Borderlands (25 page)

"Well,
who else would have access to the stolen items lists?"

"Don't
you read your email? Another new initiative - stolen item lists are being put
on the local page of the Garda website. Someone somewhere hopes that the public
will do our job for us. Anyone with Internet access could have seen those
lists."

"True
enough," I agreed reluctantly. "So someone sees the ring on a list;
links it to Ratsy. Questions him; makes the connection with Whitey? How?"

"Luck?
Grapevine? Sheer coincidence? Maybe Ratsy knew

McKelvey
had done it. Must be easy enough to work out who's pawning stolen goods in
Donegal," Williams said. "The more pertinent question is who would
want to kill Mary Knox's killers - assuming she is actually dead?"

"She's
dead. Who'd revenge her death? Someone close to her; someone who knew the ring;
someone who knew her personally; someone who remembered her after twenty-five
years."

"Costello?"
Williams said, shrugging slightly as she said it.

"Possibly,"
I said, pretending it hadn't crossed my mind.

"Why
kill Angela Cashell? Or Terry Boyle?" Williams said. "Why not kill
the fathers? Why pick on their children?"

"Unless
it's Mary Knox's child who is taking revenge. Maybe he'd kill the children of
those responsible for his mother's death."

"Or
she."

"What?"

"Knox
had two children, a boy and a girl. Don't forget, we haven't ruled out a
woman's involvement in Cashell's murder. The panties back on? And we know there
were two people involved in Boyle's murder: the girl he left the pub with and
the person who shot him."

"True,"
I said.

"So,
what do we do now?" Williams asked.

"We'll
speak to Cashell and see what he gives us. Have a chat with Boyle tomorrow,
after the funeral. Meanwhile, let's see if we can connect Donaghey and Cashell
to the Knox murder. And let's see if we can track down what has happened to the
two Knox children."

Williams
looked at me. "What if we find it's Costello?" she asked, biting hard
at her bottom lip.

"Then
we arrest him," I said, with more conviction than I felt.

We arrived
at Cashell's home just as a TV crew pulled away. Johnny was talking over the
hedge to his neighbour, Sadie beside him, smoking a cigarette.

The
neighbour nodded in our direction and both the Cashells turned and watched us
walking up the pathway to their house.

Johnny
Cashell stood a little taller and tried to puff out his chest. The effect was
diminished somewhat by the fact that he winced - his stomach wound was
obviously still hurting him.

"Do I
smell bacon?" his neighbour asked, obviously thinking a joke good enough
to make once was worth repeating.

"Not
over the smell of petrol," Johnny Cashell replied, turning and standing in
his doorway, legs slightly apart, arms folded across his chest. "What do
you want?" he sneered. "Here to make more accusations about a
grieving father? I were just telling the telly people about you. Couldn't solve
a fucking jigsaw, so you blame the family."

"I
wanted to return this to Sadie," I said, walking towards him holding the
ring out. "You'll recognize it, I think, Johnny. Though I dare say the
last time you saw it Ratsy Donaghey was pulling it off the finger of a dead
woman. Would I be right?"

Sadie
stared incredulously, then turned to the neighbour, as if looking for him to
share her sense of injustice. Johnny was not quite so blasé. He peered at the
ring and a glimmer of recognition registered in his eyes. His tongue flicked
nervously on his lips and he laughed just a little too loudly. "More
bullshit, Devlin. There are no depths—"

"There's
no statute of limitations, either, Johnny. Doesn't it bother you that Angela
died for this? Or that Donaghey set you up, you ignorant bastard?" My
voice was rising now and I could feel my muscles begin to hum. Williams curled
her hand around my upper arm.

"Best
we speak inside, Mr Cashell, don't you think?" she said, guiding the
Cashells into their house while I followed. Sadie quizzed her husband in
whispers about what I had said.

I placed
the picture of Mary Knox on the table and stood facing the Cashells. "We know
the ring belonged to Mary Knox, Johnny. We suspect that Tony Donaghey took it
from her at the time she disappeared. The ring has resurfaced now, twenty-five
years later, and Donaghey has paid the price for it. Someone caught up with him
in Bundoran a few weeks ago."

I watched
Johnny Cashell attempt to keep his poker face in place. "Someone tied him
up Johnny," I continued, "burnt him with lit cigarettes, shoved rags
down his throat, and then cut his arms open from the wrist to the elbow and
probably made him watch his blood run down his legs along with his piss."
If nothing else, I had got their attention. "Now you can sit with your
'Fuck the Guards' expression, Johnny," I went on, years of frustration at
people as stupid and intractable as Johnny Cashell finally boiling over,
"but at some point in all that, Ratsy lived up to
his
name and gave out
yours and Seamus Boyle's to whoever did him in. Hey presto, two weeks later,
your innocent daughter is lying cold in a field, while you sit in the pub
talking about what a big man you are. I'm sure you're very proud of your
husband, Sadie. You got a real catch."

I knew I
had gone too far. Sadie's eyes had welled and were red, while Johnny stared at
me ashen-faced, a cigarette suspended midway to his mouth. The eldest Cashell
girl, Christine, was standing in the hallway, staring at me. I immediately
regretted what I had said. A sweat broke on my forehead and the room became
unbearably close.

"I
think you better wait outside, Inspector," Williams said, glaring at me.

"I'm
... I'm sorry, Sadie. Jesus, Johnny - I'm sorry."

Sadie
looked up at me with eyes empty of any feeling. "You're the lowest bastard
I've ever met. Get out of my home," she said. She wiped a tear from her
cheek and stared across the table at Williams until I left the kitchen.

I stood in
the tiny patch of garden at the front of the house and lit a cigarette, drawing
as deeply as I could so that it would burn my lungs. I was aware of someone to
my right and I turned to see Christine Cashell standing, her arms folded, a
cigarette clenched in her right hand.

"Was
there any need for that?" she asked, her face lacking the defiance she had
presented when we last met. It was almost as though I had confirmed for her all
that she believed. We may talk of equality and serving the community, but
sometimes, despite ourselves, we treat people badly because we can, because we
tell ourselves that we do it in the name of justice or virtue, or whatever
excuse we use to hide the fact that we want to hurt someone, to get at them in
any way we can to compensate for their total lack of respect for our job and
all that we have sacrificed to do it.

"No,"
I said, seeing no point in sharing my thoughts with her. "I was out of
line, Miss Cashell."

"Jesus,
don't start calling me Miss Cashell. Christine'll do." She dragged on her
cigarette and blew the smoke upwards, holding her face towards the
strengthening sun. She sniffed. "Do you think it'll be enough for Mum to
leave him?" she asked, without looking at me.

"Maybe.
That wasn't my intention, Christine."

"I
know. Still, clouds and silver linings, eh? You never know." She stood
with one arm wrapped in front of her, the other one, which held her cigarette,
hung at her side. She twisted the toe of one shoe into the grass. "Looks like
you screwed up with McKelvey."

"Yep.
Seems that way." I flicked my cigarette over the hedge in the vain hope
that their nosey neighbour would still be lurking there.

"You
were told she'd have nothing to do with him. She got into drugs. That was
McKelvey's thing. They weren't going out."

"Who
was she going out with, Christine?" I asked. "Muire mentioned Angela
was going to see someone the night she died."

"Muire
didn't know what was going on."

"About
McKelvey?"

"You've
McKelvey on the brain. Angie was going out with someone, but it wasn't
McKelvey. In fact, it wasn't even a boy. Our Angie found herself a girlfriend
before she died. Someone to support her habit."

"Who?"

"Some
nurse called Yvonne, from Strabane."

"Yvonne
Coyle?"

"Sounds
about right, aye," Christine said, then turned at the sound of voices from
inside. Her parents came out with Williams, who shook hands with each, nodded
to me, and strode down towards the car. I smiled gently towards Christine, who
replied with her eyes at the same instant that she set the rest of her face
into its familiar expression of defiance against the world. I turned to
apologize to her parents again, but they only looked at me, ushered Christine
inside, and closed the door softly.

"Feeling
better?" Williams asked when I got into the car. Then, before I could
answer she continued, "Jesus, sir."

"Cashell
is a criminal," I replied, a little haughtily.

"Not
when you're talking about his daughter's death. He's still a father."

"Well,
he shouldn't be. His other daughter was outside hoping this would finally force
Sadie to leave him. It's hardly family life at its most idyllic, is it?"

"It's
more than some of us have," she snapped, and I stopped arguing.

Neither of
us spoke as Williams started up the car.

"What
else did the girl say?" she asked finally.

I stared
out the side window at the hedgerows sliding past, the sunlight filtering
through the thickets. "Not much of use. Says that McKelvey was a dead end,
as if we hadn't worked that out. Seemed to suggest that Angela was a bit of a
double-adapter."

"Meaning?"
Williams said, glancing over at me.

"Meaning
Christine seemed to think Angela was having a fling with Yvonne Coyle."

"Really.
Should we bring her in?"

"Certainly
worth taking a closer look, I suppose. Though having an affair, even a lesbian
one, isn't a criminal offence. She already admitted that Angela stayed with her
the night before she died. Said she went out with McKelvey on the night in
question." Then I remembered something. "Although, now I think of it,
she said she'd seen McKelvey on the Thursday night: in fact she was our only
witness. What if she was lying?"

"Maybe
we should bring her in, then."

"I'll
ask Hendry. She's in his jurisdiction." I paused. "What did the
Cashells have to say about things?"

"Cashell
admitted knowing Donaghey and Boyle in the late '70s. Said Donaghey managed a
bar where he and Boyle worked as bouncers. Did the odd favour for him. That was
it. Knew nothing about Knox or the ring. Or why someone would want to leave it
on the body of his dead daughter."

"Did
you believe him?" I asked.

"God,
no. He was lying through his teeth. He seemed particularly uneasy when I told
him that Knox had kids. He didn't seem to know. Though obviously he claimed it
was nothing to him, since he didn't know the woman."

"Did
you say Ratsy Donaghey was a manager of a bar?"

"Apparently
so."

"That's
worth taking a closer look at as well. Look, when we get back to the station, I
want to call Hendry about Yvonne Coyle. Can you pull me anything you can find on
Donaghey? Then I want you to start checking for this neighbour of Mary Knox,
Joanne Duffy, living somewhere in Derry. I suspect she knows where the kids
ended up."

"You
think the kids are involved?"

"I
don't know," I said, honestly, "but it's the only thing we have for
now."

As it
transpired, I didn't get to carry out my plans quite as quickly as I had hoped,
for when we returned to the station Mark Anderson was standing at the front
desk, while Burgess tried desperately to shift him.

"Ah,
Inspector Devlin," he shouted, the moment I came through the door. "A
Mr Anderson here for you. Perhaps you'd be so kind as to assist him." Then
he added under his breath, "And take the smell of pig" shit out of my
station."

Anderson
was not for shifting. He took something from his pocket, a skein of brown
velvet material darkened at the edges with crusted blood. He let it drop onto
the main counter. "That were in my field, where that animal were
shot."

"What
has that to do with me?" I asked, my head spinning as I spoke. The rag of
torn skin was both sickening and strangely pitiful.

"Powell
won't give me the reward. He says that ain't no cat. He says that's part of a
hound. Where's your dog?"

"He's
at home, Mark. That's not part of a dog. That could be part of anything.
Powell's just trying to renege on his part of the deal. Makes good TV offering
rewards, so long as you don't have to follow it through."