Borderlands (12 page)
"Forensics'
report," he said. "Bloody detailed. I've one of those forensics boyos
on the phone, except he's put me on hold. Car was parked and the engine was off
when he was killed, they say." With that, we both heard a tinny voice over
the phone line. Costello listened for a few seconds before announcing that he
was putting the phone onto speakers, which took rather longer than it might
have. Eventually, I was introduced to Sergeant Michael Doherty, who had written
the report.
"We
discovered a fair bit from the car, Inspector," Doherty began. "The
victim was likely shot by someone standing outside the car. On the driver's
side. We recovered the bullet from the bodywork behind the passenger seat.
Ballistics tests are being carried out at the moment. I'll say this - it must
have been a scare for whoever was sitting next to him."
"Was
there a passenger?"
"Almost
definitely. You see, blood spattering is a definite science, Inspector. When
your victim was shot, his blood should have spattered all over the inside of
the car. But around the passenger seat, there's significantly less blood than
there should be. My guess is that someone was sitting beside him - someone who
was covered in blood when they got out of the car. Now, their seats were pushed
right back and, though your victim's clothes were badly burned, we can tell his
trousers were unbuttoned and unzipped when he was killed, so I'd say he was up
for some hanky-panky." Doherty laughed in a vaguely embarrassed way and
continued, "The important thing is that your victim's window was wound
down. Obviously the glass was blown out in the fire, but the mechanism was down
near the bottom of the door."
"His
window was open?" Costello interrupted. "So what?"
"The
weather wasn't great that night. I don't know about you, but if I'm about to
strip off for a bit of action in the back of the car, the last thing I'd do in
the middle of winter is wind down my window. A bit chilly round the nether
regions, eh?" His laugh rattled from the speaker again. "No, my guess
would be—"
"That he
opened the window to his killer," I said.
"Just
so," Doherty agreed.
"Why not
just shoot him through the window?" I asked, as much thinking aloud as
seeking a response.
"Maybe
whoever did it wanted to be sure that they had the right person. Or wanted to
see his face. Or wanted to make sure they didn't hit whoever was sitting beside
him in the car."
"Maybe,"
I agreed.
Doherty made
a few final observations, then hung up. Costello had listened grimly to the
whole conversation without speaking. He sat opposite me, his hands clasped.
"So," he said finally. "What do you think?"
"Seems
like forensics have done the thinking for us: he picks someone up — or is
picked up by someone - parks in the lay-by for a bit of sex; there's a tap on
the door, opens the window and bang."
"What
about the person in the car with him? An accomplice?"
"Hard to
see it otherwise. How did his killer know where to find him, unless he followed
him? Why not kill the passenger too? And why burn the car, unless they were
scared that the passenger had left some evidence. Either that, or it was some
poor innocent out for a night's fun who's wandering around Lifford in shock,
covered in blood."
"Jesus,
Ben, we need to clear up some of this quick. Two killings in a week. We'll
start to look incompetent."
When I came
out of the office, Harvey was still sitting opposite my desk. He stood when I
approached, his cap held in his hand.
"Everything
alright, sir?" he asked.
I nodded.
"Can I help you with something else?" I asked, lifting some of the
paperwork from my desk.
"Sergeant
Burgess asked me to tell you that Officer Moore from Ballybofey was on the
phone, sir," he said. "He said it was important."
Ten minutes
later we were on our way to pick up Whitey McKelvey.
It was late afternoon
and the sky was the colour and texture of slate. The moon was beginning to
shine from behind a thick bank of cloud that threatened snow, and the air was
cold and dry.
Three cars
left Lifford station on the way to Castlefinn where, Moore had reliably
informed me, McKelvey was staying with some cousins who were camped in a picnic
area. I knew the place he mentioned. Learning from the problems encountered in
Strabane, Donegal County Council had placed height-restriction bars across the
entrance to all public areas - lay-bys, car parks and so on - to stop the
travellers from using them. The group that had taken over the area outside of
Castlefinn had arrived in the middle of the night in early August and had spent
several hours dismantling the restriction bars. They then moved into the area
en masse,
before re-
erecting the bars, thus apparently materializing in the picnic spot like a ship
in a bottle.
The area was
not ideal for picking up McKelvey. While there were only two entrance/exit
points, it backed onto an area of woodland and fields. If McKelvey made a run
for it we would have difficulty catching him. We had decided that Holmes,
Williams, Harvey and I would approach the caravans from behind, waiting in the
trees in case McKelvey came that way. Costello himself, who knew the family,
would knock on the caravan door and ask to see McKelvey in the hope that he
might come peaceably Several uniforms would accompany him, while two cars
blocked the exits.
We stopped
about a quarter of a mile short of the campsite and my team got out of the cars
and began to pick through the bramble hedges that lined the road into the
field beyond. By following the perimeter, we would eventually come up behind
the site. The field was sodden from the autumn rains and it had now frozen into
thick brown ridges like waves, over which we tripped and stumbled. We had
misjudged how long it would take to reach the camp and Costello radioed several
times, impatient to get moving. Just as we reached the treeline directly behind
the caravan, the snow began. Great fat flakes at first, drifting lightly around
us, like eiderdown. Then the snow grew thicker and fell with greater speed,
gathering on the branches of the trees and settling on our backs and shoulders.
Holmes began to stamp his feet and blow into his hands for heat. Williams
shuddered involuntarily and Harvey offered her his jacket. Momentarily, she
looked offended, then smiled and took it. I couldn't tell whether Harvey was
blushing at her smile or from the cold, but I was left to wonder how
consistently Williams practised her feminist beliefs.
A buzz of
static on the radio, and Costello announced that he was moving in. I drew my
baton and saw the others follow suit. Holmes flicked open the catch on the slip
for his pepper spray, and I wondered what he expected from a seventeen-year-old
traveller boy. The snow fell increasingly heavily, the pattern of the falling
flakes became almost hypnotic, and I realized that I was not paying attention
to what was happening. I heard a thud as Costello knocked on the door. Then
voices. Almost immediately, the curtains across the back window of the
caravan, which was in darkness, were pushed back and the window opened. A
small figure began to climb out, one thin leg first squeezed through, then
another. Finally, the figure dropped silently to the ground and approached the
trees between Holmes and Harvey. As the figure moved into the trees, Harvey
flicked on his torch, momentarily lighting the startled face and the shock of
black hair. Then the figure ran, with Harvey and Holmes crashing after him. I
heard Williams shout and assumed that she, too, was after the boy.
I was about
to shout to them to tell them it wasn't the right person, when I saw a second
figure climb through the window and make for the trees. This time there could
be no mistake. Even in the darkness, the luminescence given off by the snow
forming at our feet was enough to reveal the almost white blond hair and pale
marble skin. Whitey crept along the undergrowth on his belly, seemingly
impervious to the brambles and the snow. When he felt he was safe, he stood and
began to pick up speed.
He was about
fifteen feet from me, moving quietly towards the fields. I can only assume that
he did not hear me approach behind him over the din of the shouting and
crashing of Williams and Harvey and the growing chorus of raised voices from
the picnic area, where I guessed Costello was being lectured on police
discrimination.
Eventually, I
pushed out of the trees completely and, sticking to the perimeter of the field,
was able to catch up with Whitey just as he emerged into the moonlight. I
placed my hand solidly on his shoulder, my baton in the other hand, and began
to speak.
I recall
exactly what happened next, viewing it as if in slow motion. Whitey turned his
head and I saw in his eyes a mixture of fear and aggression at being cornered.
Then he grabbed my hand and clamped his teeth on it. I felt his teeth cut
through my flesh, until eventually they connected, jarringly, with the bone of
my hand. I could taste blood in my mouth. He shook his head as a terrier might
with a toy, before releasing my hand. I screamed. Then something inside me
snapped, audibly almost, and I felt a surge of adrenaline rush through my
system. Without thinking, I turned and swung my right fist into McKelvey's
face. I felt the cartilage of his nose shatter beneath my fist, felt the hard
crunch as my knuckles connected with his cheekbone and his teeth, and saw his
head snap back as blood and spittle spurted from his mouth.
He fell to
the ground, legs splayed, and I lifted my foot and stamped down with my heel on
his crotch. McKelvey doubled up, his face contorted with hatred and
embarrassment, and I noticed a stain widen on his trousers as his bladder
emptied. He looked at the mess he had made on himself, touched the wetness with
his fingertips as though he could not believe his own eyes, and then held the
moist fingers towards me. "I'll fuckin' kill ya," he spat, scrambling
to his feet as he cupped his genitals in his hands.
I almost
chased after him again, until I felt a hand close on my arm and I spun to face
Williams, my fist raised. I saw a momentary flash of fear, or something deeper,
flit across her face, and I lowered my fist in shame, stammering my apologies.
I watched as my colleagues crashed through the undergrowth in pursuit of the
boy.
Then the pain
in my hand sharpened as the adrenaline dissipated; I doubled over with shock
and pain and vomited into the snow, bile mixing with my blood, which appeared
as black as oil under the moonlight. I felt momentary relief before a searing
pain gripped my insides and I vomited again, retching over and over until I
felt Williams's hand on my shoulder. I spat the sour taste out of my mouth,
wiping away the thick strands of saliva with clean snow. Williams was busy
wrapping her scarf around my hand and calling for help. Then, in the distance,
I saw Whitey McKelvey being shoved towards me, Jason Holmes towering behind him
with one hand clamped tightly on McKelvey's neck and the other holding his
handcuffed wrists behind his back. When McKelvey stumbled and slid in the
slush and snow, Holmes simply pulled on the cuffs, snapping the boy's arms back
sharply, so he had to fight to regain his footing quickly or risk dislocating a
shoulder.
When he got
abreast of me, he pushed McKelvey onto the ground then placed his boot on the
back of the boy's neck, pushing his face into the snow and mud. "Are you
all right, sir?" he asked. Red spots flickered and flitted before my eyes
and everything went dark.
I came to a
moment later and, for a second, could not remember where I was or why these
people were staring at me through a snowstorm. Gradually my mind began to work
again and I tried to stand. Williams helped me to my feet, while Holmes lifted
McKelvey and again began pushing him towards the cars. I saw Harvey to my left,
leading the black-haired boy, who was also in cuffs. I noticed a cut on his
cheek and the beginning of a bruise, livid and purple, flowering below his eye.
"What
happened to him?" I asked, nodding over at Harvey and the boy.
"He ran
into a baton," Williams said. "Lucky I stayed here with you. Where
would you men be without women, eh?" She put her arm around me and pressed
her head against mine, and in that brief moment of warmth I could only ask
myself the same question.
"I'm
sorry
I...
you
know...
raised my hand to you," I managed to say as she helped me towards the
flickering blue lights cutting through the branches of the trees around us. She
patted my shoulder lightly in what I took to be a sign of forgiveness. "I
shouldn't have hit him, either," I added.
"No one
needs to know, sir," she said. "These things happen, eh?"
I nodded,
grateful for the opportunity to forget that my shame at hitting the boy had
been equalled by the satisfaction I had felt in doing so.
Three
uniforms kept the irate group of travellers at bay as the two boys were placed
in separate cars and taken back to Lifford. I wanted to go with McKelvey, but
Costello wouldn't allow it, telling me I was to get to the doctor's surgery
before anything else. Holmes and Williams took McKelvey, but promised not to
begin the interview without me.