Brian McGilloway - Gallows Lane

‘We can’t phone them,’ I said. ‘The man responsible is hardly going to admit to having a tattoo to the Guards, after almost getting caught last week in Club Manhattan.’

‘What about asking them to come into the station — for an interview? The one with something to hide won’t come.’

‘Too slow. We could eliminate the non-local phone numbers. Kehoe said he recognized the guy from around the club; that would suggest he lives in the Strabane, Derry, Donegal region. Leave anyone further afield for now. Then, we’ll take a Northern phone book each,’ I suggested. ‘Trace names and numbers to get addresses. And hit them one by one.’

As it turned out, we didn’t even get as far as that. Fifteen minutes later, I got a phone call from Jim Hendry. Cribbins wanted to talk.

We met them in the same bar as before. Cribbins looked Gorman up and down, several times, then turned to me. ‘This is a different one from last time.’

‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘You have something for us, I believe.’

‘This is going to cost more than I thought. I’d get into a lot of trouble for the name I’m going to give you,’ Cribbins said. I was prepared for this; Hendry had told me this was Cribbins’s usual ploy.

‘I understand that,’ I said, trying to keep the exasperation out of my voice. I placed a folded twenty-pound note on the table, just out of his reach. He stretched across for it, unsuccessfully, then rolled his eyes, and lifted his glass of orange juice. He drank from it through a straw while he looked from Gorman to me and back again, to ensure we were watching his performance.

‘The name?’ I said.

‘Inspector Hendry is much more pleasant to deal with,’ Cribbins said, affecting a pained expression, winking playfully at Jim, who looked the other way uncomfortably.

I’d had enough of his games. I leaned towards him, placing my hand on top of his on the table, putting my weight into it. I heard his breath catch in his throat.

‘I have children, Cribbins,’ I whispered in his ear. ‘Being in the same room as you is making me ill. Now cut the shit and give me the fucking name before I lose my temper.’

I could see his face blanch, unsure whether I was bluffing or was thick enough to follow through on my threat. ‘Daniel McLaughlin,’ he said quickly. ‘He’s a body builder and other things. Five foot nine, bald head, tattoo of Cuchulain on his left arm. The rumour is he deals some low-league drugs; sporting things, usually.’

‘Who is he?’ I asked. The name meant nothing to me.

‘He’s a mechanic; works in a car dealership in Letterkenny.’

Then it all fitted into place. I recalled again the scene as we had left Decko’s showroom, his young assistant standing talking with a thick-necked man in a boiler suit.

‘I know who he is,’ I said. ‘And I think I know where to get him.’

‘Never heard of him,’ Hendry said. ‘Never featured on this side.’

‘Nor on ours until now,’ I conceded.

‘He only moved here a while back. Apparently his brother-in-law died recently,’ Cribbins added, sipping his juice through a straw, looking up at the three of us from beneath his fringe.

‘Who?’ I asked, my heart already racing.

‘That lecturer who hung himself — Weaver, Webber. Something like that,’ he replied haughtily, tossing his head back in dismissal.

Wednesday, 16 June

Later that evening, four Garda cars pulled up on to the driveway of Sinead Webb’s house. The whole facade looked even more garish in the twilight, every feature accentuated by the orange floodlights placed along the edge of the lawn.

The NBCI team arrived in their own car. Between them and the rest of us, there were eight officers, three of whom moved around to the back of the house, in case McLaughlin made a run for it. Parked in front of the garage was a green BMW, with what I took to be a personalized number plate reading BMW 6. But it then dawned on me that it was not personalized; it was a showroom. Obviously McLaughlin was borrowing cars from Decko’s showroom and taking them out for the night. It would explain why each witness had placed him in a different car.

I knocked several times at the door before Sinead Webb answered. She wore jeans and a striped T-shirt; her hair was pulled back from her face, her features were haggard and her skin was blotched.

‘Inspector, is something wrong?’

‘I’d like to speak to your brother, Mrs Webb. Daniel McLaughlin. Is he here?’

Her gaze shifted slightly, as she saw the number of Guards standing outside her house. She did not move from the doorway though.

‘In connection with what?’

‘A number of things, Mrs Webb. It really would be easier for all involved if you cooperate. We have reason to believe he is here at the moment. Is that correct?’

‘No, he’s not,’ she said. ‘I haven’t seen him in some time.’

I nodded, unsurprised by her response. ‘You understand that we have to search your home, Mrs Webb. I have a warrant here, if you’d like to check it.’

While I spoke, the others moved in on either side of us and entered the house. Dempsey divided the team up, dispatching people to different parts of the building.

Sinead Webb took the sheet I offered her, complaining a little about invasion of privacy and a family in mourning, though with little conviction.

I stood in the hallway with her as bodies flitted in and out of rooms. Above us I could already hear furniture being dragged across the floor, doors slamming. The plan was to do a quick scout of rooms first, in case McLaughlin was here. Failing that, a more thorough forensic search could be carried out in the hope that something connecting McLaughlin with Karen Doherty or Rebecca Purdy might be found.

Someone shouted from upstairs and I went up, taking the stairs two at a time. Sinead Webb stayed where she was, which made me guess that her brother probably wasn’t up there. She called no warning, did not try to block my progress, as relatives often do in a futile attempt to buy their loved one a few seconds’ head start.

Sergeant Deegan had found McLaughlin’s room, though the man himself was not there. A set of dumb-bells sat in the corner, in front of a wardrobe. The wardrobe itself was fairly empty: a few pairs of jeans, trousers, shirts, shoes. Beside the bed was a stack of body-building magazines; beneath them a number of pornographic magazines. A chest of drawers sat beside the window, on top of which were bottles of aftershave, deodorants and the like. Among them were several blister strips of tablets; one of which I recognized as tamoxifen, the same as those Kehoe had provided us with. The others I did not recognize, but McLaughlin was clearly taking a cocktail of chemicals, both to build himself up and to negate any side effects.

‘Bag everything,’ I said. ‘Especially any pairs of trainers. Helen Gorman will want those.’ Then I added, ‘There must also be more of these lying around,’ waving a pack of tamoxifen. ‘I want a forensics team in here as soon as possible.’ I decided as an afterthought that it might be best to hold Sinead Webb also. I found it hard to believe that her brother had attacked two girls, presumably had gotten their blood on his clothes, and yet his sister hadn’t noticed it.

Dempsey was talking to her when I went back downstairs, attempting to convince her that it was in her brother’s best interests for us to take him in tonight, without any fuss. As I listened to him, I went back through McLaughlin’s room in my mind. Something was missing. I imagined him again in Decko’s showroom, the bald head, the thick neck bulging over the top of the dirty boiler suit. The boiler suit! There were no boiler suits in his room. But then why should there be? Surely that was the kind of thing you’d leave in the garage.