by Claire Allan
‘Ingrid, this is serious stuff. Are the police doing anything? Are they keeping you safe?’
‘I think they’ve bigger fish to fry at the moment,’ I say, ‘but yes. Extra patrols, blah-blah-blah. It’s not like me to lose my cool, you know,’ I tell him. ‘It’s just been stressful. I thought this was just an anniversary story. Then I thought I’d speak to Jamesy Harte and find out about his quest to have his name cleared. Maybe, I’d get a book out of it. I never once expected that any of this would kick off. Not what has happened to Mr Doherty. Not the attacks on my car and home. Not press conferences and missing people …’
‘Missing people?’ he butts in, and before I’ve even thought about it, I blurt out that Jamesy Harte has gone missing. ‘All of his belongings are still in his flat, from what the police could see,’ I say.
‘He wouldn’t come here,’ Niall says, but he looks worried.
I suppose even though he is now a grown man, he believes he saw with his own eyes just exactly what Jamesy Harte is supposed to have been capable of.
‘He’d be lynched as soon as he hit the city limits.’ Niall swallows hard and puts his teacup back on the table.
‘I don’t think he has any desire to come back, but that doesn’t explain why Liam Doherty has been targeted. That’s the bit I can’t get my head around. Maybe I have Jamesy all wrong. I know you don’t agree with me, Niall, but from talking to him, I couldn’t help but believe there was some truth in what he was saying. I just never took him to be the vengeful type.’
‘Or the murderous type,’ Niall says, ‘but believe me …’ His voice trails off.
An awkwardness has opened up between us, a divergence of opinions that can’t easily be brushed over.
‘Anyway, look, I’ve taken up enough of your time,’ I say. I’m embarrassed now. Now that the fear has left. I just want to get to my car and go home. ‘I really appreciate you being there for me just now. Let me cover the cost of the tea and scones.’
He pulls a face, his expression laden with ‘don’t even think about it’.
‘Okay, then,’ I concede. ‘Next time.’ But of course, I’m not sure there will be a next time.
I stand up and gather my coat and scarf.
‘Let me walk you to your car at least,’ Niall says unexpectedly.
I shake my head. ‘You’re very kind, but I’m grand, honest.’
He shrugs off my reply.
‘Ingrid. I’d feel a lot better if you just let me make sure that you get there safely.’
I’m about to object again, when his mobile phone rings.
He glances at the screen and scowls. ‘Declan,’ he mouths in my direction before answering the call. ‘Declan, what I can do for you?’
I, of course, can’t hear the other side of the conversation, but it isn’t hard to pick up the general gist of it.
‘I’m in town just now. Yes. With Ingrid, as it happens. We were just having a cup of tea together.’
Niall rolls his eyes in my direction. He’s clearly not enjoying getting the third degree from his brother.
‘Yes, she’s fine.’
Declan says something and I see the expression on Niall’s face change. He looks at me with an intensity that wasn’t there before. It passes as quickly as it arrives, replaced by a quizzical look instead.
‘Okay, I’ll tell her. Yes. And will you tell Mum not to put any dinner on for me. I’ve plans.’
He ends the call, slips his phone into his pocket.
‘Declan says to ask if you’re okay. You seemed upset when he was at your place last night.’
Chapter Thirty-Five
Ingrid
I don’t know why I feel unnerved by Declan having told Niall he called at my house, or by the expression on Niall’s face when he speaks to me about it. But I do.
‘He called round when he heard the news, wanted to check I was okay,’ I say.
‘How did he know where you live? Has he been there before?’
Niall’s tone is light, inquisitive. If I didn’t know that there is little love lost between the two brothers, I would probably think nothing of it, but knowing what I do it feels wrong.
‘He’s been over once before,’ I say, not revealing it was the night before, or what state his brother was in when he arrived.
I wonder if I should tell him that Declan made me feel uneasy last night. That I didn’t like how he spoke, or how he looked at me.
‘Seems it’s not that hard to track me down if you want to find me,’ I say.
I think of how Niall had tracked me down himself, almost effortlessly. A quick search on Facebook and we were in touch.
Niall sighs. ‘Ingrid, sit down a wee minute again.’
I look to the couple of elderly shoppers who had been eyeing up our table and mouth my apology as I take my seat again. Niall pinches the bridge of his nose with his fingers and takes a deep breath.
‘I know I said things last night about how Declan has spent his life, or how he has let his life be defined by what happened, but beneath that I do love him. That said, I can’t keep quiet. Especially not now.’
I search his face for any sign of what is to come. I just see a man, lost in thought, worry lines running across his forehead.
‘He’s not right,’ Niall says. ‘Not mentally well. My parents have tried to keep it all quiet as much as possible. God knows they’ve cleaned up enough of his messes to last them a lifetime.’
I’m conflicted about where this might be going. I feel sorry for Declan. I have the feeling he has always been and always will be the underdog, especially when it comes to his relationship with his brother. But the last two nights have also made me uneasy enough to need to know what Niall is going to say next.
Niall leans across the table, gestures at me to come closer. He keeps his voice low.
‘He has a record, you know. ABH, breaking and entering – that kind of thing. I’m sure someone at The Chronicle might have covered it at some stage. Someone at the Derry Journal definitely will have. He was a frequent flyer at the magistrates’ court in his time. The reports might not have all the details, but I can tell you, Ingrid – some of the charges relate to harassment of women. At least one of the breaking and entering charges relates to the house of one of his ex-girlfriends. If I were you, I’d be very careful about what I let him know about your routine, your home. Anything.’
I pull back, sit up in my chair. Think of Declan and his smile, and his helplessness. I think about what he has actually done in my presence. It might not have been suitable for him to call at my flat, but he hasn’t tried anything on. I’ve felt uncomfortable, yes, but not threatened.
‘Might just be worth asking the police to look into his whereabouts when your car was attacked – and your flat, for that matter.’
I shake my head. No, that’s just ridiculous.
‘Ingrid.’ Niall’s voice is low and soft. ‘I’m not trying to scare you,’ he says, ‘I promise.’
‘I want to go home,’ I stutter, and I don’t wait for any further revelations – I just stand up and push my way out of the café, towards the car park.
I’m vaguely aware that he is following me. He’s calling my name. Can I take him at face value, or is everyone involved in this entire sorry mess as deceitful as each other?
‘Ingrid, please. I didn’t mean to scare you,’ he shouts as I hurry to my car.
A passing security guard must have heard, because I hear him approach me.
‘Are you okay, miss? Is this gentleman bothering you?’
I don’t know whether to nod or shake my head. I just stand there like a stupid rabbit caught in the headlights.
‘Ingrid, please. I just wanted you to know. I want you to be careful.’
Realising he’s not going to be getting an answer from me, the security guard walks behind me. I turn round just in time to see him raise his hand in a ‘Stop!’ gesture and ask Niall to step back.
‘I don’t think the lady wants to talk to you,�
�� the security man says in his broad Derry accent, his voice husky as if he has smoked all his life, including his childhood.
‘Look, she’s upset. Someone has been bothering her and I just want to make sure she gets home okay. Gets to her car okay. It was vandalised here last night.’
The security guard cops on to who I must be and which car is mine.
‘Ms Devlin,’ he says. ‘Do you want me to walk you to your car? I can ask this gentleman to leave if you want.’
Niall is looking at me. His facial expression pleading for me to believe him.
‘Or I can call the police for you?’ the security man adds.
I shake my head. ‘No. No, I’m fine. Thank you. I’m fine. Niall, I’m fine, too.’
The security guard nods and leaves, and Niall takes a step closer to me.
‘I really didn’t mean to scare you,’ he says. ‘But you had to know. You can double-check if you don’t believe me.’
I simply nod. ‘I’d better go.’
‘Ingrid,’ Niall says, ‘if it’s any consolation at all, I think you’re incredibly brave. It takes a lot of guts to put yourself on the line like this. I’m not sure I’d have the balls to keep digging, but I suppose that’s why I’m a primary school teacher and you’re the journalist with the book deal.’
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘For the tea, and the info.’
‘Take care, Ingrid,’ he says. ‘If you need anything else, get in touch.’
‘I will,’ I say as I finally leave him and head to my car.
I lock the doors as soon as I’m safely inside and when my hands have stopped shaking, I turn the key in the ignition to start the engine.
The radio bursts into life, much too loud for my current state, and I immediately turn the volume down. It’s 2 p.m. and I hear the presenter announce the news is coming next. No doubt they’ll lead with the Doherty attack. It wouldn’t hurt for me to hear what their top line is.
But instead of launching into the details of last night’s assault, the newsreader leads with news that the body of a man has been discovered on rail tracks between Portstewart and Coleraine.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Declan
Declan’s hand is throbbing, his knuckles bloodied and bruised. The fist-shaped dent in his wall doesn’t look too great, either.
He is angry at himself for losing his cool and lashing out, even if, this time, it was only the wall in his bedroom that bore the brunt of his physical aggression.
Ingrid Devlin is with Niall. In town. Having a coffee.
Of course she is.
He thinks again of how cold she was with him last night. How she looked as if she couldn’t wait for him to leave. Even though she had been shaken by what happened, she hadn’t reached out to him for comfort like he had hoped she would.
It was the first time he had seen something cold – disgust maybe – in her eyes when she looked at him. He’d been so stupid to think she could see him as anything more than the wastrel he is.
Especially now that she had met with Niall again. For twins, they couldn’t be more different. Niall oozes a calmness. An air of confidence only someone who had it easy in life could have. And, even without the money, style and grace his brother carried, Declan knows that Niall will always be better than him. He looks better, almost perfect. And it isn’t just the grooming that does it.
There is something just a few degrees off in the symmetry of Declan’s face compared to his brother. Something not quite appealing in the smallest difference in the length of their noses, the exact shade of grey in their eyes. Declan is like a factory second version of Niall, a fact that he has never been able to escape.
And now, despite his warnings, Ingrid Devlin appears to have been taken in by his brother’s charm, too. What will he have to do to get her to listen to him? How can he prove that Niall is not a good option? He has nothing to offer that could persuade anyone he is the better catch. Women don’t see past Niall’s charm and finery, his toned body and his shiny shoes.
They can’t see the real him.
What else does Declan have to do to prove he can protect her? He’d wanted to offer her a shoulder to cry on last night. That was why he had gone to her flat. Sure, he had lied. He didn’t have any leads. He made up all that rubbish about the drug dealers, and she’d known it. She had seen right through him. He’d wanted to own up to her there and then. To laugh it off, maybe. ‘Okay, you’ve got me. I’m lying. I don’t know anything new – I just want to check that you’re okay.’
Would she have reacted any differently if he had?
Even though he knows it is empty, he opens the door to the freezer compartment in his fridge anyway, hoping there might be something hiding in the back of it that he can use to bring down the swelling in his hand.
There isn’t, of course.
His fridge is a virtual wasteland, too. Some milk, butter, half a packet of back bacon and a block of cheese that is going hard around the edges. He’d like to see what Ready Steady Cook could do with those ingredients.
That thought raises a smile, but only the briefest of ones. Because his hand still hurts, and he swears it is swelling more and more by the second – and, for all he knows, Ingrid is still with Niall, listening to his twisted version of events and deciding that Declan is a man she should avoid at all costs.
He hates his brother. In that moment, he hates him with every single cell and fibre of his being.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Ingrid
I know, without having to hear any more, that the body on the train line will be Jamesy Harte.
Most people, of course, have no reason to think it could be Jamesy. Most people don’t know that he has been living in Portstewart, or that the police called at his flat this morning to find him missing. Most people don’t know that the police were looking to talk to him about what happened in Derry last night, or that when he had gone missing, he had left behind his phone, his wallet and even his keys.
If I can get through to DC Mark Black, I think, I might just be able to have an off-the-record briefing on what they’ve found. I’ll be able to see if my hunch is right. I’m not sure whether I want it to be or not. Jamesy’s sad face, his bowed demeanour, comes into my head. His fear at being found. But also what others have told me. That the police believe there’s a possibility he is behind the brutal attack on Liam Doherty last night.
I keep a burner phone for occasions such as checking in with illicit police contacts. It’s to protect them as much as it is to protect me. A cheap pay as you go that I picked up for thirty pounds in Argos and that only facilitates calls and text messages. It’s not registered. It can’t be traced (I paid cash, just in case) and there are only a handful of numbers on it. People I know I can turn to for information when none is forthcoming through official channels. I replace it every couple of months, to be extra safe.
As soon as traffic allows, I pull my car over into a lay-by and delve in my glovebox until my hand touches the phone. It needs a quick charge, just enough to allow me to send the message, and it’s good to go.
Need your help with train timetable. I’d appreciate a reply asap.
I send it to DC Black’s personal mobile. As codes go, it’s pretty pathetic. I don’t think anyone would kill themselves trying to decipher it, but it gets the point across. I hope. If it is Jamesy, this is a huge story. Bigger than anything I’d originally thought of.
Ryan will wet himself over it, I’m sure he will. He’ll forget all about his vow not to bring attention to Jamesy Harte and he’ll go big on the story. With my stomach fizzing with nerves, in a heady mixture of fear, adrenaline and excitement I decide to drive straight to Ryan’s house.
It’s clear when I get there that Jen, and quite possibly the two boys, too, are home. Despite the cold day, there is a bike lying on its side on the grass to the front of the house. Jen’s car – a Volvo 4x4 beast of a thing that there is no need for when all you do is drive around city streets – is parked at the
top of the driveway, with Ryan’s car behind it.
Their house has been decorated for Halloween. Jen is the perfect homemaker. Even though I’m thirty-five I have been known to say I’d like to be just like her when I grow up. Ryan doesn’t find the quip particularly amusing.
Pumpkin-shaped fairy lights twinkle from the windows. Yellow fake crime scene tape criss-crosses along the front door. Small ghost-shaped decorations dance in the breeze and a skeleton is perched on the front step beside a freshly carved pumpkin.
There are still five days until Halloween – the insides of that pumpkin will have well and truly started to rot by then, I think before pressing the doorbell. The usual ring of the doorbell has been replaced by a spooky cackle for the Halloween season. We’ve all become so Americanised. A far cry from our home-made costumes and plastic bags filled with nuts and apples.
A voice in my head tells me ours were simpler times, but then, of course, I remember Kelly. I remember that night. My mother shaking me from my sleep, asking if I knew where Kelly was. Had I seen her?
I’d shaken my head. Too tired to realise the significance of what I was being asked.
‘Think, Ingrid. Think!’ my mother had implored, and that’s when I’d registered the worry and the fear in her voice.
I’d been asleep and I hadn’t gone to bed ’til gone ten o’clock. That meant it was late, and certainly much too late for Kelly Doherty not to be home or for no one to know where she was. I heard a male voice call her name in the street. I blinked, trying to wake up.
‘I saw her earlier when we were out collecting. She was at the top of the street. But then my feet got soaked in that puddle and I came home to change my socks and put on my wellies,’ I told her. ‘I didn’t see her after that.’
‘And who was she with when you saw her?’
I shook my head. One child in a duffel coat with a fifty-pence mask from the newsagents looked much the same as another child in a duffel coat wearing a fifty-pence mask. I wanted to remember, but I couldn’t. I could see my mother’s face illuminated by the pale glow of the street light outside our house. She looked as scared as she sounded. Grown-ups weren’t supposed to get scared. They were supposed to make it better.