Gallows Lane

Chapter Thirteen

Wednesday, 9 June

Our forensics specialists were unable to find anything noteworthy on either the bullet or the card. The envelope had been posted from the box outside Lifford Post Office, which limited the list of suspects to the several thousand people living in Lifford, possibly the twenty-odd thousand living across the bridge, in Strabane, as well as those just passing through.

Costello examined the card through the polythene evidence bag in which it had been placed. He had pulled down the blinds in his room to take the edge off the sunlight, but had not opened the windows to reduce the heat. I kept having to wipe the sweat from my forehead, wafting a page in front of my face to cool down. Costello assumed that my sweating was caused by fear — and he was perhaps partially right.

‘Don’t worry, Ben. We’ll get to the bottom of this. It’s probably nothing — just an empty threat,’ he added, unconvincingly. ‘Have you any notion who might have sent it?’

‘Could be anyone, sir. I assume it’s related in some way to something I’m working on at the minute.’

‘Any names?’

Plenty, I thought — James Kerr, Reverend Charles Bardwell the self-confessed Catholic killer? Special Branch? Mr Bond had, after all, laughed when he said about my not getting the message. Was this the message he meant? And then, of course, there was the possibility that one of my colleagues had sent it. Not to mention the recently identified Decko O’Kane.

‘The postmark is dated on Monday, sir. After Peter Webb died.’ This seemed to exclude Bardwell, whom I hadn’t met by then, and the spook, ‘Mr Bond’, about whose activities I had only recently asked questions. And, at that stage I knew nothing of Mrs Webb’s affair, so, as a suspect, Decko O’Kane was dead in the water. So that left James Kerr — and Patterson. The religious aspect of the card seemed to implicate Kerr. But then, terrorist groups in the North had been posting people bullets and sympathy cards for years without religion featuring at all. This attempted emulation of hard-man tactics made me suspect that the card had been sent by my colleague — and rival in promotion — following my doubting the probity of his detective work.

‘Well, don’t worry about it, Ben. I’m sure it’s probably just harmless bluster. Still, best keep an eye out, eh?’ He winked at me in an avuncular manner, resting his hands across his girth, feigning an air of indifference. ‘Did you get a letter about the interview?’ he asked, not quite catching my eye.

I nodded, deliberately holding his gaze, but not feeling the confidence I was hoping to project.

‘There’ll be mention of these finds, I dare say. And Webb’s death. Have you thought of what you’re going to say?’

I shook my head. ‘Not. .’ I cleared my throat and started again, ‘Not really, sir. Not yet.’

‘I’ll not try to influence you, Benedict; you know your own mind best. But I’d hate to be in your position.’ He held my gaze then, until I had to look away.

‘In fact,’ he added, passing me the sympathy card, ‘I think I’d rather receive one of these than that interview you got. One might be a threat — the other could be suicide, if you’re not careful.’

If Patterson had sent the card, he played the role of innocent well. As I made my way back to my desk, a number of my colleagues came towards me and offered sympathies and support, some with words of defiance, others with a mixture of pity and fear on their faces, as if I had already died. Patterson did not speak to me, though I watched him carefully throughout the rest of the day for any sign, any slight twitching of the lips which would validate my suspicion and give me cause to confront him.

Finally, just before I headed home, I walked over to his desk. He was reading a report, seemingly unaware of my presence. I leaned towards him, smiling amiably for the benefit of those who were watching.

‘If I find it was you who posted that card, I’ll square it with you when you least expect it.’

‘What are you going to do? Run and tell on me? Cry in the playground. Grow up, Devlin,’ he said, not even looking at me.

My face burned with shame and I lost my balance slightly as the floor seemed to shift under me. I heard a sound in my ears as if I had held a conch shell against each one. Then Patterson turned and returned my smile and beneath the rush of blood I could discern his final words: ‘I wouldn’t bother with a poxy card, Devlin. I’d just go straight ahead and kill you, you useless prick.’

Debbie’s concern was not for me — or even herself — but for the children. She read the card several times, as if by doing so she might decipher some hidden message, some implicit threat to Shane and Penny which I had missed. I put my arms around her shoulders where she sat and tried to convince her that it was an empty threat from a disgruntled colleague, though even I doubted that.

She shrugged my arms away. ‘What if it’s not? What if someone actually does want to kill you? How do you know that they won’t attack you when the kids are in the car? Or when we’re in our beds? This is the second time you’ve put us at risk just so you can prove your rectitude.’

‘This isn’t about me, Debs,’ I said, though she was right. During a previous murder investigation our home had been attacked and Debbie and the kids held at gunpoint by a killer.

‘Well, who is it about? Me? The kids? Who else feels they have to prove a drugs find isn’t a drugs find? Or a suicide’s not a suicide? Why not just leave them, eh? Let someone else take the shit for a change? You’re not the only honest policeman in the world, Ben — stop acting the martyr.’

‘I’m not acting the martyr.’

‘No — that’s right. You’re worse. You’re going to make your family martyrs instead.’

That evening I sat out in the garden with Frank once the children had gone to bed, partly because Debbie was not speaking to me, but also because I was afraid for my family’s safety. I thought about what Debbie, and Hendry, and most of those with whom I had been in contact recently, had said about being part of the team — and my need to prove myself right, regardless of the cost. Perhaps there was some truth in it.

And so I sat outside with my dog, and listened and waited while the sunlight died in the west and the sky turned a wash of burnished gold that could do nothing to lift the heaviness I felt around my heart.

At ten-thirty I heard the phone ringing. Debbie appeared at the back door and held out the receiver to me without speaking.

‘Charles Bardwell here, Inspector.’

‘Reverend Bardwell,’ I said. ‘How can I help you?’

‘I’ve spoken to Jamie, Inspector, and interceded on your behalf. He says he has almost finished his mission and is agreeable to meet with you, tomorrow.’

‘Why not now?’ I asked, then realized how ungrateful it sounded.

‘I knew you’d be pleased,’ Bardwell replied sarcastically.

‘Sorry, I. . I’ve had a bad day, Reverend.’

‘Well, tomorrow may be better,’ he replied blithely. ‘James has something he needs to do this evening, Inspector. He said he will meet you in the place where Peter Webb’s body was found, at ten a.m. tomorrow. I rather think he’s hoping you’ll see your way to providing breakfast.’

‘Why? He scammed three hundred euros from Webb’s widow,’ I said, a little too petulantly.

‘I think you’re mistaken, Inspector. Jamie wouldn’t do something like that. He specifically asked that you feed him. His mission does not allow him to commit sin. Including theft.’

‘And murder?’

‘Nothing to do with James, Inspector, I assure you.’

‘Perhaps,’ I said, unconvinced. ‘Thanks for your help, Reverend.’

Tomorrow may be a better day, he had said. Neither of us realized then just how false that hope would prove to be.