Brian McGilloway - Gallows Lane

‘What are you looking for, sweetie?’ I asked. She smiled up at me, her milk teeth marked with strawberry sauce under the smear of an ice-cream moustache.

‘Noffin’!’

‘What’re you really looking for?’ I said, cocking an eyebrow, peering at her with mock suspicion.

‘A hamster called Harry,’ she said, grinning till her eyes disappeared. ‘Please.’

I looked up at Debbie who shrugged and gave Shane a push on his swing. ‘We’ll see,’ I said.

Penny squeezed my leg and leaned into me. ‘Thank you, Daddy. I love you!’

‘I love you too, sweetie,’ I said. The sun crested the hills to the west, filling the sky with a brilliant explosion of warmth that stained the clouds orange and red and created a physical presence in my throat that I could not clear.

Friday, 4 June

The following morning, as I sat in my car having my first smoke of the day, Burgess radioed through to say that Sinead Webb had phoned the station reporting a prowler in her grounds. There were no available officers in the station, so with nothing else to do, I volunteered.

The Webbs’ home was at the top of Gallows Lane, though the entrance to it was along an old coach path accessed from Coneyburrow, barely wide enough for two cars to pass, and bordered with rhododendrons and foxgloves.

The house itself was fairly modern, but designed almost as a post-colonial statement. The first-floor rooms to the front, which I guessed were bedrooms, opened out on to balconies overlooking the grounds, the main front door of the house framed by Doric columns whitewashed in sharp contrast to the garish salmon-pink of the house itself. The double doors at the front were heavy mahogany with thick brass fittings. I banged twice on the knocker, then stood back, looking up at the bedrooms for signs of life. One of the patio doors leading from the bedroom on the right had been left partially ajar and, behind the lace curtain which wafted lightly in the morning breeze, I thought I could see the outline of a figure, looking down. When the figure saw me looking, he or she stepped back quickly. Then I heard the door-lock slide back and Sinead Webb opened the front door.

Mrs Webb was younger than I had thought, possibly ten years junior to her husband. Her brown hair was cut short and slightly spiked, tapered at her neck. Despite being in her dressing gown, she wore a little rouge on her cheeks which served to accentuate the unnatural green of her eyes.

Her dressing gown was silk and she wore it over a long white nightgown. She was slim, small-breasted and sallow-skinned. Her age was most readily gauged around her neck where the skin was wrinkled, in contrast with the cosmetic work she had had carried out on her face.

‘Is it Peter?’ she asked breathlessly, before I could speak, peering over my shoulder at the squad car I had parked in her driveway.

‘No, Mrs Webb. Everything’s all right,’ I said, introducing myself. ‘I’m here about the prowler,’ I explained.

‘Oh, right,’ she said, laughing lightly. ‘Oh, come in, please.’

She led me into the kitchen where the remains of the previous evening’s meal remained on the worktop beside the sink. An almost empty bottle of white wine sat on the pine dining table with two glasses, one smeared with lipstick.

‘Sorry, it’s a bit of a mess,’ she said, gesturing nonchalantly towards the sink. ‘I got a real fright. I had to call a friend to stay the night. A girlfriend,’ she added quickly.

I nodded through the lie and said nothing.

‘So, do you want a description or something?’ she asked, not sitting down and so forcing me to remain standing also. I suspected that she regretted having asked me in and now wished to get rid of me as quickly as possible.

‘Well, maybe you can tell me where you saw … him? Her?’

‘Him — definitely him. He was standing at the edge of the garden; over under the apple trees.’ She moved to the window and pointed over to where three or four apple trees were plotted out about two hundred metres from the house.

‘What was he doing?’ I asked.

‘Just standing there,’ she said. ‘Watching the house. I was making dinner and he was just there. Staring.’

‘Did he … do anything?’ I asked, struggling to find appropriate wording while making my meaning clear. ‘You know?’ I nodded suggestively towards her.

‘Oh, like that!’ Her laugh tinkled. ‘Oh no, nothing like that. He was just watching.’

‘Did you go out to him?’

‘No, no. My friend came to the window too and when he saw him he ran,’ she said, a split second before realizing that she had exposed two lies with one sentence. Her friend had been there all along, and was most definitely a he.

Mrs Webb blushed, and fidgeted with her gown pocket, attempting to remove a packet of cigarettes. I offered her one of mine and took the opportunity to light one for myself As I held the lighter out, I realized that her eye colour was the result of contacts, for one of the lenses was not sitting quite right and an umbra of her own brown colour could be seen around the green in her left eye. She was aware that I was looking at her and shifted position slightly.

‘So he ran after he saw your friend?’ I asked.

She nodded. ‘I thought it might have been a reporter or something. You know — about Peter’s arrest — but he was too badly dressed. Jeans and a cardigan or something. Bald-headed.’

I nodded. ‘I might take a look around out there, Mrs Webb. Beyond that, we’ll keep our eyes open. If he comes around again, give us a call. How’s that?’

She smiled. ‘Thank you, Inspector,’ she said, opening the back door to allow me out to the garden.

I walked around the apple trees, grateful for the coolness of the shade they provided, and pretended to examine the ground for evidence in case I had an audience from the house. In reality, I knew who the tramp was and guessed there’d be nothing worth finding in terms of evidence. Chances were Kerr was looking for somewhere to sleep. Or he was looking for somewhere to rob for petty cash. Or he was looking for someone, just as he had said in the cafe.

While I examined the ground, I tried to decipher the registration plates of the two cars parked behind the house. One was an old Vauxhall Vectra. The other was a red Ford Puma, though I could not see the registration plate because of the way it was parked. Still, I suspected that one of the cars belonged to our mysterious friend. As I finished my smoke beneath the apple trees, I was aware that I was being watched from an upstairs window. I glanced up to see Mrs Webb staring down, gnawing at the corner of her mouth. Perhaps she had begun to wonder why I had not asked her about the items found on her land.

When I arrived back at the station Williams was making coffee and indicated that she would make one for me. I left my stuff in our office and stood, hands in my pockets, listening to the shouts coming from Costello’s office. My heart lifted somewhat vindictively as I watched Patterson and Colhoun traipse out of the office, both looking decidedly unhappy. Colhoun had turned a shade of green I had never seen on anything that wasn’t a corpse and Patterson had turned a similarly extreme shade of red. He muttered something to his partner, then pushed open the back fire exit and went outside.

Williams handed me a mug, then leaned against the counter beside me, nodding towards the slowly closing door.

‘Someone’s not happy, eh?’

‘Oh well. I’m sure he’ll survive,’ I said, turning to go into the office. Williams followed and sat down behind the desk, affecting an interest in a sheet of paper sitting in her in-tray.

‘I don’t know if it’s a superior officer thing,’ she said, ‘but are you actually going to tell me at some stage what’s going on, or do I have to guess what the problem is between you and Patterson?’ She gazed at me over her coffee mug.