“How come I never heard he died?” McNally asks as he continues scrolling through a short article on the Londonderry Letter, detailing what kind of cancer he had.
“Boyle Senior kept his illness a secret for as long as he could. I don’t even think his family knew… Not of the extent of his illness anyway. He had a simple funeral, only close family and no media presence. That seems to be the only thing that Boyle Junior keeps close to his chest… He doesn’t flash and boast about his dad… I’m guessing he was very close with him.”
“So, Boyle Senior wasn’t a suspect?” McNally sighs. “What about the brick through the window? Boyle Junior’s work?”
“If I was a betting man…” Ferguson shrugs. “Although he’s very cool in suggesting that they weren’t concerned… I don’t know… Maybe they were more worried than they let on? Not wanting to show weakness… Or give a motive. Then again, it might’ve had nothing to do with either of them. Or nothing to do with the political party and just the organisation’s work. Or it could’ve been a few youths who thought they were doing good by their community… We don’t know.”
“So, where do we go from here?”
Just as McNally speaks his thoughts aloud, the handsfree on Ferguson’s phone lights up, showing Dermott’s number.
Chapter Thirty-Seven:
The ticking Guinness clock on the wall is all that can be heard apart from the soft chewing. Cathal and Orla sit at the kitchen table. Their battered sausages devoured. The discarded chips dampening with the layer of vinegar, sinking into the moist paper. They have no idea what to say to each other. Cathal is disgusted with himself for putting her at risk, so God knows how Orla is feeling. He had rung and managed to catch her before she had reached Creggan Burn Park. Explained to her the situation and showed her the photos. They returned home and the police arrived. They took statements and copies of the photos and messages, but apart from that they couldn’t offer much more. After the police had left, Cathal suggested a chippy, too agitated to cook. They’d gone together to the handy one up the street and returned, not a word said between them the whole time. Both consumed in their own thoughts.
“Cath…” Orla finally musters.
He looks up with a nod.
“Could this maybe have something to do with Dad?”
Cathal is instantly cagey. Standing, he scrunches up the takeaway leftovers and lobs them in the bin. Migrating over to the counter, he slides the dinner he had begun before the email back into the packaging and drops it in the fridge. He hates discussing their father, even more so when it revolves around his criminality. They knew he was into dangerous shit even before he up and left five years ago. Despite the common knowledge, as well as news surrounding him, Cathal never indulged Orla in the secrets he found out about him two years ago. But he can’t hide forever, Orla has commented on the difference in him since that night… Since he found out what his dad done. Since…
“You never talk about him. You barely told me what happened that ni-“
“Orla, stop it. I’ve told you before. He’s gone, that’s all that matters. Just leave it at that.”
“What are you hiding from me?” she’s suddenly on her feet, screaming. “You just seen what could happen to me if you continue to do this… If you continue to block me out. Let me in, Cath… We used to be so close… What the fuck has happened?”
She sounds like she’s close to tears, but Cathal doesn’t dare turn around to look. He just stares out into the back garden. At the shed. He can’t. He just can’t. He’s protecting her… And he’s protecting himself.
Thankfully, the doorbell goes. Cathal almost exclaims aloud in rejoice. He turns to see fear in Orla’s eyes, her face dropping, and he almost laughs. Like someone coming to attack you would be so polite as to ask to be invited in first. They aren’t vampires.
“Don’t worry, it’s only Ava. The police advised us to stay somewhere else tonight, and she offered for us to stay with her.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight:
Pulling up to the house on the Limavady Road, McNally whistles at the expensive sports cars underneath the bricked carport. Three all in shiny cherry colour, with a white Mercedes just in front of them, out in the light of dusk. Facing the elements. Presumably the most used, although it doesn’t take a detective to figure that out. The white bricked house has the odd flint grey thrown in here and there. Odd, but it works well. There aren’t many windows, they seem to be thin and up high like at the station. He presumes this is to deter potential terrorists. Members of Ardóimid, or other enemies. Who knows how many this guy has?
“So, what’s our best strategy, boss?”
McNally leans back, thinking.
“We can’t just barge in and say we heard what happened that night. We have to be subtle… For our sake, the family’s sake, and the boy’s sake. Who knows what could happen if it came back to him? … Taylor has done some nasty stuff to people for doing less. And he might not talk to us at all without a lawyer if we come across as hostile. Let’s just go in and see if we can rattle his cage, and if not… We say we heard rumours… See his reaction. See if we can bleed a reason for a warrant or arrest out of him.”
“You don’t know this guy, boss. He’s a hard nut, a right slippery bastard. He’s almost likeable… Tries to be your friend. He’ll always be one step ahead.”
“Maybe… But we have to try.”
Slamming their car doors, they crunch along the gravel until they reach the front door, but can’t seem to find a
