Gallows Lane

Chapter Twenty-three

Friday, 18 June

Daniel McLaughlin regained consciousness at five-thirty in the morning. By eight o’clock, after being checked by his doctors and conferring with his lawyer, the ubiquitous Gerard Brown, he was ready to be interviewed in his hospital room. Dempsey and his two sergeants were there, along with myself, Costello and Helen Gorman, whom I had contacted in case we got a result on the drugs theft.

I had called in with Caroline before I started. She was propped up in bed, eating her breakfast. She hoped to be released in time for the weekend. Peter had made a get well card for her with Debbie the night previous. He had drawn a stick woman and child and written simply, ‘I Love You, Mummy’, at the top of the page.

McLaughlin was similarly sitting up in bed, his back supported by a number of pillows. His hospital gown just about reached around his shoulders; his back was bare and his muscles rigid. His hands rested on his lap, his fingers intertwined. The tattoo of Cuchulain was clear on his arm, the colours bright. But it was McLaughlin’s face which affected me most. His face was cruel. His eyes were narrowed, heavy-lidded like a reptile’s; his nose was wide and flared, and slightly out of place where it had been broken at some stage. His mouth was thin and his teeth were misshapen. His jaw flexed with tension whenever he wasn’t talking.

Once I had sat down, Dempsey turned on the tape recorder that had been set up and I introduced those present in the room. I then explained to McLaughlin that he was being questioned in connection with a number of serious crimes in the area. He did not respond, only flicking his head ever so slightly as if to nod.

‘Firstly, Mr McLaughlin, we’d like to ask you about Karen Doherty.’

He looked at me in bewilderment for a second, then glanced at his lawyer who sat beside his bed, then looked at me again. He mimicked a frown and pouted.

‘Never heard of her,’ he said.

I placed a photograph of her on the bed in front of him. It had been taken several months earlier; Agnes had given it to a liaison officer.

‘Don’t know her,’ he said with a shrug. His shoulders seemed to relax slightly, his whole body language shifting in a way I could not explain.

‘You’re sure?’ I asked, pushing the photograph closer to him.

‘Asked and answered, Inspector,’ his lawyer, Brown, said.

‘You didn’t pick up this girl in Letterkenny on Monday, 31 May?’ I continued.

‘I believe we have established that my client doesn’t know this person, Inspector.’

‘This girl, Karen Doherty, was found dead on a building site in Raphoe on Tuesday, 1 June,’ I said. ‘I believe you’ve heard of her from the news, Mr Brown. And I believe you knew her too, Mr McLaughlin.’

‘Believe what you like,’ he grunted. ‘Never seen her before.’ He sniffed, once. ‘Not really my type.’

‘Someone spiked her drink with paint stripper in Club Manhattan in Letterkenny. Paint stripper like the stuff we found in your garage.’ I waved away his protest before he had a chance to articulate it. ‘We know you’ve been at that club. A doorman identified you as a regular. And I believe we almost met there ourselves a week or two ago. I still have the bruises to prove it.’

‘Yeah, I go there. Doesn’t mean I know what’s-her-face.’

‘We have CCTV footage of her climbing into a sports car. We have a clear shot of the arm of the driver, sporting a tattoo identical to yours.’

‘It’s a small world too, isn’t it?’ he said, his lawyer placing a quietening hand on his forearm which he shook off.

‘If that’s all you’ve got, Inspector, I see no reason to keep my client any longer’, Brown said. ‘The man is sick, shot by Gardai, based on the evidence of a photograph of a tattoo. You’ve got to be kidding me.’

‘We also have your fingerprints at the murder scene, Mr McLaughlin. You opened a condom to use as you assaulted the girl; you left it in the same room as the body. With your fingerprints on it. Then, of course, you left your handiwork all over Karen Doherty, too, didn’t you?’ I said, placing now a number of the crime-scene photographs on the bed in front of him.

McLaughlin looked at the pictures one after another, but if he felt anything he did not show it. Finally he looked at Brown but did not speak.

‘The doctor who pronounced her dead said she was hit with force similar to that of a car hitting her. That level of violence can only be inflicted by someone with immense strength, Mr McLaughlin. And with immense rage.’

‘The Doherty girl wasn’t sexually assaulted from what I understood,’ Brown said. ‘Is that right?’

None of us answered, which was response enough in itself.

‘Why would my client open a condom he wasn’t going to use? Perhaps it was lying there from another occasion. You can’t actually be sure that the item was left at the time the girl was killed, can you?’

‘In addition, of course, you left something else at the second scene; a witness. We have spoken to the second girl you attempted to assault, Mr McLaughlin. A fifteen-year-old, whom you also battered with your fists. Fifteen years old. She suggests you were physically unable to complete your planned assault. Is that true, Mr McLaughlin?’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ McLaughlin said bluntly.

‘Why are you using Viagra, Mr McLaughlin?’ Gorman asked.

‘What?’ he snapped, with enough venom to startle even Brown.

‘Viagra. We found traces of it in your blood. Along with steroids. Oh, and breast cancer drugs,’ she continued. ‘Any explanation?’

‘No crime taking Viagra,’ Brown said. Are we moving on, now?’

‘The crime was in the theft of tamoxifen,’ Gorman said. ‘We have matched the trainers you were wearing, Mr McLaughlin, with a footprint found on the door of Lifford pharmacy, the morning after it was broken into and a batch of breast cancer drugs stolen. Drugs which we found in your room, and in your blood. Drugs which a competitor in a local kick-boxing tournament says you sold him.’

Brown seemed completely unprepared for this departure, and I wondered what exactly he and his client had discussed in preparation.

‘Shall I tell you how I think this all went, Mr McLaughlin?’ I said. ‘I believe you have been abusing steroids in order to enhance your physical state. As a result of this, however, you suffered what is commonly called “moobs”. Fortunately, you somehow learned that tamoxifen reduces these; certainly that was what you told Darren Kehoe when you sold him some last week; something to which Mr Kehoe will attest. Of course, two of the other known side effects of steroid abuse are impotence and extreme rage. I believe that you went out that evening, armed with a bottle of paint stripper, looking for a woman. Having spotted Karen Doherty in Letterkenny, you spiked her drink and waited for her to be separated from her friends. You picked her up outside the club and drove her to the building site outside Raphoe. There you attempted to rape Karen but were unable to perform. In a rage you beat her with sufficient force to kill her. Then you calmly cleaned up and left.’

‘You repeated this again with Rebecca Purdy. Again, you were unable to complete your planned assault, so you beat her as well, though luckily she survived. She later identified you in Club Manhattan, on the same night I chased you out into the alleyway and you almost knocked me down in the silver BMW which you were driving the night of your arrest.’

‘Has the girl positively identified my client?’ Brown asked, having listened to all that was said, not giving McLaughlin a chance to speak.

‘She will as soon as he is well enough to join an ID parade.’ Brown nodded. ‘I’d like to speak to my client.’

We turned off the tapes at that point and went outside, obliged to give Brown the time he needed. Gorman, Dempsey and I went down to the hospital canteen for a coffee, then outside for a smoke.

Gorman seemed fired up by the imminent cracking of her first solo case; the kind of break that would serve her well when she applied for Detective. She talked continuously, dragging nervously on her cigarette. She was halfway through her second by the time I stubbed mine out.

Dempsey’s mobile phone rang. He looked at the caller ID, then stepped away from us, putting his hand against his left ear to help him hear. While Dempsey muttered away in the background, Gorman discussed station politics and asked about the Superintendent interview. Suddenly, we heard Dempsey swear excitedly.

When he came back over to us, he was more agitated than Gorman had been. ‘Well, don’t keep us in suspense,’ I joked.

‘You’re not going to believe this. We got a match on McLaughlin’s DNA swab. Not a sex case, though. His fucking DNA matches that found under the fingernails of James Kerr.’

The mood in McLaughlin’s room had changed by the time we returned. It changed again once Dempsey took over the interview and revealed the DNA information. McLaughlin’s relaxed demeanour vanished and I suspected that he had expected to be questioned about this all along. He had visibly relaxed when I asked him about Karen Doherty. Now he was tensing up again, and even in his injured state, I wondered at the damage he could inflict in this room if he lost his temper again.

‘So,’ Dempsey said, ‘I think this changes things a bit. Don’t you, Mr McLaughlin?’

‘It proves nothing,’ his lawyer argued, clearly perturbed that the interview had taken another turn.

‘It proves plenty. How else might you account for a dead man having your DNA under his fingernails? Were you friends?’

McLaughlin glared at Dempsey from under his eyebrows. His biceps seemed to pulse involuntarily.

‘Take it easy, son,’ Dempsey said. ‘Remember what happened the last time you got carried away,’ he added, winking as he tapped his right shoulder.

‘I think-’ Brown began, but Dempsey interrupted him.

‘You think nothing,’ he said, then turned to McLaughlin. ‘We have you placed at the scene of a crucifixion, son. In fucking Donegal. As well as beating little girls and ripping off chemists. You are going to be hung out to dry. Now, added to that, we’ve got your sister’s ex-husband and Declan O’Kane, your ex-boss. Something tells me that when we dig deep enough, we’ll connect you with every one of those.’

‘Not forgetting the armed robbery in Castlederg that Jamie Kerr did his time for,’ I added.

McLaughlin looked at me.

‘Why not charge him for sinking the Titanic while we’re at it?’ Brown said.

‘He’s certainly big enough,’ Dempsey retorted. ‘So, Mr McLaughlin. Let’s start at the start, shall we? Which crime do you want to discuss first?’

Brown appeared increasingly harried. ‘After consultation with my client, I feel we need a psychiatric evaluation of his ability to answer questions on these accusations. I’d like him to speak to someone before he says anything further.’

‘Fine,’ Dempsey said, snapping off the tape recorder.

‘The fucker’s going to claim he’s insane,’ Dempsey said, once we were outside.

‘Diminished responsibility because of the drugs, possibly,’ I said. ‘Will he get it?’

‘That’ll be up to the Director of Public Prosecutions,’ he said. ‘He might be able to get it on the girl’s murder — manslaughter anyway. The Kerr killing was different, though. You generally don’t place crucifixion under crimes of passion.’

‘We should run McLaughlin’s print against the partial taken from Decko’s gate,’ I said. ‘Might help load the dice against him a bit further if we can place him there as well,’ I suggested, taking out my cigarettes and offering Dempsey one. Helen Gorman had gone back to the station, disappointed that her promised big break hadn’t quite materialized.

‘I’ll get it done when I head back to the station,’ he agreed.

‘Of course, it finally ties up one thing,’ I said.

‘What?’

‘Castlederg Post Office. Kerr said there were three others in the gang: that’s Webb, O’Kane, and now McLaughlin.’

Before leaving the hospital, I collected Caroline and her things and drove her back to our house, where her son was waiting for her. Debbie had made dinner for everyone. Caroline did not ask about the progress on the case, nor did she express any interest in station gossip. Even then I knew she was disconnecting from An Garda, and it was no surprise when, during dessert, she told us that she had decided to leave for a while. She had discussed it with Costello, she said, when he had visited her earlier. He was giving her paid leave for three months.

‘Maybe you’ll change your mind,’ I said. ‘Once you get bored about the house.’

She smiled a little sadly. ‘No, I don’t think so, sir — Ben. I’ve pretty much decided. The three months’ll give me time to find something else. This kiddo’s way too important to risk something like that again,’ she said, tousling Peter’s hair softly with her hand. He beamed up at her, his single source of stability, and I understood her decision.

‘I’ll be sorry to lose you,’ I said. ‘You’ll still be around, though, won’t you?’

She nodded, but said nothing. I looked over at Debbie, who shook her head very slightly, as if to tell me not to delve any further. I didn’t get a chance anyway, for my phone rang. It was Reverend Charles Bardwell.

‘I heard your colleague on the radio saying you’ve had a significant development in Jamie’s case, Inspector,’ he said. It appeared that Dempsey had got to know the local media very well.

‘Yes, we’ve a DNA match with a suspect we lifted for something else.’

‘Is it anyone we know?’ he asked.

I knew I shouldn’t say, but at this stage, I suspected it could cause little harm. ‘Peter Webb’s brother-in-law, we believe,’ I said. ‘He was lifted for killing a Strabane girl. Turns out his DNA matched that taken from under Jamie’s nails.’

‘That’s fantastic news, Inspector. Well done.’

‘Well, it’s not quite in the bag yet,’ I said, ‘So keep it to yourself for now; he’s still in hospital up in Letterkenny. We’re waiting for a psychiatric evaluation,’ I explained.

Bardwell assured me he would tell no one and thanked me again. ‘God bless you, Inspector,’ he said before he hung up, in a manner that reminded me of Jamie Kerr, hunched over his lunch, raising his soup spoon in salute. At least now I felt I had done him justice.

I left Caroline and Peter home just after ten o’clock that evening. When I arrived back, a blue Ford Mondeo was parked in our driveway. I was a little surprised when I got into the house to see Dempsey sitting at our kitchen table chatting with Debbie. He stood up when I came in.

‘Hope you don’t mind the intrusion,’ he said. ‘I have some good news and some bad news about McLaughlin.’ He tapped his fingers on a folder lying on the table, which I assumed to be a copy of McLaughlin’s arrest file.

‘What’s the good?’

‘We matched his prints with the one from Decko’s, which places him there as well.’

‘And the bad?’ I said.

Dempsey shook his head. ‘It might not make any difference,’ he explained. It turned out that his psychiatric evaluation hadn’t gone quite as we’d wanted it to. The psychiatrist who assessed him decided that he had acted while under the influence of steroids. These had induced a state of ’roid rage, which, while it didn’t exonerate him from all responsibility, certainly did raise concerns about whether he could have been considered compos mentis.

A representative from the DPP’s office had already been in touch with Dempsey. ‘They’re aiming for ten years at best, because of the diminished responsibility claim.’

‘Ten years,’ I said. ‘You’re fucking kidding me.’

‘Ten years max,’ Dempsey said. ‘Probably out in five if he cleans up his act.’

‘You’re not going to accept that, are you?’

Dempsey shrugged, as if it were out of his hands. ‘It’s with the Prosecutor now,’ he said.

‘Five years,’ I repeated, incredulously.

Dempsey nodded his head.

After Dempsey left, Debbie and I cleaned up and went to bed. But I could not sleep. Something gnawed at the back of my mind, something not right with regard to McLaughlin.

I went back downstairs and sat at the back door, having a smoke, while Frank watched me and whined slightly in disgust.

As I stood there, I noticed Dempsey had forgotten the file on McLaughlin. I lifted it and flicked through the notes.

Name, address, date of birth. As I read through the notes, I became aware of what had troubled me; the most obvious detail: Date of birth: 6 February 1984. McLaughlin would have been eleven years old when Castlederg Post Office was robbed. He wasn’t the fourth gang member, which meant he had no reason to kill Jamie Kerr and Decko, unless someone had told him to. His sister, maybe — but surely Jamie Kerr would have recognized a woman as one of the four gang members. Which meant someone else had instructed him; the same person who was, perhaps, letting Danny McLaughlin take his fall over all the killings associated with the Kerr case. The boy was going to do time somewhere over the attacks on the girls; what had he to lose?

My entering his room woke McLaughlin from sleep. He sat up awkwardly in the bed, lifting his mobile phone from the bedside cabinet before squinting at the display to check the time. He looked slightly dazed.

‘You can’t do this,’ he said. ‘I want my lawyer.’

‘No lawyers, Daniel,’ I said. ‘Just a quick chat.’

‘What the fuck? Oi! Who’s out there?’ he shouted, presumably to the uniform who should have been outside the door.

‘No one’s there, Danny,’ I said. ‘I told them to get a cup of tea. Said I’d keep you company for a while.’

He looked at me askance. ‘What do you want? My psychiatrist said I’m not to be disturbed.’

‘I thought you already were.’

‘What?’ he asked, looking for the insult in my comment.

‘You’re too young to have done Castlederg, Danny. You’d have been eleven. Isn’t that right?’

He stared at me, his mouth slightly agape. ‘I never said I did.’

‘No, that’s true,’ I agreed. ‘But then, why would you kill Jamie Kerr? He was no threat to you; he wanted to forgive the other gang members. Do you see where this is going?’

‘I have nothing to say to you,’ McLaughlin said. ‘Get out of my room.’

‘Take it easy, big lad,’ I said, sensing he was getting angry. ‘I’m not trying to trick you. I’m worried about you.’

‘Worried about me,’ he snorted. ‘What for?’

‘The way I see it, there were four in the Castlederg gang, including Jamie Kerr. Kerr knew your brother-in-law was one of them. He confronted him, and then he was found hanging. Jamie spotted Decko while he was at your sister’s house and recognized him from the acne scars. He arranged to meet with Decko and the other member. Kerr was crucified by you,’ I waved away his attempt to protest and continued. ‘And then Decko was shot in his back yard after being questioned by us. That leaves you, Danny — but you’re too young. Someone has been getting you to do their dirty work. Isn’t that right?’

‘Fuck you,’ he spat.

‘I’ll take that as a yes, then,’ I retorted. ‘The thing is, Danny, this person has been doing a cracking job of cleaning up after themselves. No one connected with them, or who could identify them, has survived. Except you.’ I allowed a pause for the message to hit home. ‘For now.’

McLaughlin shifted in the bed, narrowing his glare with suspicion.

‘Do you really think whoever he is, he’s going to let you sit here, or in whatever jail they put you in, knowing that you could rat him out? You’re on borrowed time, Danny,’ I said. ‘Don’t kid yourself that you’re not.’

McLaughlin raised himself up on the bed, using one arm.

‘Is that it?’ he snorted. ‘Piss away off

‘It was worth a try, Danny,’ I said. ‘Bear in mind, though — every time that door opens, it could be your friend, coming to pay his respects. Don’t be someone else’s sucker.’

‘Don’t be a prick,’ he retorted, then lay down on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

I left the room without looking back at him. I hadn’t really believed that McLaughlin would confess to me. But by turning the screws, I hoped at least to make him a little less trusting in whoever he was working for.

Outside his room, I looked for the uniform I had sent to the canteen for a break. I suddenly felt very tired and, suspecting he wouldn’t be too much longer, I went out to the squad car and drove home.