Gallows Lane (Inspector Devlin Mystery 2) (12 page)

‘We don’t think so, Mrs Webb.’ I took out my cigarettes and gestured a request to smoke. She nodded, then asked for one too. ‘Was that your friend I saw leaving here, Mrs Webb?’

She looked at me over her cigarette as I lit it for her, finally having to break her gaze when the smoke made her eyes water. She wiped at her lower eyelid, pulling it down a little as if an eyelash were irritating her. Then she sat back in her seat and crossed her legs.

‘I’m sure you already know that it was, Inspector.’

‘Family friend?’

‘Personal friend, actually; and nothing whatsoever to do with you – or my husband’s death,’ she added, with a nod of her head, signalling, I realized, the end of our meeting.

After I left, I phoned through to the station and left a message for Williams to follow up the registration number as a matter of urgency.

I got home just after six and Debbie was cooking dinner. She gestured with a Bolognese-covered spoon to an envelope on the kitchen table, marked Special Delivery. The letter inside informed me that my application for the post of Superintendent had been received. I was to prepare for an interview in Sligo on Monday, 14 June. Among the names on the interview panel was one I recognized: that of our newly elected local representative, Mrs Miriam Powell, who had signed the letter as Chairperson of the Appointments Panel.

I showed the letter to Debbie as she spooned the spaghetti from the pot. Shane and Penny were running around the garden with Frank, tugging on his one remaining ear.

‘Miriam Powell? You always keep coming back to her, don’t you, Ben? Let’s hope you didn’t prove too much of a disappointment last time.’

For the remainder of that evening, Debbie was a little rankled with me and I could understand why. Miriam and I had been involved once and had not parted on good terms. I suspected she held me accountable in some way for the death of her husband during a case I had been investigating. I dreaded to think how my interview would actually progress or the comments or questions she might choose to raise. And I was also reluctant to allow her, however peripherally, to re-enter my family life once more.

I slept badly that night, waking every hour or so. Indeed, I was already up and dressed when, at 5.30 a.m., I got a phone call to say that it was suspected that the man who killed Karen Doherty had struck again. Except this time, his victim had survived.

Rebecca Purdy was fifteen years old, though she could have passed for much older, which is presumably how she managed to gain admittance to Club Manhattan.

By the time we saw her, her face was so badly bruised and swollen that her parents struggled to recognize her. There were livid purple abrasions around her neck where her assailant had tried to strangle her during an assault in a field just outside of Letterkenny.

Rebecca had told her parents she was going to a birthday party; instead she and her friends had managed to sneak into Club Manhattan. This she told us while her mother sat by her bedside, holding her hand tightly, her eyes red, her face drawn with concern. Her father paced alongside her bed, his jaw set, facial muscles flexing.

‘Those bloody places should be closed down,’ he said, when his daughter mentioned the club. Although as a father myself, I understood his anger, it was clear that his daughter would not feel able to speak freely while he was present.

I took him and his wife for a coffee in the hospital canteen while Williams spoke to the girl. They sat, hissing at one another in whispered tones as I got some food for the three of us. When I returned, Mrs Purdy was immediately apologetic.

‘This is awful bother, Inspector,’ she said for the third time, as I unloaded a tray of coffee and pastries. ‘You’re very good.’

‘It’s my pleasure,’ I said. I suspected that the woman’s facade of politeness allowed her to keep control, to retain a semblance of normality that her life now lacked. Who was I to rob her of it?

Her husband, however, did not speak for a few moments. He sat, turned slightly in his seat, staring towards the door of the hospital, through which the sun streamed. He lifted his cup and blew violently across the surface of the drink to cool it, yet did not take any sips.

Finally, having reconciled himself to the topic he dreaded facing, he placed the cup on the table and turned to confront me.

‘Have you any children?’ he asked, though I guessed as a prelude to something altogether different.

‘A girl and a boy,’ I said. ‘Still only infants, really.’ That was not entirely true. Penny was seven now. I had assumed that the time for her going clubbing and drinking was at least a decade away – more if I had my way. Rebecca Purdy had forced me to accept that, in terms of age, my own daughter might already be almost halfway towards that particular threshold.

‘They grow up so fast,’ Mrs Purdy said, smiling wistfully.

‘What would you do?’ Mr Purdy demanded. ‘If it was your daughter?’

‘Seamus, that’s enough,’ his wife said soothingly, placing her hand on the crook of his elbow.

He shook her arm away. ‘If some bastard did that to your girl?’

‘I understand your anger, Mr Purdy. Trust me – we’ll do all we can to catch the person who did this.’

‘Did he . . . ?’ he began, finally getting to the topic on his mind. ‘Has she been . . .’ He could not find the words, though we all knew the question he was attempting to articulate.

‘We don’t know, Mr Purdy,’ I said honestly, then reflected on Karen Doherty. ‘If it’s the same man we’re already looking for, I suspect he may not have. But I don’t know.’

The man stared at me angrily, then his eyes shifted and he began to blink. He sucked in his cheeks slightly, but I could see by the movements along his neck that he was attempting to swallow back his tears.

‘How am I meant to look at her if . . .’ he began, flushing with embarrassment, even as he said it. ‘How can I make it up to her?’

‘Shush, Seamus,’ Mrs Purdy said and I saw, for the first time, the strength of character the woman possessed which allowed her to remain calm in the face of all that had happened to her family. Not for the first time in my life, I was left slightly in awe at the resilience of some mothers and wives under the most horrendous circumstances.

My mobile rang in my pocket. Williams wanted me to come up to the ward. Rebecca Purdy was ready to tell us what had happened.

She and her friends had managed to get into Club Manhattan because one of them was having an affair with one of the – married – door staff. Rebecca had been drinking alcopops all night. She’d gone off dancing and when she came back to the table someone had bought her a new drink. She drank half of it, then an overzealous suitor, dancing beside her, had knocked the bottle from her hand and it had spilt on the ground.

Returning to the dance floor, she’d felt fantastic, she said – almost unbelievably happy. Then she’d banged into someone, spilling their pint all over her top. During the resulting altercation she had started to feel woozy and had staggered. Someone caught her arm, and steadied her, helping her to find her balance. She had seen him during the evening, caught his eye as he watched her dancing. He was big, heavy, his head shaved tightly, a tattoo on his arm which she couldn’t quite describe. Looked like a man by a tree, she said.

‘Are you all right?’ he’d asked her, his arm around her shoulders, already guiding her towards one of the fire exits which were left open during the evening so patrons could step outside for a smoke without missing any action.

‘I need some air,’ she remembered saying. ‘I don’t feel too good. I’ve got to find my friends.’

The music had thudded louder and louder, the lights spinning above her. The people dancing around her seemed to speed and slow without reason.

‘They’re out here,’ he’d said, his arm around her back now, proprietorially affectionate.

She had known that he wasn’t telling the truth but seemed unable to argue, even when he suggested he drive her home. His car was sporty, bright red, its interior clean and smelling of something she couldn’t quite place.

He had taken her to a field outside Letterkenny. She said she’d felt sick, needed to vomit. He pulled into a lay-by, turned off the lights, helped her out and down a slight incline to the field below. While she retched, bent double, she felt him behind her, his hands circling her waist, tugging at her skirt.

She’d turned and spat at him, tried to call for help. It was then that he punched her – a short, swift movement that she didn’t have time to avoid – causing her nose to fill with blood, her vision to turn red. More blows followed, so fast that they began to feel like one single impact.

He quickly undid his trousers, then paused. Something was wrong. She flinched, waiting for him to grab her again, but instead he roared bestially and began to kick at her, even as he pulled his trousers back up. He reached towards her, gripped his hands around her throat and shook her so violently she felt her neck would snap. Finally, his anger spent, he stumbled up the incline again, while she crawled away from him, whimpering.

She heard the thud of his car door, the roar of the engine, the scattering of grit as the car sped off. As she stood up, she caught a final glimpse of his rear lights receding on the road ahead. She could not remember the registration number – in fact, she thought for some reason that there had been no registration plate.

Finally, she made her way up to the road and flagged down a minibus driver, who brought her to the hospital.

‘It was like . . .’ she said, reflecting on her attacker’s failure to complete his planned assault. ‘It was like he couldn’t get a . . . a thingy.’

Several minutes later, I sat at the nurses’ workstation in the middle of the ward, while the young registrar who had examined Rebecca filled me in on her injuries. The first question I wanted answered was the one Rebecca’s father had tried to ask me: had his daughter been raped?. According to the registrar, who introduced herself as Lauren, the evidence supported the girl’s story. She had been beaten but, crucially, had not been sexually assaulted.

‘She’s lost her virginity, though,’ Lauren said. ‘Doesn’t want her dad to know. Happened with some boy when she was thirteen.’

‘What about her injuries? Anything serious?’

‘Enough for us to keep her for the day, I think,’ she said, brushing her hair back from her face. As she did so, I noticed that she had painted her nails with blue polish, over which she had painted tiny stars.

‘She’ll be okay, though?’ I asked.

She nodded, biting at her thumbnail. ‘Should be.’ She paused for a moment, then continued. ‘Not really my place to say it, but there’s something systematic in the pattern of her bruising,’ she said.

‘Meaning?’

‘The bruises from her attacker’s fists are really close together. And the lividity seems uniform across them.’

‘I’ll welcome any suggestions, Doctor. Say what’s on your mind.’

The register took a deep breath, as if reconciling herself to something, then spoke. ‘I don’t want to colour your investigation, but – those punches were delivered by someone used to hitting hard and repeatedly. Someone who does it frequently. If I were you, I’d be looking for a boxer.’

She looked at me, her eyes empty of expression. ‘But that’s only my opinion.’

‘Good enough for me, Doctor,’ I said. ‘Thanks.’

In the car on the way home, I told Williams that the doctor’s comments supported Rebecca’s story.

‘Is it the same man?’ she asked.

‘Same MO, certainly. Same failure to follow through on the attack. Different car description, though.’

‘He could have changed his car,’ she suggested. ‘Judging by the state he left Karen Doherty in, his last car must have been covered in blood off his clothes alone.’

‘So we work on the assumption it’s the same person each time. But keep an open mind.’

‘Fair enough. So, let me think; do we know any boxers?’ Williams asked, her eyes flashing with anger.

‘We’ll bring him in. See what he says,’ I agreed, though she had not actually named McDermott. ‘But his alibi still stands from the last attack, Caroline. And anyway, his tattoo doesn’t sound like the one we’re after.’

‘But he has form for beating up a woman, and is training daily to beat the shit out of other men.’

‘Agreed,’ I said, attempting to placate her before her anger grew further.

She looked at me, then turned and looked out of the side window as I drove. ‘Jesus Christ!’ she spat.

As I thought of my own child, I shared her anger. And I reflected on Rebecca Purdy’s final comment to us. It seemed sad somehow that this girl, barely more than a child herself, should be subjected to a form of attack she had not adequate vocabulary to describe.

*

Peter McDermott was lifted within the hour. Williams specifically requested that she be the one to put him in the car. He sat in our interview room in training bottoms and a T-shirt. His legs were spread apart, arm arched, his hand gripping his knee, which jittered seemingly uncontrollably. He had been training in a boxing club in Ballybofey when he had been picked up, Williams told me. She had taken some pleasure in arresting him in front of the other fighters.

He had finished tea he had been given when brought in and had begun picking the cup apart, the polystyrene breaking into tiny balls between his thick workman’s fingers. I pitied whoever came up against him in a tournament. I pitied even more the two girls who suffered such brutality at these or similar hands.

Williams started by asking him again about Karen Doherty, though we had established by this time that he had a seemingly secure alibi.

‘This is shit and you know it,’ he replied when asked where he was the night she died. ‘Next question.’

‘What about last night? Where were you last night, Mr McDermott?’

‘I was out at the club,’ he said, and my adrenaline immediately kicked in. Williams must have felt the same for she glanced at me.

‘What club?’ she managed to ask, her voice dry.

‘My boxing club. I told you, I’m in training. You can ask any of the guys down there. You saw most of them there today when you lifted me.’