Brian McGilloway - Gallows Lane

‘I’m interested in GBL, Lorcan.’

‘Seems a bit drastic, Inspector. Lifford women aren’t that picky quite yet.’

Gorman looked outraged. I winked at her to let it go. Hutton knew he was here for information and nothing else. Unfortunately, that meant we had to endure a few jibes to retain his goodwill.

‘Well, when you get to my age, Lorcan,’ I joked, despite the fact I was only a few years older than him. ‘Where would you get it, if you needed it? I’m sure you wouldn’t deal in such things.’

‘I don’t deal in anything, Inspector. Hardly a recreational drug though, is it? My bet, if I were you, would be to go online. You can get anything on the Internet, you know. Failing that, of course, you can find it in just about any industrial solvents on the market over here.’

‘What about locally? Anyone you know might be dealing in it, providing it to others? More importantly, anyone you know might be buying it?’

‘No idea, Inspector. Why would I know such a thing?’

Like most career criminals, Lorcan Hutton believed that his relationship with the police was one of mutual good humour. Often they’d display a camaraderie and bonhomie sadly lacking in their dealings with their victims. Hutton behaved almost as if his activities were a source of fun, a shared joke. He assumed that his continued freedom to practise in the area resulted from our tolerance, when the truth was that his clients — the very people who could provide us with the evidence to put him away — had a vested interest in keeping him on the streets. The time for good humour was over.

‘It’s our belief, Lorcan,’ I said, ‘that the person who killed that Strabane girl we found the other day drugged her before doing so. Now, whoever sold him that drug is an accomplice. That would mean real time, Lorcan; not just a few months in a detention centre.’

He stared at me defiantly, his jaw set, eyes glaring from behind his fringe. ‘As I say, anyone could access it with ease. I know nothing about it.’

‘What about the break-in?’ I asked, turning to Gorman. ‘Was Lorcan able to help us with that?’

‘Strangely enough, he wasn’t, sir. Knows nothing about that, either.’

‘Maybe we should keep you in for a few days, Lorcan, until your pharmaceutical knowledge returns.’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ he said nonchalantly, pretending to stifle a yawn. Then he smiled mischievously, adding, ‘Moobs!’

‘What?’

‘Nolvadex. You can take them for moobs,’ he replied, already standing up and gathering his belongings.

‘What are moobs?’ I asked.

‘Something very close to your heart, Inspector. Very close,’ he concluded, winking at me once before he opened the door and walked out.

Sunday, 6 June

After Mass, I dropped Debbie and the kids round with her mother and headed into the station. Williams and I sat in our store-room/office together discussing the findings of the pathologist’s report into the death of Peter Webb.

A note had been left on our desk to let us know that McDermott had been fingerprinted the previous day. His prints did not match those found on the condom we discovered near Karen Doherty’s body. Caroline seemed genuinely disappointed when we got the word.

With no other immediate leads to follow, we decided to concentrate on the Webb case. Taking a whiteboard from the unused conference room upstairs, we listed our possible suspects. The obvious one, despite my judgement that he was on the level, was James Kerr, who had been seen in Webb’s grounds in the days prior to his death. In addition, though, it was clear that Webb’s own wife was involved in some form of relationship with another man. Further to this, Webb had been visited by his British friend on the day of his death. Williams elected to canvass the local bars to see if, as Mrs Webb had claimed, they had gone for a drink, and whether anyone had noticed anything suspicious. She also offered to follow up on the widow’s as yet unidentified lover.

For my own part, I had two leads to follow: the first, James Kerr, was one with which I had so far failed spectacularly. The second was the suspected British Special Branch officer. I believed that, at least in that respect, Jim Hendry, over the border in Strabane, might be of some assistance. When I phoned him, though, I was told he was out for the day and would call me later.

I had not discussed it with Williams, but I was also aware of the fact that there remained, however peripherally, another suspect. Webb’s apparent suicide in remorse for the drugs and guns found on his land vindicated Patterson by seemingly indicting Webb. I didn’t want to consider the possibility that one of my colleagues would murder someone simply to secure their career and improve their promotion prospects.

The only lead I had for Kerr remained Reverend Charles Bardwell. I phoned him and was told he was in Derry for the day, organizing a cross-community football match for ex-prisoners. Twenty-five minutes later, I stood watching while twenty-two men of various ages and sizes heaved and sweated after a slightly deflated football. I noticed that the teams were wearing the colours of Celtic and Rangers, Scottish football teams synonymous with the religious divide in Northern Ireland. It was only as I shook hands with Reverend Bardwell and expressed my surprise at the colours being worn, that I learned the Protestants wore the Celtic tops and the Catholic ex-prisoners Rangers gear. At the end of the match, as they walked across Prehen Playing Fields towards a marquee, they swapped tops.

I walked over with Bardwell to the tent under which a group of men stood smoking cigarettes and drinking isotonic drinks as they attempted to recover from the morning’s exertions. One or two were spiking their drinks with something a little stronger; I declined the offer of a drink, though I took a cigarette, unsure at to whether the men knew my profession.

‘Some of them will guess,’ Bardwell said to me, seeming to have read my thoughts. ‘Most of them won’t care, Inspector. They’ve served their time and come out the other side.’

I nodded, but did not reply. ‘So, how do you pay for all this?’ I asked, gesturing towards the football pitch.

‘Grants,’ he explained, drawing on his cigarette. He winked over at one of the players who raised his glass in reciprocal salute. ‘The Council give us?2,000; the NIO matches it.’

‘Is?4,000 enough to keep you going for a year?’ I asked.

‘Jesus, boy; the four grand is for this football match. And the after-match victuals, of course.’

‘Four thousand!’ I spluttered incredulously. ‘Would the money not be better spent trying to compensate the victims of some of this crew?’ I knew it was a stupid argument to begin and regretted it even as I spoke.

But Bardwell did not launch into a tirade about serving their time or rehabilitation versus punishment. Instead he smiled at me, nodding his head as if all his suspicions had been proven correct. ‘Are you one of the sceptical ones, then, Inspector? Don’t believe these men have anything good to offer? Take wee Jamie Kerr, for instance. When you heard he’d found God, what was your first thought? Good for him? Or liar?’ He smirked knowingly. His presumption grated on me — perhaps because he was, at least partially, right.

‘I wanted to believe him, actually. My faith is private, Reverend; I don’t presume to judge other people’s; plank in your own eye before the splinter in your neighbour’s and all that.’

‘If that’s true, you’re an exception among policemen; most of them think this kind of thing is scandalous.’

‘Maybe it’s because we spend our days trying to catch these men — bring some justice for the victims. You spend your time trying to argue on their behalf.’