Brian McGilloway - Borderlands

"Muire didn't know what was going on."

"About McKelvey?"

"You've McKelvey on the brain. Angie was going out with someone, but it wasn't McKelvey. In fact, it wasn't even a boy. Our Angie found herself a girlfriend before she died. Someone to support her habit."

"Who?"

"Some nurse called Yvonne, from Strabane."

"Yvonne Coyle?"

"Sounds about right, aye," Christine said, then turned at the sound of voices from inside. Her parents came out with Williams, who shook hands with each, nodded to me, and strode down towards the car. I smiled gently towards Christine, who replied with her eyes at the same instant that she set the rest of her face into its familiar expression of defiance against the world. I turned to apologize to her parents again, but they only looked at me, ushered Christine inside, and closed the door softly.

"Feeling better?" Williams asked when I got into the car. Then, before I could answer she continued, "Jesus, sir."

"Cashell is a criminal," I replied, a little haughtily.

"Not when you're talking about his daughter's death. He's still a father."

"Well, he shouldn't be. His other daughter was outside hoping this would finally force Sadie to leave him. It's hardly family life at its most idyllic, is it?"

"It's more than some of us have," she snapped, and I stopped arguing.

Neither of us spoke as Williams started up the car.

"What else did the girl say?" she asked finally.

I stared out the side window at the hedgerows sliding past, the sunlight filtering through the thickets. "Not much of use. Says that McKelvey was a dead end, as if we hadn't worked that out. Seemed to suggest that Angela was a bit of a double-adapter."

"Meaning?" Williams said, glancing over at me.

"Meaning Christine seemed to think Angela was having a fling with Yvonne Coyle."

"Really. Should we bring her in?"

"Certainly worth taking a closer look, I suppose. Though having an affair, even a lesbian one, isn't a criminal offence. She already admitted that Angela stayed with her the night before she died. Said she went out with McKelvey on the night in question." Then I remembered something. "Although, now I think of it, she said she'd seen McKelvey on the Thursday night: in fact she was our only witness. What if she was lying?"

"Maybe we should bring her in, then."

"I'll ask Hendry. She's in his jurisdiction." I paused. "What did the Cashells have to say about things?"

"Cashell admitted knowing Donaghey and Boyle in the late '70s. Said Donaghey managed a bar where he and Boyle worked as bouncers. Did the odd favour for him. That was it. Knew nothing about Knox or the ring. Or why someone would want to leave it on the body of his dead daughter."

"Did you believe him?" I asked.

"God, no. He was lying through his teeth. He seemed particularly uneasy when I told him that Knox had kids. He didn't seem to know. Though obviously he claimed it was nothing to him, since he didn't know the woman."

"Did you say Ratsy Donaghey was a manager of a bar?"

"Apparently so."

"That's worth taking a closer look at as well. Look, when we get back to the station, I want to call Hendry about Yvonne Coyle. Can you pull me anything you can find on Donaghey? Then I want you to start checking for this neighbour of Mary Knox, Joanne Duffy, living somewhere in Derry. I suspect she knows where the kids ended up."

"You think the kids are involved?"

"I don't know," I said, honestly, "but it's the only thing we have for now."

As it transpired, I didn't get to carry out my plans quite as quickly as I had hoped, for when we returned to the station Mark Anderson was standing at the front desk, while Burgess tried desperately to shift him.

"Ah, Inspector Devlin," he shouted, the moment I came through the door. "A Mr Anderson here for you. Perhaps you'd be so kind as to assist him." Then he added under his breath, "And take the smell of pig" shit out of my station."

Anderson was not for shifting. He took something from his pocket, a skein of brown velvet material darkened at the edges with crusted blood. He let it drop onto the main counter. "That were in my field, where that animal were shot."

"What has that to do with me?" I asked, my head spinning as I spoke. The rag of torn skin was both sickening and strangely pitiful.

"Powell won't give me the reward. He says that ain't no cat. He says that's part of a hound. Where's your dog?"

"He's at home, Mark. That's not part of a dog. That could be part of anything. Powell's just trying to renege on his part of the deal. Makes good TV offering rewards, so long as you don't have to follow it through."

Anderson eyed me suspiciously, his face puckered in concentration. He rubbed a callused fingertip along the white stubble of his chin. "All I know is that I ain't seen your dog since the hunt and nothing's been near my sheep since. If I find your dog's been hurt in some way, I got a right to put a bullet in him. Reward or not, I'll protect my sheep."

"And I'll protect my daughter's pet, Mark," I replied.

"Best thing for you to do is put a bullet in it yourself, before someone else has to," Anderson said and walked out.

Regardless of my annoyance at Anderson, I knew he was right about Frank. I resolved to take my gun home with me that night. I had decided when Penny was just a baby that I would not keep a gun in the house, and so it stayed in a special locker in the station. Guns are quite often a final option for Gardai; generally we do not carry them, as it seems to contravene the very name of An Garda Siochana – the Guardians of the Peace.

I went into the back lock-up, behind Costello's room, where the station safe was located. Above it was a strong box with a padlock.

I opened it and removed my. 38 revolver and a box of bullets, wrapped both in the oilcloth that had been around the gun, and tucked the parcel into my inside coat-pocket.

I phoned Strabane station and left a message for Hendry to call me. The desk sergeant assured me that Hendry would get back to me when he could. While I was on the phone, Williams came into the office and flopped onto the chair, a thick manila folder in her lap.

"Ratsy Donaghey, this is your life," she said. She placed the file on the table between us and we both read through it carefully.

Donaghey had first appeared on police files at the age of eleven, when he was caught stealing from a local shop whose owner wanted the matter dealt with seriously. He was arrested with some regularity from then on in, for drinking or vandalism or stealing. At fourteen he was sent to a borstal for nine months for beating up an elderly neighbour for the contents of her purse, which amounted to about thirteen euros nowadays. He was quiet for the duration of his stay there, but his name surfaced again afterwards.

His first adult arrest was for aggravated assault and GBH, when he beat the ex-boyfriend of a girl he was dating with a broken beer bottle and a brick until he was unconscious. The case went as far as court but, somehow, Ratsy got off with a suspended sentence despite his earlier record. I made a note of the date, deducing that the court records for it would be found in a newspaper from the period.

Forty minutes later my faith in librarians was repaid once more as we read the court report for the case. According to the papers from the time, Donaghey was shown leniency because of his important position in something called 'IID' and his role as an ambassador for the area. The chairman of IID, Joseph Cauley, interceded on Ratsy's behalf, describing the attack as a single regrettable blemish on an otherwise impressive character. The magistrate at the time was Gordon Fullerton, who had since spent three years in jail himself, having being found guilty of taking bribes in a case over land ownership. As neither of us knew what IID was, we set off again to a building a little closer to home.