Borderlands (31 page)
I heard
Williams shouting now, and other voices, getting nearer. I tried to call out,
but my mouth was dry and seized and the words died in my throat. Yvonne Coyle
stood above me, her gun in her hands.
"I'm
sorry, Inspector," she said, then raised the gun.
I would
like to say that I looked death squarely in the face. I would like to say that
I faced it bravely. But I did not. Instead I squeezed my eyes tight shut,
already flinching as I waited for the shot, the searing heat of the bullet
entering my body. In that last moment, it was not my life that flashed before
my eyes, despite what people popularly claim. Rather, I grew intensely sad at the
thought that I would never again see Penny smile, nor ever feel the softness of
my son's hand as he touched my face while I bottle-fed him. I would not see
again my wife, my rock, Debbie, whose touch alone conveyed more generosity of
spirit than I could ever express. I felt tears burst from me, and then I heard
the shot.
When I
opened my eyes, Williams and three uniforms were running up the corridor
towards us, torchlights bouncing along the walls and ceiling. Beside me, her
face as close as a lover's, her final breath dying on her lips like a parting
kiss, lay Yvonne Coyle, her short blonde hair matted with her blood, her body
still twitching. Part of her temple was missing, the white bone of her skull
just visible amongst the blood. For a second I saw the ghost of something tug
at the corners of her mouth, nothing more than a fleeting shadow, and then all
was still.
I reached
over and placed my fingers against her face. Her skin was still warm and soft.
I laid the palm of my hand flat against her cheek and whispered an Act of
Contrition for her soul. In spite of myself, in sympathy for all that had
happened to drive her to this, I leaned over and placed a single, light kiss on
her forehead. Her skin yielded under my touch even as her colour faded.
Tuesday, 31st December
Tommy
Powell Sr had never really been in danger. Harvey had simply gone to Finnside
to deliver the photograph of his mother. Unaware that everything was unravelling
in the Three Rivers, he had quietly slipped out again. By then, Williams had
left a note on his windshield telling him she had gone to the hotel to provide
backup. Needless to say, he did not follow - if he had, he would only have seen
his sister being carried out of the derelict building in a black body-bag, like
the one Angela Cashell had been wrapped in just a fortnight previous. It was
assumed that he had fled across the border, and patrols were set up, north and
south.
It
transpired that I could have learnt his identity earlier that day from
Armstrong. He had told me the IID file had recently been requested. If I had
only asked, I would have been told that it was Harvey who had requested it and
I could have warned Williams to arrest him when she saw him going into
Finnside. On the other hand, had that happened, she would not have made it to
the Three Rivers - and how different things might have been then.
Kate
Costello was taken to hospital in Letterkenny where she underwent emergency surgery.
Jason Holmes reappeared just after one o'clock and was immediately arrested,
though by that time I already knew that he had nothing to do with Yvonne Coyle
or the killings. He did, however, confess to having a girlfriend over the
border, with whom he had spent the night; someone he had met during one of his
official canvassing visits to the clubs in Strabane. It transpired that he had
been seeing her for almost the duration of his relationship with Caroline
Williams. Williams sat in the interview room opposite him, listened to his
confession silently, then went home.
Yet again,
I found myself in hospital being attended by the same harried registrar who had
treated me the night before. This time she insisted that I stay in overnight,
and Debbie agreed. Reluctantly, I sat alone and waited while Debbie went home
to get me an overnight bag and to collect the kids from her mother.
By 7.30
p.m. she had still not returned. I phoned the house several times and got no
reply. I lifted my clothes, which were still dirty and damp, and checked that
my pistol was in my coat, having retrieved it from the Three Rivers when the
SOCO team had finished. Then, as unobtrusively as possible, I sneaked out,
avoiding the nurses who were under orders to keep me confined to bed.
I managed
to snag a taxi at the bus stop ahead of a group of four revellers, replete with
party hats and champagne bottles, celebrating the New Year. The village looked
heartachingly picturesque, yet I could not shake the sense of emptiness with which
the day's events had left me, nor the growing doubts about my family's safety.
I tried phoning the station, but there was no answer and I guessed that those
who weren't looking for Harvey had gone home for the festivities.
The snow
was falling faster now, leaving the hills bright. Both our village and Strabane
were haloed with the reflected orange glow of the streetlamps. All around us,
the world was white and crisp and cold. As the driver attempted the final
incline up the hill towards my house, the car slid on the road, turning at a
ninety- degree angle. He tried as best he could to correct our position and
make the hill again, but this time the car would not move while he accelerated
and, when he stopped, began to slide down towards the level again. Finally, the
driver admitted defeat and told me he could take me no further.
As he
manoeuvred his way back onto the main road, I began to trudge up the hill. I
attempted to run but the snow was too thick and my body too sore to make much
headway. I should probably have considered conserving my strength, but I had a
father's shortsightedness and the only thought in my mind was the possibility
that my children were in danger.
When I was
perhaps a quarter of a mile from my house, I heard the sound of an engine
shuddering through the gently falling snow. A single weak light sparkled
through the haze and the lumbering outline of a tractor appeared. I waved my
arms, shouting for the driver to stop, a new hope flickering in my chest
against the rawness of the winter wind on my lungs. Then, as the silhouette
took form and substance, I saw Mark Anderson, perched high up in the cab of his
old Ford. He slowed as he drew level with me and I called to him for help. He
laughed, spat out the open window, then shunted into gear again and drove on,
skittering snow over me.
I screamed
profanities in his wake, and pulled my pistol from my jacket, but it was an
empty gesture. My screams, such as they were, were blanketed by the snow.
I struggled
onward, my ribcage feeling as if it would explode, my head throbbing. At one
point I took a fit of coughing so hard that I spat blood onto the snow. Then,
amongst the whispering of the snowfall, I heard a familiar yelping which I
recognized as Frank's and I realized how close I was to home. As his barking
continued I also had to acknowledge that Debbie would have brought him into
the house by now, had she been able. I tried in vain to disregard what scene
would be waiting for me when I finally reached my house.
The house
was in darkness when I finally got there, yet I could see thin skeins of smoke
drifting from the chimney. I went around the back of the house, where Frank sat
on the doorstep, his bandages bright against the brown of his fur. He
whimpered slightly and limped towards me, his eyes mournful. His coat was
matted and heavy with moisture; he had clearly been outside for some time.
I opened
the back door as softly as I could. Any element of surprise was lost, though,
for Frank shoved his way through my legs and bolted into the kitchen, thudding
against the chairs with enough force to knock one over. Almost immediately I
heard Penny scream, a shout muffled quickly, and I knew that she, at least, was
alive. I also knew that Harvey was here - waiting for me.
Frank
scrabbled at the door to the living room. Underneath it, I could see the
flickering of the fire. I could wait for back-up, but it would simply turn this
into a situation from which my family had no chance of escape. Besides, I
couldn't stand out here, waiting for someone to help. I pushed the door open
with my foot, my gun in my hand.
Debbie and
Shane were sitting on the sofa, Shane squirming restlessly. Debbie had clearly
been crying, her eyes wide and red.
Harvey was
sitting in the armchair closest to the fire, Penny held in front of him as a
shield. His gun was held by her head, though it was pointing at me. When he saw
my pistol, he held the gun tight against her skin, her beautiful soft skin.
Frank, who had run to Debbie, now turned his attention to Harvey, growling and
baring his teeth.
"Drop
the gun, Devlin," Harvey said, his own gun steady.
"Give
it up, John. I'm not going to let you out of here, you must know that," I
said, though the quaver in my voice revealed my lack of conviction.
Frank
barked, while Debbie tried to pull at his collar to restrain him. Harvey's
attention flickered towards the dog, then back to me.
"Drop
it," he snapped.
"Let
Penny go," I said, inching closer to him.
Frank
barked again, then twisted and tugged so hard that his collar slipped over his
ears and he lunged towards Harvey. In turn Harvey kicked out at the him. Penny,
seemingly more concerned about Frank than herself, flailed against Harvey and
slid off his knee onto the hearth. I fired one shot, indiscriminately, while I
grabbed at Penny. The edge of her dress was burning when I lifted her away, and
I thumped at the flames with my bandaged hand until they were smothered.
She
scrabbled into my arms, sobbing. When I looked up, Harvey lay sprawled in my
armchair, a single small bullet-hole in his left cheek, his eyes wide with
disbelief. I did not feel sorrow for him, as I had with Yvonne. I did not even
close his eyes when he exhaled his final, weak sigh. I simply gathered my
family and we stood outside while we waited for the Guards to arrive. I hoped
the snow would fall thickly enough to bury all transgressions and make the
world fresh and clean with the dawn.
In the days
that followed, and in my absence, the NCIB were drafted in to piece together what
had happened. They eventually discovered that, having fled her house in
Strabane, Yvonne had joined her brother in a rented farmhouse in Ballindrait.
Presumably,
Sean Knox, or John Harvey as he had become, recognized the ring belonging to
his mother on the list of stolen goods he had been given to check. Perhaps he
had waited years for some sign of her life - and death - to emerge. Or perhaps
it simply happened unexpectedly, setting in motion a chain of events which
would culminate in the Three Rivers Hotel and, later, in my own home. Either
way, once he got a hit in the second-hand jewellers, it mustn't have been too
hard for him to identify Whitey McKelvey from the description given of a young
traveller boy with big ears and hair so blond it was almost white.
Working
backwards, they traced Ratsy Donaghey to Bundoran and, there, killed him,
having established at least that Johnny Cashell and Seamus Boyle had aided him
in their mother's murder.
Yvonne had
begun a friendship and ultimately a relationship with Angela Cashell, another
woman's arms presumably the perfect refuge from a voyeuristic father and a
drug-pushing boyfriend like McKelvey. Using McKelvey as their fall-guy, Yvonne
and her brother drugged Cashell. It can only be assumed that Harvey then had
sex with her before she died and that Yvonne knelt on her chest as the life
drained from her.
Later,
Yvonne would pick up Terry Boyle, out for a celebratory pint on his return from
university. She directed him to a lay-by on Gallows Lane and Harvey followed.
The fact that Boyle's window had apparently been wound down at the time of his
death suggested that Harvey had approached Boyle's car in uniform.
It was
assumed that Ratsy Donaghey had told them something about Costello's
involvement with their mother. Either that, or Joanne Duffy had told them
something - though she denied having had any contact with them since she had
abandoned them in Dublin twenty-five years previous.
However
they learnt of his involvement, the outcome remained the same: on the morning
of New Year's Eve, they broke into Costello's house. One of them, probably
Harvey, hit Emily with a poker, though they may not have intended to kill her.
Then they took Kate Costello to the Three Rivers. At the same time, Yvonne
managed to lure Thomas Powell there. It transpired that Miriam was correct in
her suspicion that her husband was having an affair with a nurse. Again, it was
assumed that Ratsy had named Powell Sr as he died. In each case, they decided
on transferring the punishment for the sins of the father onto the children.
Harvey went to Finnside to deliver the photograph of Mary Knox, which was found
amongst a pile of Christmas cards lying on Powell's bedside cabinet later that
day.
Finally,
they waited for me to find them and make their decision for them with regard
to whether Costello's or Powell's child should die. I was to be their
arbitrator and become complicit in their plan. In the end, Yvonne shot Powell,
then Kate Costello, and finally herself. And her revenge was complete. Her
brother, however, with no one else left to blame, turned to my family.
