Brian McGilloway - Gallows Lane

‘Enough to kill?’

He looked at me, his eyes devoid of cunning. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Enough to kill.’ No one spoke for a second and he rushed to fill the silence. ‘The steroids were my own,’ Kehoe said. ‘I admit that. It was stupid, but I’ve been out of practice. I thought they’d build me up quick. But this guy seemed to know I was on them. He made a comment about my chest — “bitch tits”, he called them.’ Kehoe glanced at Gorman and lowered his head in shame. ‘He said he could sell me something to control them. I only bought one box, I swear. I have them upstairs.’

Without asking he rushed out of the kitchen. I made to go after him, lest he were trying to make a run for it, but he turned up the stairs and we heard his footfalls thudding above us. He returned with the half-empty box.

‘Check with Christine Cashell if that was from the same batch,’ I said to Gorman, handing her the box. It was her case, after all.

‘Who was this guy?’ Gorman asked again.

‘I swear, I don’t know. The competition people will be able to tell you — I think he was competing.’

‘It seems a bit far-fetched that you’d buy drugs off someone you’d never met before,’ Gorman said. ‘He could have been selling you anything.’

‘I know his face,’ Kehoe argued. ‘I’ve seen him around the club, like. Big bald guy. Tattoo on his arm.’

‘What tattoo?’ I asked, straightening up.

‘That thing from the GPO; Cuchulain, was it, on a tree, like, with the crow at his head?’

Helen Gorman headed straight to Letterkenny station to contact the man Kehoe told us had organized the event in Derry. At best, he would give us a name; at worst, a list of competitors from whom we might be able to identify our suspect. Either way, the drugs theft, and the murder of Karen Doherty, and the attack on Rebecca Purdy depended on our getting a name quickly. While Gorman was doing that, I thought of two possible sources.

Dr John Mulrooney was having his mid-afternoon tea when I called. I explained to him the background and all that Kehoe had told us. He nodded his head as I spoke.

‘’Roid rage is a very real phenomenon,’ he said. ‘Basically, it happens in someone with an extreme dependence on steroids. Whereas you or I could feel a little angry and control it, these people explode. And of course, because they’re on steroids, they have massive muscle behind that rage. What’s the connection?’

‘I think the person who killed the Doherty girl was on steroids. The description Rebecca Purdy gave us matches the one that Kehoe has given us of his pusher.’

‘Of course, one of the physical side effects of steroids are moobs, Ben,’ Mulroney said, warming to the impromptu science lesson. ‘Steroids cause massive amounts of the male sex hormone, testosterone, to effect masculization of the body. You’d expect growth in facial hair, deepening voice, increased libido.’

‘There might be a problem. Our guy can’t perform, according to Rebecca Purdy. Attempted to, but couldn’t. . you know.’

Mulrooney stood and leaned against the edge of his desk, his voice rising in excitement. He wagged his finger to emphasize his words as he spoke. ‘Well, you see, that would make sense. Too much testosterone and the body converts it into oestrogen. Which causes feminization.’

‘Moobs,’ I said, nodding my head to show I followed his argument.

‘Absolutely. And also impotence,’ he added, with a smile. ‘If your guy is stealing tamoxifen to decrease his moobs, the chances are he’s also experiencing impotence.’

‘So, he picks up a girl. Takes her somewhere quiet, but can’t follow through.’ I began to reason out the scenario as it might have happened. ‘That would explain the unused condom we found with Karen Doherty’s body.’

‘He loses it, explodes, beats her to a pulp,’ Mulrooney continued. And if he’s a boxer — or, in this case, a kick-boxer — on steroids, it would certainly explain the damage he inflicted.’

‘Thanks, John,’ I said, getting up to go.

‘Ben,’ he called as I reached the door. ‘If you come face to face with this guy, take him down before he gets too close. He’ll tear you apart and not even realize he’s doing it.’

Having confirmed in my own mind the likely scenario behind the attacks on Karen Doherty and Rebecca Purdy, I had only to swallow my pride and face the one person who might be able to help me.

Peter McDermott was plastering one of the houses on Hannon’s building site when I arrived. The sun was high in the sky, the odd ragged cloud making little difference to the searing heat. I had removed my jacket and tie, but still felt overdressed.

McDermott was stripped to the waist, his skin slick with sweat, his back solid with packs of muscle. He looked over his shoulder at me as I approached, then continued with his plastering.

‘Mr McDermott. I was wondering if I could have a word.’

‘I’ve nothing to say,’ he replied, still not looking at me. ‘I don’t know anything about stolen drugs, or battered girls, or anything else you feel like pinning on me.’

‘I need your help, actually,’ I said.

That got his attention. ‘And I would help you because. .?’

‘Someone who took part in your kick-boxing tournament killed Karen Doherty. A big man, bald, with a tattoo of Cuchulain. Does that mean anything to you?’

If it did, McDermott wasn’t showing it. He squinted down at me, against the sunlight.

‘And why would I want to help you?’

‘He drugged, attempted to rape and battered a fifteen-year-old girl, Mr McDermott. I believe it wasn’t you, but you have to understand, I can’t let that happen and do nothing. I need to find the person responsible before he does it again.’

‘Do you know how to plaster, Inspector?’

‘No,’ I said, a little bewildered.

‘You’re no plasterer, then.’

‘None,’ I agreed.

‘And I’m no copper. So, fuck away off now and do your job yourself. I know nothing about it.’

I stared blankly at him for a second, numbed slightly by his apparent lack of the most basic humanity. Finally, I gathered my thoughts.

‘How did you do?’ I asked.

The question seemed to knock him off guard. ‘I got beaten in the final. Won by default.’

‘Darren Kehoe beat you?’ I asked.

‘Just because he was doped,’ he spat, then continued, ‘Now’s we’re getting all pally, I hear your friend was in an accident?’ I was unable, from his tone, to determine the sincerity of his inquiry.

‘That’s right,’ I said.

‘It wasn’t me, before you bring me in for that, as well.’

‘Can you help me?’ I asked, not wanting to indulge him any further.

‘Wish I could. I’ve already done my bit.’

‘But you must know someone who can help. Someone in your circle must know this guy.’

But McDermott had finished with me and I knew whatever else I said would fall on deaf ears.

By the time I returned to the station, Gorman had arrived with the list of participants. There were fourteen kick-boxers, their names listed alphabetically. Crucially, though, the Christian names were abbreviated to a capital letter, and there was no other information about them besides their phone numbers.

‘I asked the organizer if he recognized the description. Said he just took the money, gave out the prizes. He’s to ask around for us,’ Gorman explained, a little apologetically.

I glanced down through the list, as if the name of our suspect would somehow make itself apparent; Kehoe was there and McDermott. Beyond that, though, nothing stood out: Atkins, Doran, Gedeon, Griffin, Johnston, Kerlin, McCready, McLaughlin, Mullan, Montgomery, O’Neill, Wilson.

‘Any one of those twelve, then,’ Gorman said, as if reading my thoughts. ‘Kehoe and McDermott are out of it.’