for a dose of painkillers so I could go home. Eventually she relented, wrapping a thick bandage around my ribs, which were flowering with welts and bruises, reddish-purple like twilit snow clouds. As I pressed tentatively at my wounds I was reminded of Johnny Cashell and wondered whether the people who had left him in much the same condition were also responsible for the attack on me. After all, my attackers had struck just as I turned from McKelvey's mother. If they were indeed travellers, there would be little prospect of my ever catching them. They would vanish into the fold; pack up and shift to another site for a while. And in a way, I suppose, I believed that I had deserved it. The Catholic in me needed to be punished and, perhaps, now I could forgive myself.
Despite the painkillers, I could not sleep again that night, and fears played continually on my mind. I dozed uneasily until 3.30 a.m., waking several times to pull the blankets up off the ground or from around my feet. Debbie lay curled beside me, blissfully unaware. Even with the tablets, my head thudded dully when I lay down, and my arms and legs ached as though fatigued. Eventually, I got up.
Shane's breathing whistled slightly from the cot at the foot of the bed as he slept, arms outstretched, his face turned to the side and his lips pursed. I stood and watched him, wondering, not for the first time, how something so perfect and beautiful could have been the result of any process in which I was involved. And also not for the first time, I found myself resenting a job which kept me away from him and Penny and Debs as often as it did. I wondered if I had chosen the job precisely because it required me to immerse myself as much in it as in real life.
Unwilling to think too deeply about it, I took my cigarettes and lighter and went down to the kitchen for a smoke. I sat in the darkness at the open doorway, trying to blow my smoke outside, able to see clearly by the snow's reflected luminescence. The flakes were falling thick and steady now, a continual, hypnotic pattern.
When I was done, I opened the window to clear the smell of smoke and lit a candle. Then, for the want of anything else to do, I flicked through the documents I had taken from the station.
Sometime after my fourth excursion to the back door for a smoke and my second cup of coffee, I read through the list of recruits who had joined Templemore Training College in 1992. Of the 150 names, twenty-seven were women. In the midst of all the names, Aoibhinn Knox's name appeared. It was not until I had scanned the list a second time, through sheer boredom, that I recognized a second name on the list and, all at once, I believed I knew for certain how Coyle had learned about the stolen-items list, and I suspected 1 knew who had helped her kill Donaghey and who had had sex with Cashell before dumping her body. And I realized who had been the driver of the blue car seen at her house. One of Aoibhinn Knox's colleagues in Templemore was Jason Holmes. And what did this mean for Coyle's brother, 'Sean Knox'? Was he even involved? Or was Holmes her only accomplice? Could Holmes be her brother? Was it an assumed surname – a biting pun on his upbringing, perhaps? Or were such thoughts and plots the stuff of crime novels?
As I thought over the case, everything seemed to fall disconcertingly into place. Holmes had had inside knowledge of the course our enquiries had taken. He had identified McKelvey in the videotape, turning off the tape before the 'McKelvey' in question would be seen entering the female toilets. He had taken statements from the bars. He had spent the night in the station when McKelvey had supposedly taken an overdose. Indeed, through his involvement with the drugs team in Dublin, I guessed, he'd have had access to the drugs which had killed both Cashell and McKelvey. He had made a point of reminding me of my assault on McKelvey and, in doing so, had implicated me in his own beating of the boy. I recalled McKelvey's broken finger. What if Holmes had forced the boy to take the Ecstasy tabs? Holmes was meant to have searched him, yet McKelvey still, apparently, managed to get the Es into his holding-cell. Most worryingly, Holmes had begun a relationship with Williams once he was removed from the murder team, and had presumably asked her about our findings and progress. He could have kept Coyle abreast of our every move, including the fact that we knew the connection with her mother. Suddenly, what I had considered to be poor police work on Holmes' part became more sinister.
I got dressed as quickly as I could and headed out into the snow. It took almost twenty minutes to drive to Holmes' house. When I got there, his car was nowhere to be seen. The house was in darkness, the blinds drawn back. I checked for my gun in my pocket and resolved to wait for Holmes to return. Then I thought better of it, guessing that he might be with Williams. I drove to her house, but only her own car sat in the driveway. Finally, as dawn cracked on the horizon, lending the falling snowflakes a purple tint, I drove back to the station to wait for support.
I was in the station at 8.30 a.m. in time to meet the postman. I flicked through the post as I entered the station, switching on the lights. I found three pieces of mail for myself and, dumping the rest on Burgess's desk, I went down into the murder room, stopping to fill the coffeemaker.
The first piece of mail I opened was from the General Registrar, containing the birth certificates of the two Knox children, which I had forgotten I'd requested. As I scanned the certificates, Tommy Powell's name appeared once again, this time listed as the father of Aoibhinn Knox.
At Finnside I waved to Mrs MacGowan as I passed her glass-walled office, but did not stop. From the corner of my eye I saw her standing up to get my attention, then scrabbling at something on her desk.
Powell was propped up in the bed, his wispy hair the yellow of dirty snow. His face had almost collapsed in on itself, the tissue paper of his skin nearly transparent. His jaw was slack, a line of saliva dribbling down his chin. I watched him silently for a few minutes, waiting to see if his bird-like chest would rise and fall, but there was no discernible movement.
For a second I thought he was dead, but then his eyes rolled spectrally in his skull and turned towards me, his head inclining ever so slightly on his pillow. All my anger and indignation waned at the sight of him. What sort of victory was it, I wondered, for an able-bodied man in his thirties to remind a dying pensioner of his youthful indiscretion? Yet I still felt a need for justice – for something. Powell was involved, somehow, in all of this. I needed to know what his role was.
I held the birth certificate close to his face, so close in fact that I could smell his rancid breath, the smell of something deeper than hunger, like stagnation.
'Did you know she was your daughter? Mary Knox's girl? Did she tell you?'
His eyes rolled away from me, his face tightening, and he stared at the flowered curtains which hung almost to the floor, blocking the brilliant glare of the frozen world outside.
'You let her go to an orphanage,' I said. 'Does your son know about this? Did you tell him about your prostitute, Mr Powell? And what about Ratsy Donaghey? What was the connection there? Did you know that he killed her?'
He still did not look at me, but I noticed the corners of his eyes redden and a tear slipped down his face. I was growing to realize the futility of my actions. Enraged by my embarrassment, I leaned in close to him.
'If I find you had anything to do with her death, Mr Powell, I can promise you, I'll nail you for it. Politician or not, all the money in the world won't save you.'
I turned then to face Miriam Powell, who looked flushed from running. Behind her stood Mrs MacGowan, looking concerned.
'You really have no limits, Benedict, do you?' Miriam said, her face contorted in disgust.
'This is police business, Mrs Powell,' I said.
'No, it's not, Ben. It's some sad… I don't know what. Some attempt to make up for your inadequacies,' she spat.
'Your father-in-law had an affair with a prostitute, Miriam. He fathered her child, then let that same child be put in an orphanage when his mistress vanished. She was killed by someone whom he employed. He may know something about her death. This is police business,' I said, speaking loudly enough that Mrs MacGowan would hear, and I found some small measure of delight in watching her blanche as she realized that civilized people could commit evil acts with the same or even greater impunity than those outside her social circle.
'I'd like you to leave, please,' Miriam said. 'My husband will be in touch with you when he gets home.' She looked away from me, but as I passed I heard her say, 'I pity you Benedict, you're pathetic.'
I looked at the side of her face, but she simply went over to her father-in-law and sat on the edge of his bed, holding the withered branch of his hand in hers, stroking the hair that clung to his scalp.
I left the home and went down to the river's edge and, as the snow thickened steadily, I looked over to the spot where Angela Cashell had died.
I had handled the case badly from the start. Now I was left with only this: somehow, either Powell or Costello was involved in the murder of Mary Knox. Costello had the motive of revenge or jealousy; he would certainly have known Donaghey and perhaps had some leverage over him as a policeman. Powell was Donaghey's
