Borderlands (10 page)

"She was
at a club in Strabane; handier for her to stay here."

"Did she
go to the club with you? Or did you meet her there?"

"I met
her."

"Who did
she come in with?"

Another
pause. "I don't know."

"Are you
sure?"

"She had
a lot of friends. Angela wasn't shy that way."

"Who was
it?"

"I'm not
sure," she said. "It might have been one of the travellers, but I
don't know. He doesn't come near me. Angela wouldn't tell me if she was with
him."

"Why
not?"

"'Cause
she knows I don't like him."

"Why
not?"

"'Cause
he was using her."

"In what
way?"

Nothing.

"In what
way, Yvonne?"

"She ...
I don't want to say. It's not fair on her."

"Yvonne.
Angela was murdered by someone. I need to know everything about her - good and
bad - if I'm going to find out who did it."

She thought
about it, taking two drags on the cigarette in quick succession, before leaning
over and grinding it out in the ashtray. She sat back in the chair and pulled
her bare legs up under her, wrapping one arm around her knees.

"She let
him do things. To her. Sex and stuff."

"Why?"

"For
money. So she could buy things."

"What
kind of things?"

"Drugs,
usually. She got into drugs kind of recently, after she met McKelvey. He met
her in a club in Strabane. Gave her something for free, got her drugs for a
while when she had money; when she didn't, she paid for them in different
ways." She blushed slightly. "She never mentioned him in front of
me."

"What
kind of drugs?"

"Es
mostly. McKelvey got her them, or gave her money to buy them off someone
else."

"Was she
with McKelvey on Friday night?"

"I don't
know. Might have been. She said she had a date. Wanted something nice to wear; she
took my red jacket. I'd only worn it once myself. Still, it looked better on
her."

"Could
she have been meeting someone other than McKelvey on Friday?"

"She
might have been. McKelvey wasn't her only one. She had a lot of friends, like I
said."

"Did you
see McKelvey on Thursday with her?"

"I
thought I saw him, but I can't be sure."

The
conversation was flowing fairly easily, so I decided to return to Johnny
Cashell. "Did she tell you what she and her father had rowed about on
Thursday? The night she stayed with you?"

A pause,
while she weighed up her options. In the end she decided to be honest.
"The usual. He was spying on her dressing. Used to do it all the time. She
said that one time she was in the shower; when she came out he was in the
bathroom, cleaning his teeth or something. Acting as if there was nothing wrong
with it. She said he gave her the creeps. If you ask me, McKelvey is no better,
mind you."

"Did
Angela's father ever do anything to her? Anything he shouldn't?" I asked,
struggling to make the question direct without being crass. "Did he touch
her or anything?"

"I don't
think so. I think he just liked to watch her."

"Why
didn't you tell us this when she died? Why keep it to yourself? It could
help."

"I guess
I didn't want to get involved. Plus, John Cashell might be a dirty old man, but
I couldn't believe he'd be a murderer. Liam McKelvey is a different
matter."

"Did she
tell you who gave her the ring?"

"What
ring?"

"The
ring she was wearing. The gold ring with the stones; her initials on it."

Yvonne looked
confused. "Angela didn't wear a gold ring. She wore nothing but silver.
Can I have another cigarette?"

She leaned
forward again and took the cigarette. I held out my lighter for her and she
steadied my hand in both of hers, though it was not shaking. Her hands were
hard from work, but warm. The touch of her skin made my guts contract as if
someone had winded me. She held my hand a little longer than necessary, then
slowly let go, the tips of her fingers running across the backs of mine, catching
slightly on my wedding ring.

Johnny
Cashell was sitting in Interview Room One in Strabane police station. It was
like every other interview room I had ever seen: a single wooden desk against
one wall, the surface engraved with initials and scarred with cigarette burns
and rings where hot mugs of tea had whitened the wood. The walls were painted
institutional green and covered in scrawls and obscenities, and beside the
desk someone had left burn marks from a lighter flame. The room smelt of sweat
and smoke, both emanating in copious quantities from Johnny, who shifted
continually in the straightbacked wooden chair he had been given, oblivious to
the fact that such rooms are designed to ensure maximum discomfort. In fact, it
was rumoured that the old RUC used to cut an inch off the front legs of these
chairs so that those sitting on them kept slipping forward and could not get
settled.

Cashell
prodded at his stomach and the bulging around his abdomen under his T-shirt
showed that he was still wearing a dressing for the knife wound he'd received.
He looked unkempt, his stubble a dirty grey in contrast with the redness of his
hair. His T-shirt seemed to be annoying him, and he tugged at it, pulling it
off his chest throughout the interview.

I had given Hendry
a list of the questions I wanted asked and had filled him in on events while we
had waited for Cashell to be brought up to the interview room. Consequently, I
was content enough to sit and listen. We had decided to keep things informal.

"So,
Johnny, you told Inspector Devlin here that you last saw your daughter last
Thursday, the 19th of December. Is that right?" Hendry said.

"What?
Aye. That's right. Thursday."

"Was
there a reason why she didn't come home that night?"

"Staying
with friends, probably."

"Any
reason she was staying with friends?"

"Jesus
Christ, do you need a reason to stay with a friend? Maybe she was with a
boyfriend and didn't want us to know. What the fuck is this about?"

"Did you
have a row with Angela on Thursday, Mr Cashell?"

Johnny looked
up and peered at Hendry more cautiously, alerted by the use of his full name,
sensing a change in tone - a change in direction. "Might have done; can't
remember."

"Did
you? Yes or no?"

"Well, if
you're asking, you know I did. So just get to the point."

"What
did you row about?"

"Family
stuff."

Hendry
laughed. "Oh it was family stuff alright." Then, so quietly that I
wasn't even sure he actually said it, he muttered, "You're a smoker,
Johnny. Do you like to roll your own?"

"What?"

"Did
your daughter accuse you of spying on her getting dressed?"

Cashell
exploded, getting to his feet, "You fucking ...! Devlin? What the fuck's
going on?"

A constable
who had been standing at the door behind Cashell - another feature designed to
cause discomfort - moved forward and placed a hand on Cashell's shoulder,
forcing him back onto his seat.

"Did she
accuse you of watching her getting dressed?" Hendry persisted.

Cashell did
not immediately reply; instead he glared at me, his chest heaving, his
breathing laboured and nasal. Finally, he exhaled slowly; "I... I stumbled
in on her, by accident."

"That's
not what we hear. Apparently this wasn't the first time, was it, Mr Cashell?
You watched her take a shower one day too, we're told. Were you attracted to
your daughter, Mr Cashell?"

"You
fucker!" he spat, then turned to me as if I represented in some way the
last voice of reason. "Devlin? What the fuck's going on here? You don't
seriously think I—"

"Did you
fancy your daughter Johnny? It's nothing to be ashamed of. She was a
good-looking girl. Wouldn't even really have been incest anyway, would it,
Johnny? 'Cause she wasn't yours anyway. Isn't that right?" Hendry seemed
to take some pleasure from
the last comment and the effect it had on Cashell.

Johnny's
mouth opened and closed, struggling to respond like a fish gasping for breath,
but his brain wouldn't function. Tears welled in his eyes as he stared, as
though in a trance, through me and beyond the walls of the room to wherever he
stored his memories of his girl. Again I saw her lying exposed in a field,
without dignity. No one spoke as a single tear escaped from the corner of
Cashell's eye, then he quickly rubbed at his face with the palms of his hands
and lifted a cigarette and lit it. He stretched his mouth like an animal
yawning, attempting to swallow back his tears.

"Did you
kill her, Johnny?" Hendry said, his voice warm with camaraderie, but
Cashell simply shook his head.

"Did you
ever have sex with her? Or try to have sex with her?"

Again he
shook his head and did not speak, as though afraid of the words he might use
and what they might say about him.

"Did you
want to?" Hendry asked.

Cashell
looked at him again, defiance flaring in his red-ringed eyes. "I didn't
kill my daughter."

"Why did
you go after Whitey McKelvey, then? Jealousy? He was having sex with your
girl."

"No.
I... he ...
I found drugs
in her trouser pockets. E tabs, I think. One of my other girls said Angela was
spending a lot of time with him.
I ...
I put two and two together. Thought maybe he'd drugged her or
something. Raped her. She wouldn't have slept with that piece of shit by
choice."

"Why
him? It could have been anyone," I said, waving a pardon at Hendry for the
interruption.

"Muire
told me Angela took her to the cinema on Friday, and then was going to meet her
boyfriend. He was the only boy I knew she was seeing. People in the village
talk. I heard she'd been with him on Thursday night. I
just...
I just assumed
she was with him on Friday night, too."

"Did he
give her the ring?" I asked.

"What
ring?"

"Angela
was wearing a ring with the initials AC on it; some kind of moonstone with
diamonds around it. A gold ring. Did McKelvey give it to her?"

Johnny
Cashell's face blanched and he smacked his lips and tongue several times as
though thirsty, again looking at some unspecified point just beyond me. "A
ring?" he asked, almost to himself.

"Yes.
Does it mean anything to you? Could he have bought it for her?"

"I don't
know nothing about no ring." While he said it with finality, he seemed
distracted. I could see that he was thinking about something, but I didn't know
what else to ask.

A few minutes
later Hendry wound the interview to a close. As he was being led to the door of
the room Cashell looked at me and said, "Oi, Devlin? Whip-round, my arse.
Since when did Gardai have a whip-round for the likes of me?" Then he
shuffled out of the room, his shoulders slumped, and I couldn't work out
whether what he had said had been an expression of gratitude or contempt.
Hendry looked at me quizzically, but said nothing.

I returned to
my own station after the interview and phoned Ballybofey, only to be told that
Moore was out of the station. I left a message for him to contact me as soon as
he came in.

Jason Holmes
was in the interview room with one of our local characters, a
thirty-four-year-old named Lorcan Hutton, who had spent several years in
detention centres and jail for drugs offences but still continued to sell in
the town. He was the antithesis of what you'd expect of a dealer. His parents
were very wealthy, both doctors in the North. He had blond curly hair and an
athletic physique. Despite his periods in prison and rehabilitation centres, he
was a regular in the dark areas of bars and clubs, where teenagers - his
acolytes - gathered around him, hoping for the free hit that would never come.

In fact, an
IRA punishment beating, which had left him with two smashed ankles and puncture
marks over his legs and arms from baseball bats studded with nails, had not
stopped him, though it had driven his family out of Strabane and into Lifford
in the mistaken belief that the IRA wouldn't come across the border.

Holmes
announced for the benefit of the tape recording that I had entered the room and
then suggested a break. Hutton shrugged, while his solicitor, a Strabane man
called Brown, earnestly asked him whether he had been treated badly and what
questions he had been asked.

Holmes and I
stepped out of the room. "How's it going?" I asked.

Holmes shook
his head. "Nothing. Knows nothing about E tabs. Never even seen one
before. Shut tighter than a virg—" He stopped short as Williams
approached.