Borderlands (13 page)

The snow was
falling so fast that the windscreen wipers of the car would not clear it. It had
lain dry on the car bonnet like powdered sugar and now blew back onto the
windscreen as we drove.

The doctor
gave me a tetanus shot and stitched and bandaged up my hand, showing me first
where the skin and ligaments could be pulled back to reveal the yellow-white
bone beneath. Again, the bile rose in my throat and I had to swallow it back to
stop myself being sick. As he gave me a bottle of painkillers, he broached a
subject I had not wanted to consider.

"I've
taken a blood sample for testing, you know," he said, looking me in the
eye. I nodded and did not speak. "HIV, hepatitis, that kind of thing; I'll
get the results for you quick as I can. There's a three month incubation period
with HIV, though; might have to get that done again in the spring. It's unlikely,
Inspector, but all the same - better be safe than sorry, eh?"

"Safe
..." I said, unable to articulate the thoughts which darkened my mind.

Now I sat in
the patrol car as we carefully wound our way down the snow-covered streets of Lifford
and slid to a halt outside the station, nausea continuing to gnaw at my stomach
while I tried to reassure myself that McKelvey was too young to have diseases
such as those the doctor had mentioned, yet acutely aware that his age,
perhaps, made it all the more likely.

When I got
into the station, several people whose faces I hardly recognized enquired after
my health and some patted my back or shook my uninjured hand. The doctor had
elevated my arm in a sling - for comfort, he said, but it had the effect of
drawing attention to the injury.

I was
shuffling up to the interview room when Costello appeared, two steaming cups of
coffee in his hands. He offered me one.

"How's
the hand?" he said, motioning towards my arm with his own cup.

"Fine.
I'm on a painkiller trip. I'll tell you, I can understand the attraction of
drugs."

Costello
laughed, thinking I was joking. "Feeling up to talking to our latest
visitor? We held back, just for you."

McKelvey was
in our holding cell, sitting on the edge of the lightweight metal bench which
was suspended from the ceiling with thick wires. He was wearing black jeans,
which were moulded to his legs and groin, and a pair of Nike trainers. On top
he had been wearing only a white T-shirt when we picked him up, but someone in
the station had given him a blanket which he had wrapped around himself. His
hair looked bleached blond, almost white at the tips, like an albino, and
despite its length, his ears stuck out almost at right angles to the side of
his head. One of the earlobes had a nick taken out of it; the other was pierced
with three gold studs. His face was thin and narrow, his eyes wide and blue,
his cheekbones high, all of which, combined with his skin-tight trousers, gave
him a feminine appearance. One of his eyes was badly bruised, the lid almost
shut, and the knocks he had received had affected his nose, for he spoke with a
harsh, nasal twang.

Harvey cuffed
McKelvey and led him up to the interview room where we had set a table and
enough chairs for McKelvey and the murder team. When McKelvey was brought in
and sat down he slouched automatically and reached over to lift one of the cigarettes
from the pack I had left in front of me. I put the packet in my pocket after
taking one myself. If necessary, we could offer him one later in barter for
information.

Costello
introduced all present for the benefit of the twin tape recorders which were
running beside us. Costello then asked McKelvey, for the second time, to
confirm that he had waived his right to a solicitor. McKelvey laughed and said
something unintelligible which we took to be agreement.

"Liam.
Do you understand why you are here today?" Costello asked as a gentle
opener.

"Aye.
CSA. Can't take knickers off a bare arse, know what I mean."

We looked at
each other, trying to make some sense of what he had said. Eventually Williams
said, "What? Could
you...
could you explain that for us, Liam?"

"CSA.
But you should be thanking me. Them sluts were sluts till I got them up the
duff. They don't realize that, but they're slags and nobody respects them, see?
Then I get them up the duff. They get respect then, wit' their sprogs. All
claiming benefits anyhow. I get them slags respect. An' a good seeing to,"
he said, winking at Williams, "know what I mean, like."

"Jesus,"
Williams said disgustedly, "it would take more than drugs, son."
Costello shot her a warning glance.

"Liam,
did you know Angela Cashell?" Costello asked.

"Fuck's
sake, course I do. Haven't I jus' tol’ you. She was a slapper - no one'd go
near her. I got her respect."

"You got
her respect," Holmes interrupted incredulously. "How exactly did you
do that?"

"I'm not
talking to you," McKelvey snapped, literally spitting. Costello announced
that the interview was suspended for a break and called us outside, leaving Harvey
in the interview room with the boy.

"What in
God's name is going on in there?" he asked as we came out.

"He
thinks he's been lifted for not paying child support," Williams explained.
"The CSA in the North."

"He also
seems to believe that by leaving girls pregnant, he's doing them a favour by
removing the stigma of being a 'slag' and replacing it with the honour of being
a single mother to a litter of little Whitey McKelveys," I said.

"And he
seems to think that Angela Cashell was pregnant, too."

"Was she?"
Holmes asked with concern. "You know, that would be a double murder."

"No. If
she was pregnant, the autopsy would have shown it. The question is why did he
think she was pregnant?" I said.

"Unless
she told him she was," continued Costello. "But why would you want
that piece of shit to think he was father to your baby. Especially if there was
no baby?"

"Perhaps
she wanted to keep him," suggested Williams. "Maybe she thought he
was going to dump her, so she said she was pregnant in the hope that he'd stick
around. Or maybe she thought she was.

At that age,
it's difficult to rely on the time of the month. If you're a week or two late,
you convince yourself you've been caught."

"Do
you?" I asked, smiling.

"Oh
yes," Williams said. "And it doesn't stop when you're past being a
teenager."

"Maybe
she wanted money. Tells him she's pregnant and needs money for the baby,"
I suggested.

"Or for
an abortion," Williams agreed.

"Maybe
McKelvey thought she was pregnant and killed her to avoid having to pay
anything," Holmes suggested.

"No,"
Williams said. "You heard him in there. He doesn't give a shit how many
babies he has, he has no intention of paying for them anyway. Why would one
more be any different?"

"Shit,"
I said, as a growing realisation dawned. "That scuppers one theory."

"What?"
Holmes asked.

"Well,
we know that McKelvey did a runner when he saw Johnny Cashell looking for him
after Angela died. We'd assumed that that was a sign of guilt for her death.
But what if it wasn't?"

"You mean,
what if he thought Johnny was after him for getting his daughter
pregnant?" Holmes said.

"Exactly,"
I said.

Costello
nodded towards Holmes and Williams. "Look, I'd like you two to sit out of
this one," he said. "We'll try him first," he said to me, "with
you leading. If we don't get anywhere, we'll swap. Okay?"

I could tell
that both were annoyed about being left out of the interview. As the two of
them headed into the room beside us, where they could watch and listen unseen,
I asked Costello why in particular he had excluded Williams, who had been
getting on fine.

"Don't
want to have a lady have to listen to that kind of chat. No place for a girl
like Caroline," he said, his tone serious, his face set. I wondered
whether to point out that comments like that would have him before an
industrial tribunal for sexist behaviour.

In the end I
said nothing, but followed him into the room, taking time to nod in the
direction of the two-way mirror, through which I knew Williams and Holmes would
be watching.

We sat down
and I took out a cigarette and lit it. I could see Whitey's gaze following the
smoke and he licked at his lips and fidgeted in his seat.

"So, you
knew Angela Cashell?" I asked and he confirmed that he did. "What
about her father?"

"Bloody
lunatic," he said.

"Why?"

"Psycho
bastard tried to burn me fuckin' home down. Should be liftin' him, not the
likes of me."

"Why did
he come after you Liam? Why'd you think he tried to—"

"'Cause
she were up the duff," he stated, folding his thin arms across his chest.

"What?
Because you got her pregnant?"

"Aye,
why else?"

"Not
because he thought you'd killed her?" I asked, as casually as possible.

"Aye,
right." He laughed. "Me kill her. What would I kill her for? Wasn't
she givin' me me hole?"

"You're
a born romantic, Liam," I said, earning a glance from Costello.

"What
about drugs, Liam?" Costello asked.

"What
about them?" he said, grinning inanely. "Yes, please," he
laughed, looking from Costello to me and back to see if we shared his
estimation of his sense of humour. Neither of us spoke. "Oh, sorry, sir, I
forgot. I'd never do that." He spluttered a laugh again, spittle bubbling
on his lips.

"No
drugs, then Liam. Not for you?"

"I don't
do drugs. I'm telling you; I don't need them."

"Not even
something to get you in the mood, you and Angela maybe. Before ... you
know?"

He giggled
strangely. "I don't need nothing, me. You might at your age, but not
me."

"What
about Angela? Was she taking drugs?"

"I don't
know. Ask her. Give us a fag, mister."

Costello
thumped the table with such force it made me jump, whatever the effect on
McKelvey. "We can't ask her - she's dead. So watch your mouth, son."

For a moment
McKelvey looked slightly stupefied, but quickly regained his bonhomie. He
behaved as though this whole thing was a big joke - three friends having a
laugh. "Aye, good one. What? Have you got me in for murder, like? Aye,
right."

"Actually,
we do Liam. So I'd start answering some questions if I were you, son, starting
with where you were on Friday night." Costello leaned forwards on the
table as he spoke, his size formidable in such a small room.

McKelvey was
silent a moment, his face aghast. Then he shouted, "Piss off! You're not
pinning nothing on me. I want me lawyer." He leaned to look around us at
the mirror behind us. "Oi, you in there. Get me a lawyer. I want me
lawyer."

"Listen,
Liam. It's very simple, son," I said. "We have a number of questions
which we would like you to answer. If you help us, and answer them fully and
honestly, we'll have you home this evening. If not, you're in here over
Christmas until the court opens on the twenty-seventh. Help us and we'll see
you right."

McKelvey said
nothing. He folded his arms sullenly and slouched further in his seat, staring
at some indistinct point on the scarred surface of the table. I hoped we had
deflected his attention away from his request for a lawyer - it would only
complicate things. "Where were you on Friday night last?" I asked,
taking his silence as a sign of reluctant acceptance.

"Don't
remember," he said, without looking up.

"Try!"
Costello said.

"I was
in Letterkenny. With me cousins."

"Where?"

"About."

"Where
about?" I asked.

"Everywhere!
I don't know, do I? I had a few drinks in me," he spat.

"When
did you last see Angela Cashell?"

"Last
Tuesday, I think."

"Are you
sure?"

"Aye, of
course I'm sure."

"So you
remember what you did last Tuesday, but not Friday?" Costello queried.

"I got
off, didn't I? 'Course I remember it."

"You
didn't see her, say, on Thursday night?"

"Are you
deaf?" He leaned towards the tape recorders and raised his voice for comic
effect. "I haven't seen her since Tuesday. Do you understand?" This
final phrase he said as a deaf person might. Then he laughed forcibly, any real
bravado having long since abandoned him.

"So, if
I told you we have video footage of you and Angela Cashell on Thursday night
together in Strabane, you'd say I was lying would you?"

"Aye. I
didn't see her on Thursday, alright?"

"Okay,
okay, Liam, whatever you say." I looked to Costello, signalling that I
was done for now.