He knows that the ones they had sent over at the time are still resting in the online folders, he doesn’t know what he was expecting… Some fresh new tape with all the answers? And anyway, who knows who, or what, he is looking for? He couldn’t exactly go through ANPR (Automatic Number Plate Recognition) and contact every single person seen out driving that night. It was a Saturday night; the town was booming. Taxis full of sloppy students celebrating end of exams and drunken adults enjoying the good weather. It would be near impossible.
They need something to pin Taylor down. Something for an arrest or a warrant. They don’t have sufficient evidence, just rumours. He can’t even think of a good enough reason to revisit him. Is he poking holes in stories? Seeing red flags when there aren’t any there? Dawson taught him to look at all the facts and to go by instinct, but even he had his let-downs throughout his career.
Just as he’s continuing to think about looking elsewhere, Ferguson knocks on his door. By this stage he’s calmed himself down. If Ferguson had have knocked five minutes ago, the pig-shaped mug that Dawson himself had bought him for a leaving present, with an assortment of pens sticking out of it, would’ve been smashed against the door. Sighing and inviting him in, his mood instantly lifts when he sees the look of determination on Ferguson’s face.
“What’s up?”
“We’ve got him,” Ferguson jeers, smashing down a file on his desk, “young boy, Kyle Bagley, he’s called. Arrested with a few of his brothers and cousins for joyriding. Anyway, he’s just turned 18 and, unlike the others, hasn’t been in prison… Yet. Seems we’ve broken him a good bit, he just looks like he was acting hard in front of his family and friends. Started squealing like a little piggy when we offered him immunity.”
McNally punches the air.
“What does he know?”
“He admitted he doesn’t know much, but he’s heard from hanging out at the bar that a certain Victor Sargent was one of the guys who picked Parker up that night.”
“Well, let’s get him in.”
Chapter Forty-Seven:
Stepping through the threshold, Cathal almost exclaims with joy. He’d done it. He’d been able to do what every other journalist had yearned to do for years. Actually get in through the Parker’s door, albeit in a different house, but it still counts. He gives himself a momentous metaphorical pat on the back, before following Dermott through into the living room, where all the Parkers are collected on the sofa. Himself and Dermott take the two armchairs, and he stands again to retrieve his notepad from his back pocket. Resting it on his knee, he looks up into the miserable faces of the family and gives them a reassuring smile.
“Hi, thank you so much for agreeing to talk with me.”
The three children barely take their eyes off him, whilst Nuala just nods sullenly. They all look like they haven’t slept in several days. Worn slippers or blackened socks on their feet. Tracksuit bottoms or leggings and old jumpers pulled on to make themselves look half presentable. Although his dad is also dead, it feels strange to think that these people could mourn the death of theirs. It’s an alien feeling to him.
“Can I just say I’m so sorry for everything that’s happened. I can’t begin to imagine what you are all going through. And although this is an opportunity to inform the public of what’s happened, it’s also a great time to let our readers know what kind of a man he was. Give personal memories of him which will build empathy amongst the community, and working together with the PSNI-“
He nods towards Dermott, who smiles briefly.
“-we can hopefully help bring this person to justice. Whether that’s through rejigging people’s memories, or keeping everything in the public interest.”
He frowns slightly at Danielle, who has begun to look at him with as much disgust as you would if you trod in some shit on your walk back from the shops.
“Well, thank you for your interest,” Nuala clears her throat, intentionally, he presumes, trying to think of something nice to say. “Aaron was a loving father and husband. Papa Bear, we would fondly call him… Sometimes… Well, more so when the wains were wee.”
“Any fun memories together?” Cathal directs the conversation towards Michelle, who shrugs.
“He would take us to Benone some Sundays in the summer,” Danielle reminisces, still not meeting Cathal’s eye.
Benone Strand is a seven-mile long beach about three quarters of an hour away from Derry, stretching from Magilligan Point to Castlerock.
“That was years ago though,” Michelle pouts, “we didn’t have many excursions after his political career took off.”
“And rightly so,” Nuala angles a narrowed brow towards her daughter, “you were all growing up. None of you wanted to spend time together as a family. So, instead, he intended in bringing the people of this city together. Despite religion or politics or the history. He wanted to move this city, and country, forward into something prosperous, instead of being stuck in the past. But, it seems, the city, and its residents, weren’t ready for that…”
The sofa groans as Ritchie sobs and stands, shielding his face with his shaking hand. He ignores his mother’s moaning of his name and slams the living room door closed, before everyone hears him start to climb the stairs.
Chapter Forty-Eight:
McNally sneers at the pompous attitude of Victor Sargent. Leaning back in the chair, chewing what he guesses to be the inside of his mouth, though an aftermath of too many drugs is unknown. His eyes, although alert and darting between McNally and Ferguson, don’t seem to be unusually wide.
