Borderlands

'He's the same age as me,' I said, half-pretending to be offended.

'Oh,' she replied, and smiled at me. I knew I would be interpreting that all the way back to the station. Time to move on, I thought.

'So, what can you tell me about Angela Cashell, Miss Coyle?' I asked.

'Please, call me Yvonne. What do you want to know about Angela?' she replied. This wasn't going particularly well.

'When did you last see her?' I asked, fairly sure I knew the answer.

'Friday morning. She stayed here on Thursday night. She left the house at the same time as me. I was in work at lunchtime. I gave her a lift over to Lifford. She was meeting her sisters at the cinema.'

'What was she wearing?'

She thought for a second. 'A red top and a skirt she borrowed from me. She didn't have a change of clothes, so she took some of mine.'

'What about the clothes she had been wearing?'

'They're upstairs. I was going to keep them – as a reminder, you know. Guess that sounds kind of stupid. Do you need them back? Only I've washed them – you know, if you're looking for evidence or anything. Sorry,' she said, wincing exaggeratedly at her actions.

'I shouldn't think so,' I said; they would serve little forensic purpose if Angela hadn't been wearing them at the time of her death. 'Did she say where she was going after the cinema?'

She paused slightly. 'Home, I think.'

'Are you sure?'

'I think so.'

I decided to approach it from a different angle. 'Why did she stay with you on Thursday?'

'I'm… I was her friend. Why wouldn't she have stayed with me?'

'Why Thursday? Why didn't she stay at home?'

'She was at a club in Strabane; handier for her to stay here.'

'Did she go to the club with you? Or did you meet her there?'

'I met her.'

'Who did she come in with?'

Another pause. 'I don't know.'

'Are you sure?'

'She had a lot of friends. Angela wasn't shy that way.'

'Who was it?'

'I'm not sure,' she said. 'It might have been one of the travellers, but I don't know. He doesn't come near me. Angela wouldn't tell me if she was with him.'

'Why not?'

''Cause she knows I don't like him.'

'Why not?'

''Cause he was using her.'

'In what way?'

Nothing.

'In what way, Yvonne?'

'She… I don't want to say. It's not fair on her.'

'Yvonne. Angela was murdered by someone. I need to know everything about her – good and bad – if I'm going to find out who did it.'

She thought about it, taking two drags on the cigarette in quick succession, before leaning over and grinding it out in the ashtray. She sat back in the chair and pulled her bare legs up under her, wrapping one arm around her knees.

'She let him do things. To her. Sex and stuff.'

'Why?'

'For money. So she could buy things.'

'What kind of things?'

'Drugs, usually. She got into drugs kind of recently, after she met McKelvey. He met her in a club in Strabane. Gave her something for free, got her drugs for a while when she had money; when she didn't, she paid for them in different ways.' She blushed slightly. 'She never mentioned him in front of me.'

'What kind of drugs?'

'Es mostly. McKelvey got her them, or gave her money to buy them off someone else.'

'Was she with McKelvey on Friday night?'

'I don't know. Might have been. She said she had a date. Wanted something nice to wear; she took my red jacket. I'd only worn it once myself. Still, it looked better on her.'

'Could she have been meeting someone other than McKelvey on Friday?'

'She might have been. McKelvey wasn't her only one. She had a lot of friends, like I said.'

'Did you see McKelvey on Thursday with her?'

'I thought I saw him, but I can't be sure.'

The conversation was flowing fairly easily, so I decided to return to Johnny Cashell. 'Did she tell you what she and her father had rowed about on Thursday? The night she stayed with you?'

A pause, while she weighed up her options. In the end she decided to be honest. 'The usual. He was spying on her dressing. Used to do it all the time. She said that one time she was in the shower; when she came out he was in the bathroom, cleaning his teeth or something. Acting as if there was nothing wrong with it. She said he gave her the creeps. If you ask me, McKelvey is no better, mind you.'

'Did Angela's father ever do anything to her? Anything he shouldn't?' I asked, struggling to make the question direct without being crass. 'Did he touch her or anything?'

'I don't think so. I think he just liked to watch her.'

'Why didn't you tell us this when she died? Why keep it to yourself? It could help.'

'I guess I didn't want to get involved. Plus, John Cashell might be a dirty old man, but I couldn't believe he'd be a murderer. Liam McKelvey is a different matter.'

'Did she tell you who gave her the ring?'

'What ring?'

'The ring she was wearing. The gold ring with the stones; her initials on it.'

Yvonne looked confused. 'Angela didn't wear a gold ring. She wore nothing but silver. Can I have another cigarette?'

She leaned forward again and took the cigarette. I held out my lighter for her and she steadied my hand in both of hers, though it was not shaking. Her hands were hard from work, but warm. The touch of her skin made my guts contract as if someone had winded me. She held my hand a little longer than necessary, then slowly let go, the tips of her fingers running across the backs of mine, catching slightly on my wedding ring.

Johnny Cashell was sitting in Interview Room One in Strabane police station. It was like every other interview room I had ever seen: a single wooden desk against one wall, the surface engraved with initials and scarred with cigarette burns and rings where hot mugs of tea had whitened the wood. The walls were painted institutional green and covered in scrawls and obscenities, and beside the desk someone had left burn marks from a lighter flame. The room smelt of sweat and smoke, both emanating in copious quantities from Johnny, who shifted continually in the straightbacked wooden chair he had been given, oblivious to the fact that such rooms are designed to ensure maximum discomfort. In fact, it was rumoured that the old RUC used to cut an inch off the front legs of these chairs so that those sitting on them kept slipping forward and could not get settled.

Cashell prodded at his stomach and the bulging around his abdomen under his T-shirt showed that he was still wearing a dressing for the knife wound he'd received. He looked unkempt, his stubble a dirty grey in contrast with the redness of his hair. His T-shirt seemed to be annoying him, and he tugged at it, pulling it off his chest throughout the interview.

I had given Hendry a list of the questions I wanted asked and had filled him in on events while we had waited for Cashell to be brought up to the interview room. Consequently, I was content enough to sit and listen. We had decided to keep things informal.