Brian McGilloway - Gallows Lane

I went straight to the bar, shouting to be heard over the incessant bass-line pounding of what passed for music in this place. The barman eyed me a little warily at first; most of the clientele here were quite literally young enough to be my daughters. If Penny thought she’d see a club this side of twenty, she had another think coming.

I held the photo aloft. ‘Do you know this girl?’ I asked. The barman did not speak, but shook his head slowly from side to side, in time with the music, the rhythm to which he beat time with his hand on the bar.

‘Could you look a little closer?’ I shouted.

He beat a final rhythm out with both hands, leaned towards me briefly and shouted back, ‘I already told you, I ain’t seen her.’

‘Can I speak to the manager?’ I called, but he pantomimed that he was unable to hear me, placing his hand behind his ear, moving his whole body now with the music, biting his lip softly in concentration.

‘Asshole,’ I muttered. Despite the noise he heard that, for he gave me the finger. Perhaps he could lip-read.

One of the girls clearing glasses off the tables was more obliging and several minutes later, the manager led me into his office, through a key-code locked door at the end of a corridor which also housed the ladies’ toilets. Indeed, while in his office, we could hear the shrieks and shouts of the girls next door.

‘I don’t recognize her,’ the man said. He had introduced himself as Jack Thompson. He wore a black suit and a white linen shirt, open at the collar. His hair was gelled into spikes, the tips highlighted blond. He sat behind a walnut wood desk and gestured for me to sit in an easy chair in front of it. ‘When was she here?’ he asked.

‘Last night. Part of a hen night,’ I added.

‘Fuck, we have ten a night, buddy. That won’t help. Try the barmen.’

‘I already did. They won’t be gaining any citizenship awards anytime soon.’

‘Too cool to chat, buddy,’ he said. ‘The door attendants might be more useful.’

‘Door attendants?’ I repeated.

‘Bouncers,’ he said. ‘Except we can’t call them that anymore. Fucking sizest or something.’

‘I didn’t think bouncers were the sensitive type,’ I said.

‘Our door staff are fully trained and accredited,’ Thompson explained. ‘Best of the best, buddy.’

The veracity of Thompson’s claims was put to the test fairly quickly. One of the door staff did remember Karen Doherty; he had thrown her out of the club. Though he described it as ‘excorted’.

Darren Kehoe was twenty-four, both in age and stone weight. His shirt collar stretched around a neck with the proportions of a fire hydrant. His hair was shaved in a crew cut. His nose was flat and pugnacious, his eyes narrow and deep-set, seemingly exaggerating the protrusion of his forehead.

‘Why did you escort her off the premises, Darren?’ Thompson asked him. Kehoe was sitting on a two-seater sofa against the wall, his arms resting on his thighs, his black jacket stretched taut across his frame. I sat again in the chair in front of Thompson’s desk, while he perched a buttock on the desk’s edge, his arms folded.

‘She was drunk,’ he said, looking from his boss to me and back again. ‘Falling all over the place. I had to lift her off the dance floor.’

‘You see, buddy,’ Thompson explained, ‘we can serve them drinks, but we don’t condone over-indulgence. Don’t want disorder. And we cooperate fully with the local Gardai,’ he added, stressing the word local.

‘I’m sure you do,’ I said, then added, ‘buddy.’

He looked at me askance, then faced Kehoe again.

‘Did you see her with anyone, after you put her out?’ I asked.

‘No. I lifted her, put her outside the front door. She went up towards the side alley — for a pish, maybe. To …’ he struggled to find an alternative word. ‘To pee,’ he said, finally.

‘What time was this?’ I asked.

‘After one, maybe.’

‘Would you have CCTV cameras outside?’ I asked. ‘Mr Thompson?’ I had to add to get his attention.

‘Sure, buddy. I’ll get someone to take care of it.’ He lifted the phone on his desk and called someone named John, explaining to him what we wanted. Several minutes later, John appeared at the door with a DVD.

Thompson slotted it into a small monitor behind his desk and forwarded slowly through it. Sure enough, just after 1 a.m., Karen Doherty was shown being thrown on to the roadway by Darren Kehoe. She lay on the ground dazed for a few seconds, then, gathering herself, shouted something towards the door. She pulled her green cardigan tightly around herself, hugging herself, and staggered out of view. I could understand why Kehoe had thought her drunk, though I suspected the date-rape chemical we’d found in her system had more to do with it.

A minute or two later she staggered back into view. Just then a black car pulled alongside. A sleeveless arm reached across the passenger seat and opened the door. Karen peered into the car and seemed to say something. Conversation ensued for almost a minute and then, with a final look around, perhaps for her friends, she climbed unsteadily into the car and it drove off.

The angle of the shot meant we could not see the registration plate of the car. I asked Thompson to rewind the image and pause at the hand reaching over to the door. There were no rings or jewellery on the hand, but it was large and thick, the lower arm muscled. A dark shape was visible on the arm, from above the wrist to below the elbow, and I peered a little closer to the screen. ‘What is that?’ I asked, pointing to the image.

‘Wait a sec,’ John said, playing with the controls of the monitor. He zoomed in on the image slightly, enough for us to see the mark, but not to clearly identify it.

‘It looks like a tattoo or something,’ he said. ‘I can’t make it any clearer than this, though.’.

‘Did you see this? Last night?’ I asked Kehoe, who shook his head. ‘Would any of the other door staff?’

‘No, I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘There were a lot of fights last night,’ he added by way of explanation. ‘We were pretty busy.’

‘What about drugs? Any of those going about?’ I asked Kehoe.

‘As I’ve already told you, we cooperate fully with the local Gardai, Inspector,’ Thompson said.

‘I know you have,’ I replied. ‘But I’m not talking about recreational drugs. We believe that this girl was given a date-rape drug on your premises. Which might explain her condition when your door staff threw her on to the pavement.’

Thompson blanched visibly, swallowing hard. Kehoe looked slightly stunned, his face blank, as if he was unable to process the information.

‘I think we’ve done all we can to help, Inspector,’ Thompson said, standing away from his desk. ‘You are welcome to take the CCTV footage with you.’

‘I’ll be in touch with the local Gardai, Mr Thompson; I’m sure you can expect a high-profile awareness campaign in your club over the next few weeks.’

Thompson did not speak as I left, presumably considering the impact such a development would have on his business.

Williams had had less luck around the club. Several patrons recognized Karen’s face, but that was it. No one remembered her from the night before; no one noticed her leaving with anyone; no one could help in any way. Indeed, few seemed willing to let the girl’s death spoil their night.

Wednesday, 2 June

I only remembered to follow up the call to my mobile the following morning, as I charged it in the car. I did not place the voice until Paddy Hannon introduced himself.

‘Ben, sorry to bother you,’ he said, his voice breaking up amongst the static of the phone.