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 suppose 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.'
'Thomas Powell? The son was trying to…' I gestured in the general vicinity of her legs.
'Oh, aye. All the time. Thinks he's flash. A bit too old for my taste.'
