Brian McGilloway - Gallows Lane

‘Sorry?’

‘You and Patterson. What’s going on? I think I have some right to know — partner,’ she replied and, though her tone was joking, I could sense beneath it an unspoken resentment.

I opened my mouth to speak but, failing to formulate anything to say, took a gulp of coffee. Then, unsure where to start, I began with my meeting with Kerr, and all that had happened since, right up to Peter Webb being brought in for questioning over something he knew nothing about.

Williams blew across the surface of her coffee as I spoke, listening attentively and showing no reaction to any of the revelations. She remained quiet for a moment after I finished then asked, ‘Well, what do we do now?’

‘We? I thought I’d fuck this one up myself, you know.’

‘Not a chance. This sounds kind of juicy,’ Williams said, smiling and draining her cooled coffee.

‘Juicy?’

‘You know what I mean, boss. Besides, I know something you don’t about all of this.’

‘What’s that?’

‘I’ll tell you when I feel like it.’

‘Point taken, Caroline. I’m sorry for not telling you. I-’ I started to explain, but Williams held her hand up in placation.

‘Enough already. I preferred it when you were saying nothing. You’ll be interested to know that Peter Webb walked out of here thirty minutes ago.’

‘Why? I thought they were going to question him again today.’

‘So did they. Costello got woken at five-thirty this morning by a VIP, demanding that Webb be released immediately.’

‘Jesus, who?’

‘No one knows. High, high up,’ she said, pointing towards the ceiling.

‘God?’ I asked with mock seriousness.

‘Higher,’ she replied. ‘Regional HQ. One of the Assistant Chief Supers, apparently.’

‘You’re kidding.’ An ACS getting involved in a case like this was like using a sledgehammer to crack a peanut. Unless, of course, they had somehow learnt about the suspicion surrounding the veracity of the guns find on Webb’s land. In which case, the trail could well lead back to me. ‘Shit,’ I said, the realization dawning on me, just as Costello shoved open our office door and pointed at me.

‘What a bloody mess,’ he said, grunting as he lowered himself into his seat. ‘From start to bloody finish — a bloody disaster.’ ‘What’s happened, sir?’ I asked.

‘I’ve got a call from the Assistant Chief Super requesting information on Webb’s “arrest”. Arrest! As soon as she heard he was being questioned the word was clear and unambiguous: set him loose.’

‘How has Webb got clout with the ACS?’

‘He doesn’t. She got her orders from above.’

‘Jesus.’

‘Quite. So I don’t know what Patterson put his foot in, but I’m left to wipe it off our shoe, Benedict.’

‘That’s quite a metaphor, sir,’ I said.

‘Don’t be facetious. What did his missus want?’

A prowler, she said.’

Anything?’

‘It was James Kerr, sir. I recognized the description.’

‘Why is he still here? I thought I told you to get him back over the border.’

‘I tried, sir — he’s not doing anything wrong.’

‘Did you get him yesterday?’

I nodded. ‘He said he wants to see someone and then he’s on his way. Promised me he’d hurt no one.’

A promise from an ex-con? I think you’ve gone soft, Inspector.’

‘I think he’s on the level.’

‘Then what was he doing at Webb’s house?’

‘My guess is Peter Webb is the man he wants to see.’

Costello put his head in his hands and stared at his desk. ‘Please get rid of him before my day gets any worse.’

‘Just think,’ I said, standing up. ‘In a few weeks’ time you’ll be able to forget all about this, sir.’

‘Get out, Inspector,’ he growled, without looking up.

That afternoon I took a little unofficial time off and collected Penny from my wife’s parents who were watching her and Shane. I drove her into Letterkenny in the Garda car, even sneaking on the siren along the dual carriageway with minimal persuasion from my daughter, who, I suspect, found it a little infantile.

We stopped along Judge’s Road below the County Courts and walked down to the pet shop. Twenty minutes later, we were coasting back towards Lifford, a tiny brown and cream hamster snuggled in the cup of Penny’s hands, her face alive with wonder and curiosity. If only all relationships in life were so easily maintained and all demands so easily fulfilled.

I was dropping Penny back round with her granny and unloading a cage, water bottles and bags of straw when Burgess’s voice cackled through the static of the radio. The owner of the corner shop in the Dardnells had phoned in to say someone had been asking questions about Peter Webb — someone suspicious. Burgess thought it might be linked to the prowler.

Christy Ward was originally from Derry and had been a member of the Republican movement during the seventies. He had lost a friend during Bloody Sunday and strangely, while that event generally proved to be a recruitment agent for the Provos, it served to sicken Christy to the extent that he packed up and moved into Donegal where he invested his finances in a tiny cottage which he turned into a shop as well as his home. He had never married and, although rumours circulated that he was a closet homosexual, his proclivities had never become clear and he had remained a bachelor.

Christy still worked in the shop despite being in his late sixties. He had been affected severely by arthritis and waiting for him to pick change from the cash register was so interminable that most people just gave up and told him to put it in the charity box. The more unChristian suggested that Ward’s illness got suddenly worse when a customer required substantial change. I knew this to be untrue for several times I had seen him placing the monies into the Foyle Hospice collection bucket he kept on the counter.

When I got to the shop he was sitting on a stool at the front door, a cigarette clasped in the clawed hand his disease had twisted almost beyond use. He looked up at me from his seat, shielding his eyes from the glare of sunlight with his other hand.

‘Christy, how’re you doing?’

‘Surviving, Ben, surviving. How’s the care — Debbie and the kids?’

‘They’re great, Christy, thanks. You’ve had a visitor, I believe.’

He nodded, dragging a last smoke from the smouldering butt of his cigarette, before he crushed it against the leg of his stool. Then he told me what had happened.

Around three o’clock, while I was buying a hamster in Letterkenny, a middle-aged Englishman had come into the shop, ostensibly for a bottle of water. He stood at the counter, pressing the bottle to his forehead which was beaded with sweat. Despite the heat, he wore a crumpled grey woollen suit.

‘A scorcher of a day,’ he stated, handing Christy the water bottle, smeared with his sweat.

‘’Twould be worse if it were raining,’ Christy replied, holding the bottle by the top to scan it into the till.

The Englishman stared at him through his sunglasses which he did not remove. His face was flushed and red, perhaps from the heat, though Christy said it had the appearance of a heavy drinker’s. When Christy returned his stare the man smiled, then glanced around the shop, as though taking its inventory.

‘Perhaps you can help me,’ the man said.

‘Oh aye?’

Aye,’ he said, in a manner that left Christy wondering if he was mocking him. ‘You wouldn’t know anything about those guns that were found, would you?’ As he spoke, he removed a roll of euro notes from his pocket. He placed a twenty-euro note on the counter to pay for the water, which cost just over one euro.