Gallows Lane

Chapter Ten

Monday, 7 June

When I got into the station on Monday morning, Burgess told me that Jim Hendry had phoned and had left a mobile number, should I want to contact him. I phoned straight away.

‘Inspector Devlin; you’ve been looking for me, I believe.’

‘I need help, Jim. Something to do with your side of the fence.’

‘Enough to spoil a good day’s golfing?’

‘Is there such a thing as a good day’s golfing? I thought you were doing something important — like solving crimes.’

‘No, no, Ben — something much more serious than that: eighteen holes with the Chief Super — I hope to be a CI soon.’

‘Just make sure you’re aiming for the right hole, Jim.’

‘That’s why you’ll never make it past Inspector. . Inspector!’ Hendry replied, his laugh fizzling on the static of the mobile’s reception. ‘Now — what can I do you for?’

‘I’m investigating a suspicious death over on our side.’

‘Whose?’

‘Peter Webb.’ I guessed, correctly as it transpired, that Hendry would have heard about Webb’s death.

‘I thought that was suicide,’ he said.

‘It is at the moment, if anyone asks. My problem is a young fella named James Kerr. Just out after doing a stretch for armed robbery-’

‘Castlederg Post Office?’

‘That’s him. The thing is — he claims that when he was lifted for that job, he named Webb as one of the gang members; in fact, as the organizer of the gang. Yet he says nothing was ever done about this.’

‘When did he tell you this?’

‘He didn’t. His religious adviser did.’

‘Jesus!’ Hendry laughed.

‘No — just his representative, apparently. Anyhow, I was wondering if, very unofficially, you could take a look for me and see what you have on Webb — find out if he was involved.’

‘And in return?’

‘I’ll let you get back to brown-nosing your way to success.’

‘It’s a deal. I’ll be in touch as soon as. Oh, and Ben,’ he said, before hanging up, ‘don’t underestimate the power of being a company man, as they say. Lifford can’t hold you forever.’

On my way home I took a detour via Gallows Lane. As I drove down the lane into Webb’s home, a car passed me on the road, so closely in fact that I had to drive along the border of the path, the heavy heads of the rhododendrons smearing against my window. It was the red Ford Puma I had seen parked outside Webb’s house the day his wife had reported the prowler; the car which, I was fairly sure, belonged to her gentleman lover. I made a mental note of the registration number and, unable to find my notebook, when I parked outside Webb’s house, I scribbled it on the back of my cigarette box instead.

I knocked at the front door twice, then, realizing that it was ajar, I pushed it fully open and stepped into the hallway.

‘Hello,’ I called.

‘Did you-’ Sinead Webb began, coming downstairs. She stopped when she saw that I was not who she had expected.

‘Mrs Webb, sorry to bother you,’ I said. ‘I think we need to talk.’

She poured herself a drink while I told her the findings of her husband’s autopsy. When I concluded that we were now investigating a murder, she sat.

‘No, no,’ she said. ‘You’re wrong. Who’d want to kill Peter? There’s been some kind of mistake, Inspector.’

‘No mistake, I’m afraid, Mrs Webb.’

‘But. . why? Why would someone kill my husband? The thought of him killing himself was hard enough to take, though with the guns and so on being found I thought perhaps it had pushed him over the edge. But. . I’ve no idea why someone would want to kill him. It might have been a robbery or something, gone wrong?’

‘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.