Borderlands Page 6

  "We got a call from Mark Anderson this morning."

  "Oh."

  "He says your dog has been worrying his sheep and you don't care.

  "The only thing likely to worry his sheep is his pervert son. Does he not think we have enough bothering us without him phoning in about a bloody dog?"

  "Well, that's what I said. In not so many words."

  "You?"

  "Oh, aye. He went straight to the top. Why speak to the monkey when you could be speaking to the organ grinder, eh?" He laughed without humour and went into the office where we were meeting. I followed him, cursing Mark Anderson and his sheep.

  Before we discussed the progress on Angela Cashell's murder, Costello gave us the low-down on the death of Terry Boyle. The state pathologist was conducting the post mortem as we spoke, and hoped to have a report with us later in the day. A forensics team were working on the car to see what could be found, but the fact that it had been set alight meant they would have difficulties finding anything of much value.

  "Why burn it?" Holmes said. "I mean, you've shot the poor bastard. Why burn the car then. It's like a 'fuck you', isn't it?"

  "Maybe there was something in the car?" Williams suggested.

  "Maybe there was someone in the car," I said. "Would explain what he was doing parked up there in the middle of the night. Maybe the killer was in the car with him and burnt the car to destroy any evidence."

  Costello brought us back to Cashell again. "We'll wait to see these reports. Caroline, I'd like you and Jason to follow up the Boyle inquiry. Report back to Inspector Devlin here, daily. Inspector," he said, referring to me by rank rather than name, thereby making it all official, "I'd like you to continue pushing the Cashell case until McKelvey's found. Let's see if we can get one case tied up at least."

  Holmes and Williams nodded their agreement. Holmes looked exhausted, due in part to his visiting many of the local bars and clubs to see if anyone recognized Angela Cashell from a photograph he had got from Sadie. He had felt obliged to partake of a number of complimentary Christmas drinks in each pub and had arrived on site in the middle of the night a little the worse for wear. He told us that Sadie had informed him that Johnny had been refused Christmas bail as a flight risk and would be up before Strabane magistrates on Friday 27th.

  As well as speaking to local publicans, Holmes had visited the nightclub in Strabane which Angela had reportedly attended on Thursday night with someone fitting the description of Whitey McKelvey. The club owner didn't remember her, but had provided a tape of his security camera footage for that night, which Holmes placed on Costello's desk.

  Williams had contacted most of the local jewellers and secondhand shops, both in Strabane and Lifford, but no one remembered having seen or been offered the ring. She told us she was planning on trying Derry shops later that day. She had asked two of the secretaries in the station to go through the stolen items list which Burgess had printed out for her late on the previous afternoon. The list ran to 112 pages for the past six months.

  Costello then provided us with the full report from the state pathologist, including toxicological findings. And we discovered just how Angela Cashell had died.

  At some time, probably after seven o'clock on Friday night, Angela Cashell had eaten a cheeseburger and chips and drunk Diet Coke. She smoked several joints through the rest of the evening and drank vodka - again, probably, with Diet Coke. At some point she took what she may have believed to be an Ecstasy tablet, no bigger than a one cent coin and speckled yellow and brown. The tablet was of very low purity and had been cut with, amongst other things, talc, rat poison, DDT, nutmeg and strychnine.

  Shortly after taking the tablet, and perhaps even as a consequence of it, she began to have sex with someone who wore a condom, as we had been told earlier. Perhaps during the act itself, the compound of chemicals she had taken caused something in her brain to misfire; her synapses sparked with electrical currents which eventually sent her into an epileptic seizure. The strychnine was probably responsible for spasms which tore her leg muscles from their ligaments. In addition, her lungs began to slow and enter paralysis, though whoever was with her may not have realized this, for they knelt on her chest and covered her mouth with a cotton cloth until she stopped breathing. Perhaps they realized that the drug would kill her, but wished to speed the process along. Or perhaps they simply put her out of her misery.

  After she had died her body was washed and her pants were put back on, inside out. Then two people - for she would have been prohibitively heavy for a person small enough to kneel on her to be capable also of carrying her - must have put her into a car. They drove her to behind Lifford Cineplex several hours after she died and threw her body down to the spot where we discovered it.

  We waited until everyone had finished reading, Williams going over the report more slowly than the rest of us. "So," said Costello finally, "it fairly much confirms what we knew already, with a few more details thrown in. Especially the drug thing."

  "Yeah," said Holmes. "Not uncommon to get low-grade drugs, especially E tabs. Though in saying that, I haven't heard of any of these substances being found before."

  "I have," said Costello and I saw Williams nod slightly, as though in agreement. "Read this and see if it sounds familiar."

  He handed each of us a copy of a letter dated September 1996, the paper still warm from the photocopier. The letter read:

  Dear Student

  As you are aware, An Garda work closely with your school to

  develop drugs awareness programmes to educate you about

  the dangers of drugs and ensure that none of you get caught in the cycle of criminal activity which drugs use can cause.

  However, we are also aware that some of you may be using drugs or have been tempted to experiment with them. Therefore I write to you in particular to be vigilant over the coming weeks.

  It has come to our attention that a batch of highly dangerous Ecstasy tablets has appeared on the Irish drugs scene and, while none has reached Donegal to date, it has been decided that all students in all schools in the area be made aware of this danger. The tablets, which are round, are about one centimetre in diameter. They have a yellow/brown speckled appearance and might taste slightly bitter. The Customs Office in Dublin has informed us that these drugs, which originated in Holland, will not have the effect of an Ecstasy tablet, but in fact contain a number of deadly chemicals and poisons, including rat- and flea-killer. The tablets can cause a range of symptoms, including breathing difficulties, convulsions, brain damage, and could cause death.

  If someone offers you one of these tablets - or if you are suspicious of anything you are offered - DO NOT TAKE IT.

  You can contact Letterkenny Garda station in confidence on 074 55584, or else contact your local Garda station or tell a member of your school staff. You will not get in any trouble and you might help save lives.

  The letter was signed by Costello, with a further reminder to avoid the drugs completely. I vaguely remembered the letters being distributed by schools, though at the time I was working in Sligo on a breaking-and-entering team who were targeting local hotels and hostels.

  "Sound like the same things," Holmes said, putting the letter down on the table.

  "I'm surprised you don't remember it," Williams said, "working with the drugs squad in Dublin."

  "Before my time," Holmes replied, then smiled good humouredly. "I'm still a young buck, me."

  "God help us all," Williams said and hid her face behind the A4 sheet she held.

  "Well, it's probably the same." I said. "So, we need to find out who gave it to her. Was it the same person that she was sleeping with?"

  "And did they intend for her to be killed by the tablet or was it accidental?" Costello added.

  "Yep. So, Jason, I want you to start bringing in the local drug dealers. Ask about, check bars and clubs again, Strabane and Letterkenny. See if anyone's selling this stuff. While you're there, flash about the photo of Terry Bo
yle too, maybe find out where he was last night."

  "They're not connected though, are they?" Holmes asked.

  "Not as far as I know," I said, "but if we can kill two birds with one stone ..."

  "There's no one else, Jason," Costello explained. "I've requested extra help from Letterkenny, but you seem to know the pubs and that. Might have more success than most."

  "I'll phone Hendry, just so there's no jurisdiction nonsense about going over the border," I said. "Caroline, keep following up on that gold ring. I'll see if I can speak to Johnny Cashell, though he's looking unlikely; I can't see him drugging and abusing his own daughter. Besides," I added, "I don't think this was a sexual attack."

  "Pathologist's report suggests consensual, Inspector; that doesn't necessarily mean it was consensual," said Williams.

  "True. But all the same. Size, drugs, eye witnesses - everything seems to be pointing to Whitey McKelvey."

  "If the wee bugger would show his face," Williams added.

  "Maybe he has though, eh?" Holmes retorted, tapping on the CCTV videotape lying in front of us.

  We set up the video and TV in the conference room at the back of the station and played the tape from the start. The tape began at 6 p.m. on Thursday 19th December, the time and date appearing in white lettering at the bottom of the screen. The images jumped from one view to the next every twenty seconds.

  Williams leaned forward and fast-forwarded the tape until customers began to appear around 7.20 p.m. With each new arrival we paused the tape, looking for Angela and the person who had accompanied her - whom we assumed to have been Whitey McKelvey.

  By 9.30 p.m. the bar was filling up and they still had not appeared, though we had noticed that a young man with a shaved head and a shoulder bag who had gone into the male toilets at 8.50 p.m. had yet to emerge. Holmes concluded that he was either a drug dealer or a homosexual. "Either way, we'll bust him if we see him this side of the border," he added.

  As the tape progressed, the lights in the bar dimmed. Then the screen cut to the doorway and I caught of glimpse of a girl with blonde hair passing underneath the camera. She was dressed in jeans and a blue top, as Cashell had described Angela's outfit that night. Slightly behind her, again half-disappearing from view under the camera, was a thin figure with short, almost peroxide- blond hair, clad in jeans and a white top. The figure did not look up at the camera and so we could only see the top of the head and the bright hair. Holmes paused the shot and we all leaned a little closer to the screen.

  "Is that him?" Williams asked, squinting at the screen.

  "I think so," I said.

  Holmes tapped the screen with his knuckles; "Ladies and gentlemen, Whitey McKelvey, I believe."

  It was not as clear a shot as any of us wanted, but it seemed a reasonable assumption to make. We watched a further hour's worth of tape and saw Angela several times: in the queue for the bar, dancing, chatting to a group of girls by the toilets. That shot had almost passed when I saw a face I recognized and everything seemed to fall into place. The clothes were different, obviously, the pink uniform replaced with a tight satin grey top that accentuated every curve. She wore make-up and looked older, but there was no mistaking her - it was Yvonne Coyle, the girl who had been feeding Tommy Powell in his room the day before. At the same time, it suddenly came to me where I had seen her face before. It was with her cheek pressed against Angela Cashell's in a strip of passport photographs, placed carefully between the leaves of an unfinished romantic novel lying under the dead girl's bed.

  I phoned Finnside almost immediately, while Holmes and Williams set about the tasks we had agreed earlier that morning. Mrs McGowan told me, with some annoyance, that Coyle had phoned in sick, having left early the day before.

  "Are you sure she's alright to have here?" Mrs MacGowan asked. "You know, I'd rather not have staff involved with Gardai."

  "As far as I know, Mrs MacGowan, Yvonne Coyle has done nothing wrong. I want to speak to her about something completely innocuous," I lied. "She witnessed an accident."

  "I'll tell her to contact you if she returns tomorrow—"

  "Thanks Mrs MacGowan."

  "Though if she doesn't, she needn't bother ..."

  I put the receiver down quickly to avoid hearing the rest. Picking it up again, I phoned Strabane PSNI station and asked to be transferred to Inspector Hendry.

  As I had expected, Hendry didn't care about our people going across the border to question bar owners, though it was technically not allowed. Some policemen on both sides of the border could be sticky about it, but generally we all knew that we were chasing the same people. The bad old days, when collusion and suspicion had prohibited any contact, were passing, if not yet past. Hendry also agreed to the more unusual request that I interview Cashell in the PSNI holding-cell - so long as I was a silent partner, technically off-duty, and Hendry asked the questions on my behalf. Finally, I asked him if Whitey McKelvey had been spotted yet, though I knew that, if he had, Hendry would have phoned us to boast about the efficiency of the northern police in comparison with their sleepy southern counterparts.

  "No sign here," he said, "though I hear rumours from the travelling community that he's over your side. Apparently a branch of his family has set up camp outside of Ballybofey."

  "I've heard nothing about that," I said, a little rankled at having not received this information myself.

  "That's because I haven't told you until now. I'm telling you: British Intelligence, best in the world!" he laughed.

  "See you in an hour," I said, and hung up. I immediately rang through to Ballybofey Station and was transferred to a Sergeant Moore, who promised to investigate the tip about Whitey McKelvey being in their area after I had given him a description and some background on the boy. I cautioned him to keep it low-key; I didn't want the boy running again.

  I had decided not to ask Hendry for Yvonne Coyle's address; the cost of having to listen to more crowing about Intelligence was too high for such basic information. I decided instead to do some rudimentary detective work and checked a northern phonebook someone had 'borrowed' from a phone box just over the border a few years earlier. There were no Coyles listed for Glennside. I tried Mrs McGowan again, suitably apologetic for my earlier abruptness. She gave me the address immediately, with commensurate curtness. I decided to visit Yvonne before seeing Johnny Cashell, on the off- chance that Angela might have mentioned her father to her friend at some stage.

  I had to ring the doorbell three times before I heard the thud of someone running down stairs and the clunk of the deadbolt. Then Yvonne Coyle answered the door in a pink dressing-gown one would expect to see on a child, with a teddy-bear embroidered on the breast. Her hair was quite short and, being wet, appeared dark. Her skin still sparkled with moisture, smelling unmistakably of shampoo and soap.

  "Oh . . . I ... Can I help you?" she said, gripping the lapels of her gown in one fist, the other hand holding the door ajar.

  I introduced myself and added, "I'd like to speak to you, Miss Coyle, if you don't mind," smiling to seem less threatening.

  "About Mr Powell?" she said, affecting an appearance of boredom.

  "I think you know what about?" I said.

  "Well, I can't help you. The bitch fired me, so it's not my problem anymore."

  "Mrs MacGowan fired you. Why?"

  "Thanks to you, I guess. She's only just off the phone. Said I was bringing her establishment into disrepute." As she spoke she mimicked her former employer's voice with a fair degree of accuracy. Certainly enough to make us both laugh.

  "Sorry, Miss Coyle; I told her you hadn't done anything wrong. I... Look, can I come in for a few minutes? I have some questions about Angela Cashell."

  She tried to pretend to be surprised at the mention of Angela's name, but gave it up as a bad job and swung the door open. "Ten minutes. Give me a chance to get changed first. I'm only out of the shower," she said, pointing to her wet hair, which was dripping water onto the floor. "Though I suppos
e you already worked that out, you being a policeman and all. Go in and sit down; I won't be a minute."

  I went into the room towards which she had gestured. It was a small living room, with a brown sofa and two mismatched easy chairs arranged around a TV set and an electric fire. A CD player and a stack of CDs sat by one of the chairs. I glanced down the spines of the discs and noticed a few Divine Comedy albums, which reminded me of the one I had seen in Angela's bedroom. I suspected I knew now where she had got it. An ashtray full of butts rested on the arm of the sofa, so I sat beside it and took out my cigarettes. "Do you mind if I smoke?" I called up the stairs.

  "Long as you can give me one; I'm all out," she replied, coming downstairs, "and I'm too lazy to go to the shop." Yvonne came in and sat in one of the easy chairs. She had not changed out of her dressing-gown, but had wrapped a towel around her hair turban- style. The gown had loosened very slightly, so that the flushed skin at the base of her throat and the top of her chest was visible. She leaned forward and took the cigarette which I offered her, and I could see the swell of her breasts as the gown fell slightly open. 1 looked away, but she had already caught me looking and smiled slightly as she rearranged her gown. I began to regret not asking Caroline Williams to accompany me.

  "I'm out of matches too," she said, and leaned forward again. I battled with myself to look her in the eyes as she lit her cigarette off my Zippo, and in so doing, I noticed that her eyes were two different colours: one green and one almost grey. Seeing her now, without make-up, I also realized that she was not as young as she had seemed when I had seen her at Finnside. I guessed she was in her late twenties. Her skin was smooth and well-toned, but had begun to wrinkle around her eyes.

  "So, you're off sick," I said. "Hope it's nothing serious."

  "Nothing more than a hangover. Still, I'm not sick anymore: I'm unemployed."

  "Sorry about that. I—"

  "Don't worry about it. It was a shit job anyway - feeding old gits like Tommy Powell his stewed apples, while his prick of a son tried to look up my skirt. Good riddance."