Ask No Questions

by Claire Allan

  ‘I don’t know, Mammy,’ I told her, and I was shaking now myself.

  What if something bad had happened? Something really bad? We’d all heard stories of children going missing only to turn up dead later. Was that what had happened to Kelly? Had someone taken her?

  I heard more voices join in the chorus calling her name in the street. My mother sat on my bed and took my hand in hers, but her eyes were at the window. She flinched every time someone called Kelly’s name and was met only with silence as their reply.

  I watched as she made the sign of the cross. ‘Jesus was lost, and Jesus was found,’ she muttered over and over.

  All I could think was that Kelly Doherty’s face was going to be staring out at us all from the front of the newspapers in the way all those missing children’s faces had been. What if someone was hurting her right now?

  The sound of footsteps making their way down a hallway, on expensive tiling, pulls me from my memories and the door to Ryan’s house opens. Jen greets me with a smile that doesn’t quite go all the way to her eyes. She is drying her hands on a tea towel and there is a trace of flour in her hair. She’s been baking. Of course. She’s the type to bake.

  I can’t help but notice she looks tired. I’m not used to seeing her looking anything other than perfectly presented. She’s not a stupid woman. She always treats me with suspicion, which is understandable in the circumstances. I’m not sure she knows that Ryan and I have had sex, more than once, but I imagine that living with a man like Ryan, you soon come to suspect every woman who is vaguely well presented. Ryan has a reputation that precedes him, and it’s not that of a brilliant editor.

  ‘Ingrid, what can we do for you?’ Her eyebrows knit together in faux concern. ‘Ryan told me there’d been some unpleasantness and that awful business last night with Liam Doherty. Dear me, what is the world coming to?’

  ‘It’s terrible,’ I concede, mirroring her painted-on concern. ‘But I need to see Ryan, if he’s in. About some breaking news. One he’ll want published on the website as soon as possible.’

  ‘Is that what has him on edge? He’s been like a bag of cats all day. I’ve been doing my best to keep out of his way.’

  She laughs but it’s hollow and there’s something about the way she rubs at her wrist that makes me feel uncomfortable. I try not to stare at it.

  I shrug. ‘There’s a lot happening, that’s for sure. And he’ll be under pressure to get the Web clicks rising.’

  Jen nods. ‘Never a day off any more. Not that he was ever one to leave the job in the office anyway. He always has to be nosying at something.’

  ‘He does,’ I say, eager to get past her and see Ryan.

  She looks at me for a moment as if frozen and then just as she goes to speak, a beep from my phone tells me someone has sent me a message. Could it be DC Black already? I glance towards my bag.

  ‘I’m sorry. That’s probably about the story,’ I say.

  ‘Of course. Sure. Okay. Well, Ryan is in his office if you want to go on through. I assume you know where it is?’

  I’m pretty sure it’s a trick question. I’m not supposed to know where his office is. I’m not supposed to be familiar with this house at all.

  I shake my head.

  ‘Top of the stairs, third on the left,’ she says before calling to Ryan in a sing-song voice that is just a little too shrill to let him know he has a visitor. I slip my phone from my pocket and look at the screen.

  There’s no attempt at any code back.

  Body not in a state for ID. But believe it’s your man.

  I nod, feeling strangely satisfied that my instincts were right. The phone beeps again as the message updates.

  Foul play suspected.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Ingrid

  Ryan is shocked to see me. His confusion, much like Jen’s, is written all over his face.

  ‘Ingrid?’ he says, looking up from his desk.

  I wonder what he’s doing. Is he working? Is he penning some magnum opus of his own? He has mentioned his desire to write a book some day. A memoir of his time in journalism. Something of ‘historical importance’.

  ‘True crime is popular, of course,’ he has said to me in the past. ‘But I want the book I write to be more a legacy project. Something that will outlive me.’

  I never bite when he says something like that. I know it’s born out of jealousy that I’m out there and making a name for myself already.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt your work,’ I say. ‘I should’ve phoned or texted, but I have a scoop for you that you won’t want to miss.’

  ‘If it’s the press conference, every news agency in the North is already running with that and I can’t help but notice it’s not uploaded onto our site.’

  He looks up at me. He needs a shave; stubby grey spikes of hair line the wrinkles on his face. Out of his usual shirt and tie, wearing a sweater and jeans, he looks old. Of course I know that I’m a good twenty years younger than he is, but what once looked mature and inviting to me now just looks tired.

  I shake my head. ‘There was nothing in that press conference that wasn’t already out there. I was busy chasing something juicier.’

  He sits back in his chair, crosses his arms and raises one eyebrow. ‘Go on,’ he says.

  ‘There’s been a body discovered on the tracks between Portstewart and Coleraine,’ I begin.

  ‘Yes. I’ve seen the release. I’ve even put it up on the site. Because that is what a conscientious journalist would do,’ he says, his tone derisory. ‘I did tell you if you weren’t feeling up to working, I’d get Tommy to fill in.’

  ‘Ryan,’ I say, perching on the side of his desk. ‘Stop it. I am up to the job. I’ve been doing the job. I happen to know Jamesy Harte went missing last night. From his home. Which, as I told you, is in Portstewart.’

  Now he’s interested. He pauses, regards me from his chair.

  ‘That doesn’t mean …’ he begins.

  I imagine he’s afraid to believe he has such a story in his reach.

  ‘No, it doesn’t. But I have it from a source that they believe it could well be Harte and, furthermore, foul play is suspected.’

  ‘Fuck!’ Ryan exhales through his teeth. ‘And your source? Who is it? How rock solid are they?’

  ‘You know better than to ask who my source is. But I can tell you they’ve never led me down the wrong road before,’ I say.

  He walks to the window of his office, his hands thrust deep in the pockets of his jeans, and back again. He is clearly thinking about what to do next.

  ‘What’s the thinking? Someone close to Doherty took revenge? Someone in Portstewart realised who he was and what he’d done? This is messy, Ingrid.’

  ‘I don’t know what the story is,’ I say. ‘I’ve only just heard about his body. But given what happened to Liam Doherty last night … and witnesses said they heard Harte leaving his bedsit in the small hours and getting into a car. His phone, wallet, keys – that sort of thing – were all left behind.’

  ‘And we have the last ever interview with him,’ Ryan says, his eyes wide with excitement. ‘This is some scoop for us.’

  I bristle. This is not how this is going to work. ‘Us?’ I say.

  ‘Well. You do work for The Chronicle and you do have an interview with Jamesy Harte in the bag, don’t you? You offered it to me before, so surely you will offer it to me again.’

  ‘And surely this time will be my chance to say no. I’ve already committed to using it in a book.’

  ‘Ingrid,’ he says, his head to one side. He reaches out to me. ‘Don’t be like that. This would be great for The Chronicle. It would be great for us …’

  I take a step back. ‘Ryan, I came here to you with the exclusive about his death. I came here to work with you on getting that to a place where we can publish it. I didn’t come here to hand over the interview I did in my own time.’

  I stand up from where I’ve been perched on his desk, but he grabs my ar
m and forces me back down.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Ingrid,’ he snarls, and there is anger in his eyes. ‘You know how tough this business is at the minute. Head office will be looking at the numbers again soon and I’ve no need to remind you that print sales are still in decline, as well as advertising revenue. This could give us the boost we need to save more jobs from the axe. Are you really that selfish you’d keep that from us? Are you really that much of a bitch?’

  I look him in the eye. This isn’t about jobs, I know that. We both know that any boost now will just bring about a stay of execution. The executioner is still sharpening his axe and getting ready for the next round of redundancies. This is about Ryan wanting to lay claim to something that isn’t his.

  He has stalled this story at every opportunity and now – now, when the villain of the piece is most likely dead – he wants to go to town. I already know what angle he’ll take. After all, you can’t libel the dead. You certainly can’t libel a convicted child killer who never had the chance to clear his name. He’ll use whatever he can from my interview to bury whatever remnants of Jamesy Harte’s alleged innocence are left.

  ‘Back off,’ I snap, my voice low but just as menacing as his.

  He does what I ask and steps back from me, his hands clenched. Frustration is coming off him in waves.

  ‘You told me to keep out of this story altogether,’ I remind him. ‘Just a wee colour piece for the anniversary, you said. You told me no good could come of it.’

  ‘And no good has come of it, has it?’ His voice is raised, his jaw set tight. ‘What has happened since you started digging, Ingrid? Jamesy’s dead. Liam Doherty is in hospital. Bernie is traumatised. Did you know that her daughter-in-law, Christopher’s wife, has been admitted, too? Blood pressure dangerously high and she’s expecting. Christ, Ingrid, your own car, your own home have been targeted. And you wonder why I didn’t want you near it?

  ‘But you had to win, you had to know more than anyone else. You have brought this fucking mess to a head and the very least you could do is make some sort of half-hearted attempt at cleaning it all up. Make amends, do right by me and by your colleagues!’

  He is shouting by now, flecks of spittle shooting forth from his mouth, making me feel sick. How did I ever kiss those lips and find them anything less than revolting? He thinks this is all my fault? And he wants me to give him access to my research material? He has another thing coming.

  ‘Ryan,’ I say, doing my very best to keep my voice measured and in control. ‘You covered the story at the time. You were there. An adult. Let me ask you, do you believe Jamesy Harte killed Kelly Doherty?’

  Ryan straightens himself, pulls himself to his full height. He looks directly in at me, doesn’t shift his gaze. I feel the weight of his authority bear down on me. He is my boss, after all.

  Still he stares, refuses to blink. But then I see it, a split second when he looks away to the door and back again. It’s so rapid I could so easily have missed it, but I didn’t.

  ‘Of course I think he killed Kelly Doherty,’ he says, his voice matching my measured tone now. The fight gone. The abuse all hurled.

  I might have believed him had it not been for that quick glance to the side. The almost imperceptible way he wet his lips before he spoke. The faintest hint of colour in his cheeks. But now it seems obvious to me that Ryan is lying. He knows more than he is letting on.

  ‘Oh, God,’ I say. ‘You know something, don’t you? From then?’

  ‘I know Jamesy Harte isn’t right in the head. I know what was found in his house.’

  ‘He says he was set up.’

  Ryan snorts, but I know that fake laugh. That bravado. I’ve seen it many times. Christ, this is why he didn’t want me near the story. He’s been trying to control it all this time. Surely it’s not possible that he’s scared, too?

  I look at him, the sound of his fake laugh still hanging in the air. The aura of self-confidence around him cracks. The arrogance of the man is a pathetic act. This has never been about The Chronicle or my colleagues at all. Nor has it been about not rocking the boat and upsetting the good people of Derry. This is about him covering something up. I’d bet my life on it.

  He is not, I realise, the man I thought him to be.

  ‘Ryan,’ I say. ‘Fuck you and fuck your job. I quit.’

  It’s my calmness that rattles him. I can see the confusion on his face.

  I grab my bag from his desk and turn to leave. Just as I reach for the door, he reaches out and grabs my wrist, tries to yank me back towards him. I feel my skin twist and bruise. My mind flashes to how Jen had rubbed at her own wrist at the front door. This man is nothing but a liar and a bully. I can’t believe it has taken me so long to see it.

  ‘You’re making a big mistake,’ he hisses, his face twisted.

  ‘What are you going to do, Ryan? Smash the windows of my car in? Break into my flat? Slash my tyres? If you don’t let go of me right now, I swear I will scream as loud as I can until Jen wonders what the hell is going on up here.

  ‘When she comes up to see what all the fuss is about, I will describe in detail to her how you fucked me over this very desk when she was away for the weekend with the boys. I will tell her all the times you’ve had your way with me in her home. How we did it on her precious kitchen island, where she is baking you a fucking cake right now. Do you understand?’

  He releases his grip, hisses at me that I’m a fucking bitch and that I’m not to say I wasn’t warned. I storm out of his house without so much as calling goodbye and get into my car.

  I am flooded with adrenaline. How wide does this mess spread? How many people have been lying all these years? How deep will I have to dig to find the truth? Because I’m determined I will find it.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Ingrid

  There are a number of things I could do. I could drive up to Coleraine now, try to find the spot on the train line where Jamesy Harte’s body was discovered. I could drive to Portstewart and see if I can see in his bedsit, although I imagine it will be taped off as a possible crime scene. I have no contacts in the PSNI in Portstewart to bend the rules for me and let me in. So I decide both of those are a non-starter.

  I’m tense, wound tight by my argument with Ryan. I’m not sure where to go from here, short of calling DI Bradley and telling him I suspect Ryan might know something about the Doherty murder. But it’s a closed case and there are so many open cases right now that I doubt he’ll care.

  Maybe I could tell him that Ryan has been trying to steer me away from investigating this story. That I believe he is tied up in it in some way. I think of the anger in his voice just now and I feel that maybe, just maybe, he could be.

  But I have nothing concrete to take to the police.

  I’m pretty sure he won’t dare make any moves now, though. Hopefully, he’s currently sufficiently panicked that he’ll behave himself. I don’t think he would stupid enough to try anything that might show him in a further dark light.

  I think of poor Jamesy and my heart aches for him. He’ll never feel the relief of being exonerated now. I don’t imagine people will be queuing up to identify whatever is left of him. Not even those who claim they were campaigning for him. It’s a sad end to a sad life, I think. An image of him comes to mind: smiling from the garden of his house, waving at us walking home from school. Kelly skipping over and offering him a Kola Kube from the paper bag she was carrying. He smiled and took it. I remember that. I remember him saying they were his favourite boiled sweet, and any time we bought a bag on the way home from school we would stop and give him one.

  It’s funny how the memories are coming back. Bit by bit.

  When I reach my flat, I sit at the table and sift through all of my paperwork and research materials, hoping to find something that I’ve overlooked before. Something that will help it all to make sense.

  DC Black has assured me that he will be in touch when he has more information, but God only knows how lon
g that will take. I tap my pen on my notepad, nervous energy making it impossible for me to sit still. I have to do something.

  The little knot of anxiety in the pit of my stomach grows – but I push it down. I can’t and won’t let it win. I read over my notes until I reach the transcript of my interview with Declan Heaney at the Rath Mor café. It jumps out at me again that he was never convinced that Jamesy Harte was guilty. But he wouldn’t be drawn on it.

  ‘Look,’ he’d said. ‘It’s just a gut feeling or something. Naw, it’s more than a gut feeling. I really don’t think it was him. It doesn’t make sense.’

  Maybe, if I speak to him again, he might tell me more. Tell me what exactly he meant by ‘more than a gut feeling’.

  Declan does seem keen to spend time with me. He genuinely seemed to want to help – well, before last night, anyway. But I’m sure I can talk him round a little.

  Niall’s warning that his brother is an unknown entity rings in my ear. Switching on my laptop and accessing The Chronicle’s online archive, I search his name and come up with a plethora of stories – mainly from the petty sessions of the local court. Niall wasn’t lying when he said his brother had a record. When I finally click on the story of how he had plagued an ex-girlfriend over a three-month period, calling at her house at all hours of the day and night and flooding her phone with messages, my blood runs cold.

  His solicitor told the court that Declan was dealing with ‘significant mental health and addiction issues following a childhood trauma’. That he had been off his medication at the time of his relationship and break-up with the girlfriend in question.

  ‘I cannot argue with you that Mr Heaney does not have a lengthy record,’ the solicitor had told the court, ‘but it has not been for this type of offending. My client is accessing support from the community mental health team and is willing to engage with probation services.’