Borderlands

Chapter Four

Monday, 23rd December

Strabane and Lifford straddle the banks of two rivers, the Finn and the Mourne, which join the Foyle midway between the town in the North and our village in the South, which are separated by a distance of half a mile. The Foyle then flows for miles through Derry and on to Lough Foyle, where it joins the Atlantic. A bridge spans the point where the three rivers meet and, traditionally, lies in unclaimed territory, several hundred yards from where the British Army checkpoint used to be during the Troubles and several hundred yards before the Irish customs post. It was in this area of the borderlands that Angela Cashell was found. Just at the customs hut, a sharp left turn brings you to Lifford Community Hospital and, tucked behind but separate from it, Finnside Nursing Home.

I sat in my car, smoking. Overlooking the river, I could see, on the curve of the embankment further down, the crime-scene tape, still fluttering in the breeze. I wondered about the Cashell girl's death. And I wondered why, when that investigation was in need of much work, I was about to waste time on the ramblings of a senile old man. I told myself it was out of respect for all Powell had done for Donegal; I told myself it was to stop his son making public complaints about Garda disinterest; I told myself it wasn't because, in a strange way, it brought me back into the circle of Miriam Powell.

The home was fairly nice – or as nice as these places can be. The walls were painted neutral colours, white and magnolia predominating. The carpet was dark red. The scented candles and oil burners burning at various points in the reception area failed to cover the unmistakable smell of disinfectant and the faint hint of urine. The owner of the home, Mrs McGowan, waved at me from her office and gestured towards the mobile phone into which she was speaking. I went over and waited for her to finish her phone call.

"Ben, come in," she said when she was done. "Sorry about that – my daughter is cooking for her in-laws and wants to know how to cook beef. I tell you, I don't know where I failed!" She laughed, a soft tinkling laugh that she probably reserved for children of her patients, as if their parent's incapacity were but a trifle.

"I'm here to see Tommy Powell, Mrs McGowan. I believe he had an intruder."

"So he says," she replied and I could tell from her expression that Powell was probably not her favourite patient. "Of course he had someone in his room. The staff here check on him every two or three hours. It's part of our service. You're welcome to see him, but it's a waste of time, Ben. Next week someone will be trying to poison his dinner. Wait and see."

The door to his room was ajar and I could see Tommy Powell, sitting up in his bed, being spoon-fed creamed rice by a young nurse in a pink uniform. I watched in wonder as she fed him, scraping the dribbled food off his chin and chatting to him about her night out, her future plans, anything to fill the silence and prevent her listening to his laboured, rasping breath or the soft grunting noise he made as he ate. Her hair was bunched up under her hat, though I could see the roots were dark. Her neck was slender, the skin soft and white as lily petals.

I knocked softly on the door and, when she became aware of my presence, she blushed slightly. Something about her seemed very familiar, though I didn't recognize her. I assumed she thought the same, because she stood before me as if to speak. "I'm here to see Mr Powell," I explained, pointing towards the bed.

"Oh, okay," she said, smiling a little, then disappeared out through the doorway before I could say any more.

Tommy Powell watched me, moving only his eyes. His head rested against a pillow, his mouth slightly open. One side of his face was frozen, as though he had just come from the dentist and I noticed a dribble of food just to the left of his mouth. As I considered his loss of dignity, I saw again the unbidden image of Angela Cashell, lying naked in a field, decaying leaves cushioning her head as her blood ran cold.

"Mr Powell, my name is Inspector Devlin. I'm here about the intruder in your room last Wednesday."

"Deblin", he said, "who Deblin? Who your fader?"

"Joe Devlin, sir."

"Furniture man?"

"That's right, sir." My father is still known as a French polisher, though he has not practised this in years. Powell's speech may have been affected, but his memory certainly had not.

"What… want?" he said, visibly straining to complete even so short a sentence. This was going to be a dull conversation unless cut it short, I thought. I rebuked myself inwardly for my lack of charity and decided on brevity anyway.

"I'm here about the intruder on Wednesday night. Do you remember that?"

"Not stupid son… sick."

"Of course, sir. Your son told me what happened. I was wondering if you'd anything to add. Anything else you remember?"

"Could… be woman… boy".

"Excuse me?"

He rasped, breathing heavily through the patrician nose; his teeth were clenched in exasperation and he struggled to straighten himself in the bed. His pyjama jacket was unbuttoned revealing a chest, matted with wispy grey hairs, which looked shrunken and collapsed. I could see his pulse vibrating in the wattles of skin hanging at the sides of his throat. "Might've… been… a gir… girl," he said. "Or a boy. Small."

He dropped back against his pillow and turned his head towards the wall, not looking at me again. His jawline flexed momentarily with anger or resentment that I should see him so weakened. I started to ask a further question, simply to engage him, but he waved me away with a hand so wizened and bony it could have belonged to a woman.

On the way out I did not see again the nurse who had been feeding Powell, nor could I place where I had seen her face before. I stopped Mrs MacGowan and asked her name.

"Is she in trouble?"

"No, no." I said. "I know her face from somewhere."

"She's here on probation for a month before I make her permanent. If she's in trouble with the law, Inspector, she's out on her ear. We have to trust our staff completely, what with old people's money and belongings lying around."

"No, she's not in trouble. It's nothing important; I just can't place her face. I've seen her somewhere recently. Kind of like deja vu," I lied.

"Yvonne Coyle. She's from Strabane: Glennside, I think."

"Right. Maybe I've seen her round the town or something. It'll come to me eventually."

I thought of driving out to Powell's house to tell Miriam that I had spoken to her father-in-law, despite the fact that I knew that she and her husband would once again make me the object of some new private joke. In fact, I made it as far as the house, a massive Victorian manse which Powell Sr had bought from the Anglican Church after their minister moved out to Raphoe from Lifford in the early '60s. Oaks and sycamore, trunks heavy with vines and ivy, surrounded the house. The wall around their two-acre estate was added maybe forty years ago, built, I remember being told by my father, from bricks from the old jailhouse that had been demolished in 1907. They were unidentifiable now under the thick, wet moss that cushioned the coping stone and had broken off layers of the brick, which lay shattered on the pavement beneath.

I sat opposite their driveway gates and peered beyond to where Miriam had parked her BMW next to the Land Rover that her husband drove, as befitted one of the landed gentry. Powell Jr lived off the rent collected from his father's various properties – wealth to which, as far as anyone knew, he added very little. The jailhouse bricks were typical of Powell Sr: an extravagance that no one would notice, so that he retained his image as one of the common men, while the rumours of opulence added to his enigmatic status. The Land Rover, meanwhile, was indicative of his son, adding to the image of ostentation he had created for himself.

I debated whether or not to go in, then decided against, partly because Powell Jr would be there. As I shifted into gear I couldn't help but feel that I was being watched.

I was washing up the dinner dishes that evening, while Debbie cleared the table. The kids were in the living room, watching Toy Story for the umpteenth time. Debbie dropped two knives into the dishwater and began to wipe the counter.

"Don't forget that Penny's singing tomorrow night, at Mass," she said.

"I won't," I promised.

"You'd better not. She'll never forgive you."

"I won't," I said, a second time.

She nodded. "Did I see you at Miriam O'Kane's today?" she asked, not looking up from her work, as though this were part of the normal conversation.

"Who? Miriam… Oh, Mrs Pow- Miriam Powell. Yes, I was going to call in to see her husband. He asked me on Sunday to look into an intruder in his father's room. Remember – after Mass?"

"Oh. Is that what you were talking about? I thought maybe Miriam had asked you."

"No. I haven't seen her since… I don't know when."

"This morning, apparently. So your Sergeant said. Caroline, isn't it? Miriam was there when I phoned you, she said."

"Yes, that's right. Just called in to see what progress had been made."

"I'm sure she did. You didn't mention it on the phone."

"No, I didn't think much of it, I suppose."

"Mmm," she said. "Did you make any?"

"Any what?"

"Progress," she said, then went in and sat with the children, while I finished the dishes in silence.

Terry Boyle