daughter, who then ends up dead, wearing the ring Whitey McKelvey stole and which he claimed he'd sold to a girl in a bar. And I suspect our eyewitness who spotted Terry Boyle leaving the pub with a girl may well have their memory refreshed if we can show them a photograph of Coyle.'
Forty minutes later the uniforms returned to say that none of the neighbours had seen Coyle in a week. In fact, the previous Tuesday was the last time she'd been seen; the day I had visited her. One of the neighbours recalled seeing a car which fitted the description of mine – minus the rust they described – around lunchtime. They also recalled that, later that night, a blue car with a southern registration had been parked outside Coyle's house until morning. The witness didn't see the car leave, though, as she went to listen to Today on Radio 4 in her 'sun room' and when she looked out afterwards, the vehicle had gone.
'Best we can do is put out a 'be on the lookout' bulletin to all officers, north and south,' Hendry said as we walked back out to our cars. 'She can't stay hidden forever. Unless, of course, she's done what she set out to do and has vanished, like her mother, into the night!' This last phrase he said in a mock spooky voice and Williams laughed despite herself. Hendry flashed a grin at her, then winked at me, his face sober and drawn. I felt my phone vibrating in my pocket. Kathleen Boyle's number flashed on the screen. Her ex-husband had arrived, and wanted to talk.
We were sitting in Boyle's living room again, Seamus Boyle on a hard- backed chair, his elbows on his knees, his face buried in his hands. The man looked shattered. His hair, ginger mixed with grey, was unkempt and straggled over his forehead. His eyes were puffy and red, the whites bloodshot; his skin was sallow and smelt of sweat and cigarettes. Throughout our conversation he stuttered and stopped, catching his breath, swallowing back the pain that must have hit him the moment his wife confronted him about the photograph – the one now sitting on the coffee table in front of him. He must have suspected the identity of the subject when his wife mentioned the photograph. One glance had confirmed it, and he had erupted.
'I can't… I can't believe he's not here,' Boyle spluttered, incomprehension creasing his face. 'And for this. For one stupid fucking…' He turned away from us and faced the window, head tilted slightly, as if to stop his tears from running down his cheeks. He sniffed heavily several times, rubbing at his face with the palms of his hands.
'We know who she is, Mr Boyle,' I said. 'We need you to confirm what happened to her.'
'She's dead,' he said simply, still not looking at us. 'She's dead and buried somewhere – I don't know where.'
'Did you kill her, Mr Boyle?' Williams asked.
'I might as well have done,' he said, looking at us both. 'For what it's done. I might as well have.'
It was neither confirmation nor denial. We waited in silence, until he composed himself and spoke again.
'I wasn't the one, if that's what you mean. But I knew about it. They told me afterwards. Got me to burn the clothes she was in.'
'We think we know who you mean, Mr Boyle, but we need you to give us their names.'
'Ratsy and Johnny Cashell. Ratsy did it. Cashell helped him get rid of the body, I think.'
'Why did they kill her?' Williams asked.
'Orders. Someone paid them,' he stated. 'You see, Ratsy and us worked together as bouncers, when I was wee, like – in my twenties. But Ratsy had other things going on. We helped him out when he needed a bit of weight behind him. He was a skittery wee shite. He got us work; we had to help him out. Once you're in, you can't back out again. We were all responsible. Our Terry wasn't, though,' he said, and we lost him again to whatever image of his son's last moments he was replaying in his mind. His entire body shuddered with his sobs, his tears spilling unchecked. Across the room from him, perched on the edge of an armchair, Kathleen Boyle watched him with a mixture of pity and horror on her face.
'Why do you think he did it?' Williams asked.
'Someone asked him to, I guess. Ratsy never did anything unless he was getting paid for it.'
'Who do you think paid him?' I asked.
He shook his head, then took deep breaths again until his tears subsided. 'Could have been anybody,' he said, his lips bubbling.
'What's Ratsy's connection with IID?' Williams asked.
Terry Boyle's expression showed us that he had no idea what we were talking about. 'Could have been anybody,' he repeated, stunned by the direction his life had just taken.
Williams dropped me at the station, which was by now almost in darkness. We pull the blinds at night in the station but leave the lights on inside. That way, it appears to all who pass that the Gardai are ever watchful, when the truth is that we're usually all at home, bathing our kids or having a beer in front of the midweek movie.
I popped into our storeroom/office and lifted a pile of paperwork which had been left for me. I noticed on top of it a fax which I assumed to be from Templemore. There was also a note telling me that two officers from Sligo would be in the station the next day to begin an investigation into the death of Whitey McKelvey; I was to make myself available to be interviewed. I called Debbie and grovelled my excuse for being late for dinner, patted my jacket to make sure I had my gun, and locked up for the night.
As I turned the key in the front door to engage the deadbolt, I became aware of a figure standing watching me. The woman was heavy-set and squat, her blonde hair straggled in rats' tails. She had her hands buried deep in the pockets of a tweed overcoat which would have better suited a man.
'I know your face,' she said. 'You're that detective.'
I smiled a little uncertainly and approached her. 'That's right. Can I help you?'
'My name's McKelvey. Liam was my boy.'
I stopped walking, caught completely off-guard. 'Mrs McKelvey, I'm so sorry. I…'
'I saw you on TV, saying you'd visited the families of them what died. How come you didn't visit us? The travellers? Are we not good enough for you, officer?' she said, emphasizing the last word disdainfully.
'No, that's not true. I… I'd wanted to visit you. I… I felt guilty, I suppose. I'm sorry.'
I walked towards her again, my arms outstretched, believing for a second that she would take my hands and, in doing so, would help alleviate the guilt I felt.
Instead, she coughed deep into her chest and spat a globule of phlegm at me before turning and walking off. I could not allow myself to wipe the spit from my face until I reached my car.
As I fumbled in my pockets for my keys, I heard, too late, the rush and rustle of clothing behind me. I spun into the blur of two male figures, arms raised, bearing down on me. Red and green lights exploded in my field of vision with the first blow and I fell forwards, face down, into the gutter. I could feel the dirt and grit scrape my face, taste the mud in my mouth. My head thudded, a sudden coldness spreading from the area where I had been hit. I put my hand to the back of my head and examined it in the dullness, though I could feel the stickiness of the blood without even looking. A glass bottle clattered to the ground beside me and I tried to shield my face with my arms as boots thudded off my trunk and legs. I felt one of the kicks connect with the back of my head, where the skull and spine meet; I felt the bones grating against each other and my stomach heaved. Eventually, the night sky started to spin, then everything slid into darkness.
Chapter Fifteen
Tuesday, 31st December
I drifted in and out of consciousness, and remembered seeing a pair of denim-clad legs running away. I thought I saw an old blue car drive past. The streetlamps danced about me, the snowfall, thick and oppressive, flickered on the edges of my vision. I dry- heaved onto the street, spitting my mouth clean. Finally, slipping and skidding off the pavement more than once, I managed to make it to the nearest row of houses, built on the site of the old asylum at the end of the road.
Forty minutes later, I lay in the Community Hospital next to Finnside Nursing Home, receiving medical attention for the second time that week. Not long after, Debbie arrived and put her arms around me, scolding me because, though she knew it was not my fault, she had no one else to scold.
The doctor told me she thought I should stay in overnight, just in case I had suffered concussion. I asked her
