glass, my palms sweaty. I can feel a cold sweat break out across my forehead. I pull off my coat and scarf, but I still feel much too warm.

  I force one foot in front of the other and walk on until I’m passing Costa Coffee on the first floor, when I feel something, or someone, grip my arm. A firm, masculine grasp – the shock of it almost stops my heart. I pull and shrug, try to break free.

  ‘Let go!’ I say, but instead of a shout, a strangled yelp escapes my throat.

  ‘Ingrid! Ingrid, it’s me. Niall. I just wanted to say hello. See if you heard anything more about Liam after last night.’

  I look up and see that the hand does indeed belong to Niall Heaney, whose expression is one of concern. I blink while I try to make sense of what is going on in my head and feel a surge of adrenaline run through my veins.

  I see his lips move, but I can’t hear what he says over the din of my own heart thudding in my chest, my blood whooshing through my body. I try to focus on him, on his words. On his touch, softer now. On the smell of him, clean and fresh.

  ‘Jesus! Are you okay?’

  I just about make out what he is saying, and I nod then shake my head, and without being able to stop myself, I burst into tears.

  Niall leads me, very gently, by the hand to the coffee shop in Marks & Spencer, which provides just a little more privacy than Costa on the mall. He sits me down before going to order two large teas. He brings extra sugar, in case I need it ‘to steady my nerves’, and two scones with jam and cream.

  ‘Eat something,’ he says, ‘in case your blood sugars are a little low. This might help make you feel a bit better.’

  I realise I’ve not eaten at all today so far and although my throat feels tight and my stomach unsettled, I am actually hungry.

  I sip the tea, cut one of the scones in half, and slather it in cream and jam. I take the smallest of bites, trying to assess whether
or not I’m safe to eat the full thing or if my stomach will reject it.

  Niall doesn’t ask me what’s wrong. Not at this stage, anyway. He talks about the weather and how underrated a nice cup of tea is. He allows plenty of prolonged silences, for which I’m grateful, because I need to quiet what is going on in my head.

  When I feel myself calm down, when I feel able to breathe again without my whole body shaking, he looks at me with concern on his face.

  ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ he asks.

  Part of me is mortified to have lost my cool again so completely – it seems to be becoming a habit – but a bigger part of me is just so grateful that someone is asking me how I am with genuine concern.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I tell him. ‘I think … well, I know, it was a panic attack.’

  ‘What brought it on?’ he asks.

  I shrug my shoulders. ‘A combination of things, I think. The noise. The crowds. What happened to Liam Doherty.’

  He nods.

  ‘And my car was targeted last night,’ I tell him. ‘Here. In the car park. After I saw you. My tyres slashed.’

  ‘Jesus,’ he says, his eyes widening. ‘But surely it’s not related to what happened to Liam, is it? I mean, it couldn’t be.’

  Do I tell him everything? Do I tell him that yes, it could well be related and, actually, it most likely is related? Do I tell him this is the third time I’ve had threatening messages left for me in the space of a week?

  ‘We believe, the police and I, that is, well, we believe there could well be some connection. This isn’t the first time I’ve been targeted,’ I say, my voice small. I’ve lost my bravado, I realise. My ability to shrug it off as a peril of the job. ‘My car was vandalised outside work last week and at the weekend just gone, someone broke into my flat.’

  His hand reaches out and touches mine, and I am so very grateful for the warmth of some human contact that I don’t pull away.