Borderlands

Chapter Thirteen

Monday, 30th December

At 9.30 on Monday morning, I met Williams in our storeroom office. She and Holmes had secured an artist's impression of the girl with whom Terry Boyle had been spotted on the night he died. Unfortunately, for all that effort, the picture could have been of any teenaged girl: small, fair hair, attractive; no eye-colour, no distinctive tattoos or piercing. The e-fit would be released to the press, but even Williams admitted that she didn't hold out much hope. Holmes was continuing his suspension at home, watching daytime TV and phoning suspects whose names had been bandied about in connection with Boyle. It was a thankless task, but he was using a Garda cellphone, so it wasn't costing him anything.

"She looks like somebody I know," I said, turning my head to one side, as though looking from a different angle might help me see more clearly.

"She looks like anybody I know," Williams said. "That's the problem. How's the Cashell case moving?"

I told her all that Costello had told me. When I finished she shook her head in disbelief, then said, "I guess you were right when you said the ring was a message. Do you think it was meant for Costello?"

"Maybe. It's something we'll have to consider. First we figure out what Ratsy Donaghey had to do with all this. I have a feeling that, if he's involved, Mary Knox didn't voluntarily give that ring away."

"Well, I have two bits of news," Williams said. "First off, I checked that video again. Bad news is there was no sign of Whitey McKelvey."

"But we saw her going in with him."

"No," she replied, raising a finger in the air in a way that reminded me of one of my old school teachers. "We saw someone going in with Cashell, whom we assumed to be Whitey. Remember, the guy with the short blond hair and jeans. White shirt?"

"I remember," I said. "What about him?"

"He appears again later. Going to the toilet. I had to go and check in the bar myself last night. He went into the girls' toilet. He was a she."

"Are you sure?" I asked, though I knew it was a stupid question.

"As best I can be. It's hard to tell. The white shirt is kind of baggy. A small-breasted woman, short hair? Yeah, could be a woman. Maybe Whitey McKelvey was telling the truth. He doesn't appear anywhere on the video."

"If he was telling the truth about that, maybe he did sell the ring," I said.

"Let's say he did. How did it end up on Cashell's finger? Unless someone bought the ring specifically for that purpose. Which would have meant tracking down Whitey. Which meant they knew the ring had been stolen. Or maybe Ratsy told them it had been stolen. Maybe that's why he had cigarette burns all over his arms. Maybe they tortured him until he told them about it. They trace it back to McKelvey and buy it from him," Williams added. "Then plant it on his girlfriend's body to make it look like he did it. But why?"

"What if McKelvey wasn't the link. What if the message wasn't for McKelvey or Costello? What if it was meant for Johnny Cashell?"

"It's possible. Should we go see him?" Williams suggested.

"I guess we'd better," I said.

We didn't get any further, though, for my own cellphone rang. It was Kathleen Boyle, Terry's mother, and she had received something unusual in the mail.

"I don't usually open my husband's mail," she explained, sitting on the same sofa as she had the night her son had been murdered. "Only at Christmas. Well, some people don't realize we're separated, you see. They still send cards to both of us, but in his name. You know, Mr and Mrs Seamus Boyle. I open them and send his on to him."

"No need to explain, Mrs Boyle," Williams said, impatient to find out what exactly had been sent.

"Well, I knew this was a Christmas card when it arrived today. I just thought it was late. But the card was blank you see – no message, nothing. Just this inside…" She held out a photograph, its subject unclear as the light shimmered with the shaking of her hand across the glossy finish.

When I took the picture from her, I was both surprised and strangely comforted to see the familiar image of Mary Knox, sitting on the steps, frozen in a moment that must have held significance for whoever had taken the photograph – or whoever was attaching it to murders twenty-odd years after her disappearance.

Mrs Boyle caught the glance between myself and Williams. "Do you know who she is?" she asked.

"The question is, do you?" I replied.

"No idea. I've never seen her before. I just thought… Well, you said if I thought of anything unusual to get in touch."

"You're sure you don't know her?" I asked again, desperate now to find the link, the relevance of this picture.

"No, I've never set eyes on her, I swear."

"The card was sent to your husband, Mrs Boyle. Would he know her?"

"I… I don't know," she said, suddenly taken aback by the thought. "She might be one of his… women. But the picture looks so old."

"Can we contact your husband, Mrs Boyle?" I asked. "To see if-"

She nodded vigorously. "Oh, he'll be here later. For the funeral tomorrow." She looked from Williams to me and back, as if somewhere in the space between us she might find an explanation for the death of her son.

After assuring Mrs Boyle that she had done the right thing in calling us, we sat in the car and discussed our progress. There was no discernable link between Ratsy Donaghey, Angela Cashell and Terry Boyle, yet someone had murdered the three of them, and Mary Knox's picture had turned up in connection with all three crimes. Ratsy Donaghey was the same generation as Johnny Cashell and, though I didn't know Seamus Boyle, Mary Knox's photograph had been sent to him, not his wife. I decided the only thing left to do was to confront Johnny Cashell and Seamus Boyle. Before we did, I called Hendry to see if he had found out anything more about Knox's disappearance. He had spent the morning going over case notes for me.

"I told you yesterday. The main line of inquiry at the time was IRA involvement. Of course, that meant that it never went any further."

"Does the name Ratsy Donaghey mean anything? Druggie from Letterkenny."

"Tony?"

"That's him."

"Tony's name appeared once or twice. One of the neighbours said she had seen him a couple of times around the house before the girl vanished. Not just him, mind," he added.

"No word on the kids yet?"

"Nothing. My guess is if she's alive they're with her. Otherwise, one of her neighbours wasn't spotted for a few days after the disappearance. Went to Dublin to a sister, she said. She and Knox were very close; she looked after the kids, apparently, when Knox was working. Joanne Duffy her name was. Lives in Derry now, somewhere. Why do you ask about Tony Donaghey?"

"His name's come up on this side."

"What did you call him? Ratsy?" Hendry asked, and I explained.

When Donaghey was a teenager he used to hunt and catch rats in the farms around Lifford. On summer days, when the weather was stiflingly hot, he went into Letterkenny and hung around by traffic lights, a live rat in the pocket of his coat. If a single female driver stopped at the lights, with her window down because of the heat, Donaghey would throw the live rat onto her lap. Generally, the driver's first reaction was to leap out of the idling car. Donaghey could then jump in and drive off. He did it six times before he was caught. Rumour also has it that the officer who caught him, who is now a superintendent, broke the bones of Donaghey's two hands with a truncheon as a salutary lesson in the summary justice of Donegal.

"Fair enough," Hendry said. "He was a bad bastard by all accounts. Reading between the lines here, he was fairly in the frame for the Knox disappearance, and a few others. We had him down as a Provo, for a while anyway, until even they kicked him out. No evidence, though, so it was left in the wind. Sorry."

I thanked him and hung up. Twice now he had mentioned the Provo connection. I couldn't see it. Still, I thought, it would do no harm to check. I picked up my car keys. Williams looked at me.

"I think I need to go to confession," I said.

Our local priest is an elderly man called Terry Brennan. He moved to Lifford four years ago after serving in one of the roughest areas of Derry for fourteen years and, while many assumed him to be a bumbling old relic from the golden age of Catholicism, few knew that he had mediated between the IRA and British government ministers for several years in the late '80s and early '90s. He had no affiliations with either group, yet managed to retain the respect, and, more importantly, the ear of both.

The 10.30 a.m. Mass was not yet over, so we sat in the car park until the small number of woman parishioners exited into the morning sunlight, pulling on coats or fastening scarves around their heads against the cold. Then I went into the chapel.

The sunlight from outside shone through the stained glass at such an angle that the spectrum of colours splashed across the white marble of the altar. Father Brennan was in the confessional; two elderly supplicants knelt at the pew directly outside. The door of the box clicked open and a child came out, holding the door open for a woman who was, presumably, his grandmother. Within less than a minute, she too came out and the man in front of me entered the box. From where I was sitting I could hear his soft murmuring, interspersed with the deeper, more guttural mutterings of Father Brennan. Then the man came out and left the confessional box door swinging in air heavy with the scent of incense.

I went into the box and pulled the door behind me. The atmosphere was warm and close, the smell of polish and wood mixing with the scent of the priest's aftershave. I could make out his silhouette through the grill that separated us. He was looking down at his lap, at a prayer book, his ear close to the grille.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been a few weeks since my last confession," I began.

"Better make it quick, Inspector, my breakfast's being made," Brennan replied in a voice gravelled by years of smoking Woodbines. He laughed softly to himself, a chuckle that resonated like a cough.

"I need a favour. I need to speak to someone who could help me with a case. A prostitute named Mary Knox disappeared from Strabane in 1978. I need to know whether the Provos had anything to do with it. It connects with the Cashell and Boyle deaths, I think."

"They're connected?" Brennan hissed.

"We think so. But no one knows, so…" My unspoken request for confidence hung unanswered. Brennan did not speak for almost a minute, the silence interminable in the darkness of the box. He leaned closer towards the grille and, in the half-light, I could see that he had turned his head towards me, a glint of external light catching the frame of his glasses. "I can't promise anything, Inspector. It's a very unorthodox request. Give me a number to contact you. As I say, no promises."

"Thank you, Father," I said.

I heard him moving in the box next to me, preparing to leave. He reached up and pulled the stole from around his neck.

"Father," I said. "I was wondering if you'd hear my confession while I'm here."

He did not speak, but sat again, and I could faintly make out in the gloom that he had placed the purple stole around his neck again and blessed himself. I began to tell him about McKelvey, about Anderson and his sheep and, mostly, about Miriam Powell. He asked me if I had told Debbie what had happened. He asked me if I was sorry. He asked me would I have taken the affair any further and I said, "No."

"God forgives you, Inspector. Your wife, I suspect, will forgive you. Try now to forgive yourself. I absolve you from your sins, in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, amen. Leave your phone on."

Williams and I went to a restaurant on the border called The Traveller's Rest. She ate cereal and toast while I had a full breakfast with bacon, eggs, sausage and tomato. I was wiping my last slice of toast through the remaining egg yolk when my phone rang.

"Devlin here," I said, not recognizing the caller ID on the phone's display.

"The priest said you wanted to ask some questions." The voice was cold, disconnected not just by the anonymity of the mobile phone but by something deeper.

"Yes," I said, though he had not asked a question.

"What do you want?"

"Mary Knox. She was a-"

"The priest told us. What do you want?"

"Did the IRA have anything to do with her disappearance?" I asked and realized that the people at the table beside us were staring open-mouthed at me. I stepped outside, fumbling in my pocket for my cigarettes as I spoke.

"No."

"Are you sure?" No response. "What about Ratsy Donaghey? Was he one of yours?"

"It's a well-known fact, Devlin. The priest told me that-"

"So Ratsy Donaghey didn't have anything to do with Knox's disappearance?"

"I didn't say that. Listen. We did not sanction the… disappearance of Mary Knox. Whether one renegade volunteer did is another matter and one for which we accept no responsibility. Such behaviour reflects badly on us."

"I hardly think you're in a position of moral highground," I began.

"The priest told us you were a decent fella," the voice said. "He was wrong. I can understand why they torched your car. Don't look for this to happen again."

"Wait," I said. "What about Johnny Cashell and Seamus Boyle?"

"Are you fucking stupid? They all worked together." Then the line went dead.

I recorded the phone number that had shown on my display, a northern cellphone number. I phoned through to the Garda Telecomm Support Unit and asked them if they could trace it. Later that day, they contacted me to tell me that the number belonged to a ten-year-old who had reported it lost in her school some days earlier.

"Donaghey did it," I said, having relayed the details of the conversation to Williams. "He was IRA but acted outside of them.

When he went into drugs they cut him loose completely. But he must have done it."

"How come the RUC couldn't get him?"

"Extradition proceedings in the '70s were fairly rare. Probably not worth the effort if they couldn't be sure the state would hand him over. Besides, they needed to prove it was him for a case. We don't have to prove anything. Suspicion is enough to get us going – give us something to work with. So, let's work on the assumption that Ratsy Donaghey did kill her. Let's say he stole her jewellery. That was the kind of lowlife he was. Twenty-five years later, his house is broken into and the jewellery stolen. So much time has passed he believes he's in the clear. No one will remember a bloody ring, he thinks. And it must be worth something. Maybe he wanted the insurance to cover it. Somehow, someone sees the ring on the stolen items list, though. They make the connection. Ratsy gets tortured and killed. What if it wasn't a rival drugs thing or questions about the ring? What if Ratsy was tortured until he spilled the whole truth on Mary Knox? What if he named names? Let's say he names Cashell and Boyle. A little while later, Cashell's daughter and Boyle's son both end up dead, with photographs of the dead woman, and Cashell wearing her ring."

"How did they get the ring? Check all the jewellers' shops until they get a hit? Follow it back to Whitey McKelvey, get the ring and set him up? None of the jewellers mentioned anyone asking questions except us, and it's our job to do that!"

"Well, who else would have access to the stolen items lists?"

"Don't you read your email? Another new initiative – stolen item lists are being put on the local page of the Garda website. Someone somewhere hopes that the public will do our job for us. Anyone with Internet access could have seen those lists."

"True enough," I agreed reluctantly. "So someone sees the ring on a list; links it to Ratsy. Questions him; makes the connection with Whitey? How?"

"Luck? Grapevine? Sheer coincidence? Maybe Ratsy knew

McKelvey had done it. Must be easy enough to work out who's pawning stolen goods in Donegal," Williams said. "The more pertinent question is who would want to kill Mary Knox's killers – assuming she is actually dead?"

"She's dead. Who'd revenge her death? Someone close to her; someone who knew the ring; someone who knew her personally; someone who remembered her after twenty-five years."

"Costello?" Williams said, shrugging slightly as she said it.

"Possibly," I said, pretending it hadn't crossed my mind.

"Why kill Angela Cashell? Or Terry Boyle?" Williams said. "Why not kill the fathers? Why pick on their children?"

"Unless it's Mary Knox's child who is taking revenge. Maybe he'd kill the children of those responsible for his mother's death."

"Or she."

"What?"

"Knox had two children, a boy and a girl. Don't forget, we haven't ruled out a woman's involvement in Cashell's murder. The panties back on? And we know there were two people involved in Boyle's murder: the girl he left the pub with and the person who shot him."

"True," I said.

"So, what do we do now?" Williams asked.

"We'll speak to Cashell and see what he gives us. Have a chat with Boyle tomorrow, after the funeral. Meanwhile, let's see if we can connect Donaghey and Cashell to the Knox murder. And let's see if we can track down what has happened to the two Knox children."

Williams looked at me. "What if we find it's Costello?" she asked, biting hard at her bottom lip.

"Then we arrest him," I said, with more conviction than I felt.

We arrived at Cashell's home just as a TV crew pulled away. Johnny was talking over the hedge to his neighbour, Sadie beside him, smoking a cigarette.

The neighbour nodded in our direction and both the Cashells turned and watched us walking up the pathway to their house.

Johnny Cashell stood a little taller and tried to puff out his chest. The effect was diminished somewhat by the fact that he winced – his stomach wound was obviously still hurting him.

"Do I smell bacon?" his neighbour asked, obviously thinking a joke good enough to make once was worth repeating.

"Not over the smell of petrol," Johnny Cashell replied, turning and standing in his doorway, legs slightly apart, arms folded across his chest. "What do you want?" he sneered. "Here to make more accusations about a grieving father? I were just telling the telly people about you. Couldn't solve a fucking jigsaw, so you blame the family."

"I wanted to return this to Sadie," I said, walking towards him holding the ring out. "You'll recognize it, I think, Johnny. Though I dare say the last time you saw it Ratsy Donaghey was pulling it off the finger of a dead woman. Would I be right?"

Sadie stared incredulously, then turned to the neighbour, as if looking for him to share her sense of injustice. Johnny was not quite so blasй. He peered at the ring and a glimmer of recognition registered in his eyes. His tongue flicked nervously on his lips and he laughed just a little too loudly. "More bullshit, Devlin. There are no depths-"

"There's no statute of limitations, either, Johnny. Doesn't it bother you that Angela died for this? Or that Donaghey set you up, you ignorant bastard?" My voice was rising now and I could feel my muscles begin to hum. Williams curled her hand around my upper arm.

"Best we speak inside, Mr Cashell, don't you think?" she said, guiding the Cashells into their house while I followed. Sadie quizzed her husband in whispers about what I had said.

I placed the picture of Mary Knox on the table and stood facing the Cashells. "We know the ring belonged to Mary Knox, Johnny. We suspect that Tony Donaghey took it from her at the time she disappeared. The ring has resurfaced now, twenty-five years later, and Donaghey has paid the price for it. Someone caught up with him in Bundoran a few weeks ago."

I watched Johnny Cashell attempt to keep his poker face in place. "Someone tied him up Johnny," I continued, "burnt him with lit cigarettes, shoved rags down his throat, and then cut his arms open from the wrist to the elbow and probably made him watch his blood run down his legs along with his piss." If nothing else, I had got their attention. "Now you can sit with your 'Fuck the Guards' expression, Johnny," I went on, years of frustration at people as stupid and intractable as Johnny Cashell finally boiling over, "but at some point in all that, Ratsy lived up to his name and gave out yours and Seamus Boyle's to whoever did him in. Hey presto, two weeks later, your innocent daughter is lying cold in a field, while you sit in the pub talking about what a big man you are. I'm sure you're very proud of your husband, Sadie. You got a real catch."

I knew I had gone too far. Sadie's eyes had welled and were red, while Johnny stared at me ashen-faced, a cigarette suspended midway to his mouth. The eldest Cashell girl, Christine, was standing in the hallway, staring at me. I immediately regretted what I had said. A sweat broke on my forehead and the room became unbearably close.

"I think you better wait outside, Inspector," Williams said, glaring at me.

"I'm… I'm sorry, Sadie. Jesus, Johnny – I'm sorry."

Sadie looked up at me with eyes empty of any feeling. "You're the lowest bastard I've ever met. Get out of my home," she said. She wiped a tear from her cheek and stared across the table at Williams until I left the kitchen.

I stood in the tiny patch of garden at the front of the house and lit a cigarette, drawing as deeply as I could so that it would burn my lungs. I was aware of someone to my right and I turned to see Christine Cashell standing, her arms folded, a cigarette clenched in her right hand.

"Was there any need for that?" she asked, her face lacking the defiance she had presented when we last met. It was almost as though I had confirmed for her all that she believed. We may talk of equality and serving the community, but sometimes, despite ourselves, we treat people badly because we can, because we tell ourselves that we do it in the name of justice or virtue, or whatever excuse we use to hide the fact that we want to hurt someone, to get at them in any way we can to compensate for their total lack of respect for our job and all that we have sacrificed to do it.

"No," I said, seeing no point in sharing my thoughts with her. "I was out of line, Miss Cashell."

"Jesus, don't start calling me Miss Cashell. Christine'll do." She dragged on her cigarette and blew the smoke upwards, holding her face towards the strengthening sun. She sniffed. "Do you think it'll be enough for Mum to leave him?" she asked, without looking at me.

"Maybe. That wasn't my intention, Christine."

"I know. Still, clouds and silver linings, eh? You never know." She stood with one arm wrapped in front of her, the other one, which held her cigarette, hung at her side. She twisted the toe of one shoe into the grass. "Looks like you screwed up with McKelvey."

"Yep. Seems that way." I flicked my cigarette over the hedge in the vain hope that their nosey neighbour would still be lurking there.

"You were told she'd have nothing to do with him. She got into drugs. That was McKelvey's thing. They weren't going out."

"Who was she going out with, Christine?" I asked. "Muire mentioned Angela was going to see someone the night she died."

"Muire didn't know what was going on."

"About McKelvey?"

"You've McKelvey on the brain. Angie was going out with someone, but it wasn't McKelvey. In fact, it wasn't even a boy. Our Angie found herself a girlfriend before she died. Someone to support her habit."

"Who?"

"Some nurse called Yvonne, from Strabane."

"Yvonne Coyle?"

"Sounds about right, aye," Christine said, then turned at the sound of voices from inside. Her parents came out with Williams, who shook hands with each, nodded to me, and strode down towards the car. I smiled gently towards Christine, who replied with her eyes at the same instant that she set the rest of her face into its familiar expression of defiance against the world. I turned to apologize to her parents again, but they only looked at me, ushered Christine inside, and closed the door softly.

"Feeling better?" Williams asked when I got into the car. Then, before I could answer she continued, "Jesus, sir."

"Cashell is a criminal," I replied, a little haughtily.

"Not when you're talking about his daughter's death. He's still a father."

"Well, he shouldn't be. His other daughter was outside hoping this would finally force Sadie to leave him. It's hardly family life at its most idyllic, is it?"

"It's more than some of us have," she snapped, and I stopped arguing.

Neither of us spoke as Williams started up the car.

"What else did the girl say?" she asked finally.

I stared out the side window at the hedgerows sliding past, the sunlight filtering through the thickets. "Not much of use. Says that McKelvey was a dead end, as if we hadn't worked that out. Seemed to suggest that Angela was a bit of a double-adapter."

"Meaning?" Williams said, glancing over at me.

"Meaning Christine seemed to think Angela was having a fling with Yvonne Coyle."

"Really. Should we bring her in?"

"Certainly worth taking a closer look, I suppose. Though having an affair, even a lesbian one, isn't a criminal offence. She already admitted that Angela stayed with her the night before she died. Said she went out with McKelvey on the night in question." Then I remembered something. "Although, now I think of it, she said she'd seen McKelvey on the Thursday night: in fact she was our only witness. What if she was lying?"

"Maybe we should bring her in, then."

"I'll ask Hendry. She's in his jurisdiction." I paused. "What did the Cashells have to say about things?"

"Cashell admitted knowing Donaghey and Boyle in the late '70s. Said Donaghey managed a bar where he and Boyle worked as bouncers. Did the odd favour for him. That was it. Knew nothing about Knox or the ring. Or why someone would want to leave it on the body of his dead daughter."

"Did you believe him?" I asked.

"God, no. He was lying through his teeth. He seemed particularly uneasy when I told him that Knox had kids. He didn't seem to know. Though obviously he claimed it was nothing to him, since he didn't know the woman."

"Did you say Ratsy Donaghey was a manager of a bar?"

"Apparently so."

"That's worth taking a closer look at as well. Look, when we get back to the station, I want to call Hendry about Yvonne Coyle. Can you pull me anything you can find on Donaghey? Then I want you to start checking for this neighbour of Mary Knox, Joanne Duffy, living somewhere in Derry. I suspect she knows where the kids ended up."

"You think the kids are involved?"

"I don't know," I said, honestly, "but it's the only thing we have for now."

As it transpired, I didn't get to carry out my plans quite as quickly as I had hoped, for when we returned to the station Mark Anderson was standing at the front desk, while Burgess tried desperately to shift him.

"Ah, Inspector Devlin," he shouted, the moment I came through the door. "A Mr Anderson here for you. Perhaps you'd be so kind as to assist him." Then he added under his breath, "And take the smell of pig" shit out of my station."

Anderson was not for shifting. He took something from his pocket, a skein of brown velvet material darkened at the edges with crusted blood. He let it drop onto the main counter. "That were in my field, where that animal were shot."

"What has that to do with me?" I asked, my head spinning as I spoke. The rag of torn skin was both sickening and strangely pitiful.

"Powell won't give me the reward. He says that ain't no cat. He says that's part of a hound. Where's your dog?"

"He's at home, Mark. That's not part of a dog. That could be part of anything. Powell's just trying to renege on his part of the deal. Makes good TV offering rewards, so long as you don't have to follow it through."

Anderson eyed me suspiciously, his face puckered in concentration. He rubbed a callused fingertip along the white stubble of his chin. "All I know is that I ain't seen your dog since the hunt and nothing's been near my sheep since. If I find your dog's been hurt in some way, I got a right to put a bullet in him. Reward or not, I'll protect my sheep."

"And I'll protect my daughter's pet, Mark," I replied.

"Best thing for you to do is put a bullet in it yourself, before someone else has to," Anderson said and walked out.

Regardless of my annoyance at Anderson, I knew he was right about Frank. I resolved to take my gun home with me that night. I had decided when Penny was just a baby that I would not keep a gun in the house, and so it stayed in a special locker in the station. Guns are quite often a final option for Gardai; generally we do not carry them, as it seems to contravene the very name of An Garda Siochana – the Guardians of the Peace.

I went into the back lock-up, behind Costello's room, where the station safe was located. Above it was a strong box with a padlock.

I opened it and removed my. 38 revolver and a box of bullets, wrapped both in the oilcloth that had been around the gun, and tucked the parcel into my inside coat-pocket.

I phoned Strabane station and left a message for Hendry to call me. The desk sergeant assured me that Hendry would get back to me when he could. While I was on the phone, Williams came into the office and flopped onto the chair, a thick manila folder in her lap.

"Ratsy Donaghey, this is your life," she said. She placed the file on the table between us and we both read through it carefully.

Donaghey had first appeared on police files at the age of eleven, when he was caught stealing from a local shop whose owner wanted the matter dealt with seriously. He was arrested with some regularity from then on in, for drinking or vandalism or stealing. At fourteen he was sent to a borstal for nine months for beating up an elderly neighbour for the contents of her purse, which amounted to about thirteen euros nowadays. He was quiet for the duration of his stay there, but his name surfaced again afterwards.

His first adult arrest was for aggravated assault and GBH, when he beat the ex-boyfriend of a girl he was dating with a broken beer bottle and a brick until he was unconscious. The case went as far as court but, somehow, Ratsy got off with a suspended sentence despite his earlier record. I made a note of the date, deducing that the court records for it would be found in a newspaper from the period.

Forty minutes later my faith in librarians was repaid once more as we read the court report for the case. According to the papers from the time, Donaghey was shown leniency because of his important position in something called 'IID' and his role as an ambassador for the area. The chairman of IID, Joseph Cauley, interceded on Ratsy's behalf, describing the attack as a single regrettable blemish on an otherwise impressive character. The magistrate at the time was Gordon Fullerton, who had since spent three years in jail himself, having being found guilty of taking bribes in a case over land ownership. As neither of us knew what IID was, we set off again to a building a little closer to home.

In the centre of Lifford, almost opposite the Garda station, is the Seat of Power, a museum dedicated to Lifford's history as the administrative centre of Donegal. The museum also houses the original courthouse and cells from the old jail and mental asylum. More importantly, however, the building houses a number of individuals who know more about Lifford and Donegal than is perhaps healthy. One such person is Mary Deeney. Mary is a woman in her late thirties with straight copper-tinted hair, which occasionally reveals glimpses of grey. She was able to give us the rundown on IID in fifteen minutes.

"Invest in Donegal," she explained, pushing her pink-framed glasses up the bridge of her nose, only for them to slide back down almost immediately. "One of these things set up in the '70s to try to bring bigger companies into Donegal. It actually had a few big successes in the late '70s, early '80s with a textile company and an IT firm. Offered incentives, tax breaks, grants and so on; performed feasibility studies; handled contracts for building. Folded up in 1984 – no, 1985 – when Cauley died. Possibly just as well, actually; rumour had it that the Fraud Squad was taking an interest in it by that stage."

"Do you remember a man by the name of Tony Donaghey being involved?" Williams asked. "I think he was quite important to it."

Mary thought about it as she absentmindedly twirled a few loose strands of her hair around her fingers. "No, the name doesn't mean anything. Of course, I'm the wrong person to be taking to. Tommy Powell's the man you'd really want to see."

"Why Powell?" I asked.

"Well he started it. IID was his brainchild. He raised millions through the Dail for it."

"We thought Cauley ran IID" Williams said, and I nodded agreement.

"Cauley ran it alright," Mary said, as if explaining something to very slow children, "but Powell owned it. Cauley was just a manager."

Williams and I stood outside the museum while I had a smoke. Across the street we could see Costello moving around in his office, his blinds pulled back to let in the December sun. At one point he walked over to the window and stared across at us, then moved into the shadows of his room again.

"So, what now?" I said.

"Try to track the kids, I suppose." Williams said. "And Coyle. What about Powell? Are you going to speak to him?"

"Maybe," I said. "But not quite yet. Costello said this morning about bringing the Investigation Bureau in on this."

"Are you going to?" Williams asked, looking a little surprised.

"No. But I think they can help us with one thing."

As well as the local Garda stations around the country, An Garda has a centralised Criminal Investigation Bureau which helps in serious-crime cases. It is just one, however, of a number of support systems. We had already called on the Water Unit. I decided that perhaps it was time to contact the Research Unit as well. The Research Unit does exactly what its name suggests. Over years it has collated information passed on from all the other strands of the Garda system and filed it for future reference. No other section of An Garda could access information on companies or national initiatives as quickly. Or so I hoped.

I returned to our office and phoned through to the Command and Control Centre in Harcourt Street in Dublin and asked to be transferred to Research. I was put through to an Officer Armstrong, and asked him to find whatever he could on Ratsy Donaghey in connection with IID. I decided not to mention Tommy Powell just yet, assuming that the name would turn up anyway once IID was researched. I also mentioned the rumour about the fraud investigation and the chairman, Joseph Cauley. Armstrong told me it might take a few days.

I then tried contacting Hendry again about Yvonne Coyle, but he was still not available. I sat in the storeroom, watching Williams scan phone directories and electoral registers for Derry in an attempt to locate Joanne Duffy, Mary Knox's friend. Then I sat beside Williams and helped her. After a number of false leads, three coffees and a shared tuna sandwich, we found her.