Borderlands (29 page)

I got
dressed as quickly as I could and headed out into the snow. It took almost
twenty minutes to drive to Holmes' house. When I got there, his car was nowhere
to be seen. The house was in darkness, the blinds drawn back. I checked for my
gun in my pocket and resolved to wait for Holmes to return. Then I thought
better of it, guessing that he might be with Williams. I drove to her house,
but only her own car sat in the driveway. Finally, as dawn cracked on the
horizon, lending the falling snowflakes a purple tint, I drove back to the
station to wait for support.

I was in
the station at 8.30 a.m. in time to meet the postman. I flicked through the
post as I entered the station, switching on the lights. I found three pieces of
mail for myself and, dumping the rest on Burgess's desk, I went down into the
murder room, stopping to fill the coffeemaker.

The first
piece of mail I opened was from the General Registrar, containing the birth
certificates of the two Knox children, which I had forgotten I'd requested. As
I scanned the certificates, Tommy Powell's name appeared once again, this time
listed as the father of Aoibhinn Knox.

At Finnside
I waved to Mrs MacGowan as I passed her glass-walled office, but did not stop.
From the corner of my eye I saw her standing up to get my attention, then
scrabbling at something on her desk.

Powell was
propped up in the bed, his wispy hair the yellow of dirty snow. His face had
almost collapsed in on itself, the tissue paper of his skin nearly transparent.
His jaw was slack, a line of saliva dribbling down his chin. I watched him
silently for a few minutes, waiting to see if his bird-like chest would rise
and fall, but there was no discernible movement.

For a
second I thought he was dead, but then his eyes rolled spectrally in his skull
and turned towards me, his head inclining ever so slightly on his pillow. All
my anger and indignation waned at the sight of him. What sort of victory was
it, I wondered, for an able-bodied man in his thirties to remind a dying
pensioner of his youthful indiscretion? Yet I still felt a need for justice -
for something. Powell was involved, somehow, in all of this. I needed to know
what his role was.

I held the
birth certificate close to his face, so close in fact that I could smell his
rancid breath, the smell of something deeper than hunger, like stagnation.

"Did
you know she was your daughter? Mary Knox's girl? Did she tell you?"

His eyes
rolled away from me, his face tightening, and he stared at the flowered
curtains which hung almost to the floor, blocking the brilliant glare of the
frozen world outside.

"You
let her go to an orphanage," I said. "Does your son know about this?
Did you tell him about your prostitute, Mr Powell? And what about Ratsy
Donaghey? What was the connection there? Did you know that he killed her?"

He still
did not look at me, but I noticed the corners of his eyes redden and a tear
slipped down his face. I was growing to realize the futility of my actions.
Enraged by my embarrassment, I leaned in close to him.

"If I
find you had anything to do with her death, Mr Powell, I can promise you, I'll
nail you for it. Politician or not, all the money in the world won't save
you."

I turned
then to face Miriam Powell, who looked flushed from running. Behind her stood
Mrs MacGowan, looking concerned.

"You
really have no limits, Benedict, do you?" Miriam said, her face contorted
in disgust.

"This
is police business, Mrs Powell," I said.

"No, it's
not, Ben. It's some
sad ...
I don't know what. Some attempt to make up for your
inadequacies," she spat.

"Your
father-in-law had an affair with a prostitute, Miriam. He fathered her child,
then let that same child be put in an orphanage when his mistress vanished. She
was killed by someone whom he employed. He may know something about her death.
This is police business," I said, speaking loudly enough that Mrs MacGowan
would hear, and I found some small measure of delight in watching her blanche
as she realized that civilized people could commit evil acts with the same or
even greater impunity than those outside her social circle.

"I'd
like you to leave, please," Miriam said. "My husband will be in touch
with you when he gets home." She looked away from me, but as I passed I
heard her say, "I pity you Benedict, you're pathetic."

I looked at
the side of her face, but she simply went over to her father-in-law and sat on
the edge of his bed, holding the withered branch of his hand in hers, stroking
the hair that clung to his scalp.

I left the
home and went down to the river's edge and, as the snow thickened steadily, I
looked over to the spot where Angela Cashell had died.

I had handled
the case badly from the start. Now I was left with only this: somehow, either
Powell or Costello was involved in the murder of Mary Knox. Costello had the
motive of revenge or jealousy; he would certainly have known Donaghey and
perhaps had some leverage over him as a policeman. Powell was Donaghey's boss
in IID and the Three Rivers Hotel. In addition, Powell was Knox's lover, though
it wasn't clear that he had any motive for killing her. In fact, I hadn't
really considered the possibility until I stood looking at him. He had not
looked after Knox's daughter, but that was not a crime.

Quietly, I
apologized to Angela Cashell and Terry Boyle; perhaps the wind would carry my
words to them. Yet neither the thought nor the words brought any respite from my
feeling of failure. I seemed to be so close, and yet what would I achieve in
arresting Yvonne Coyle, assuming she could be found? It would punish the
murderer of Angela and Terry. But what of Mary Knox? Would she get justice?

I hardly
heard the phone ringing in the car, and by the time I reached it, it had
stopped. I recognized the missed-call number on the screen as the station and
called back to Burgess, expecting something to be said about my visit to
Powell. But I was wrong.

"Inspector!
You're highly in demand this morning. You realize you're meant to be in the
station for an interview today over the McKelvey death. It's just I left you a
note which I don't see on your desk, so I'm assuming you knew. Also, Officer
Armstrong has been on the phone twice for you. Said he has information you said
was important. Call him back, will you? I'm not your personal secretary!"

"Sure,"
I said. "Tell me, Burgess, is Williams in yet?"

"Yep.
She's down in your 'office'."

"What
about Costello?"

"He's
going to the Boyle funeral. Would you like the station's full attendance list,
Inspector?" Burgess laughed and hung up before I could ask anything more.

I sat back
in the car with the heating on and phoned through to Garda Command and Control
and asked to be put through to Research. Armstrong answered almost immediately.

"Inspector
Devlin here. I wasn't expecting to hear from you so soon," I said,
lighting another cigarette.

"Nor
me, Inspector. But you gave me an easy one. There was a full case-file on IID
so I didn't have much to do, and someone else must have requested it fairly
recently. Do you want me to fax the notes to you?" he asked, clearly
enthused by such an easy piece of investigative work.

"That
would be great. I'm not actually in the station at the moment. Can you
summarize it for me?"

"Well,
basically, IID was under a fraud investigation, as you said—"

"Right,"
I interrupted. "In the 1980s. Joseph Cauley."

"Well,
yes and no," came the reply. "There was a fraud investigation then,
but that was the second. There was an earlier one started in 1978 ..." I
lost all track of what Armstrong was saying. My hair felt as though it was
standing on end, my skin goose- bumped in lumps so rigid I rubbed my arm to
make them fall.

"Sorry,
what was that?"

"Theft
of government grants. Quite clever, apparently. Paper companies were formed to
do consultation work for some big players who were looking to move to Donegal.
They were directed to these consultancy groups by IID people; paid money up
front. Then the consultation group would fold and the money would go with them.
Over one million punts vanished."

"Any
names?" I asked, although I already suspected the answer.

"The
two you gave me: Donaghey and Cauley. And a third named Thomas Powell. Is that
the
Thomas Powell?"

I could hardly
form the words to speak. "What . . . why did it not go anywhere?"

"Not
enough evidence, it seems. There was a potential witness. A prostitute who
offered to give evidence in return for soliciting charges being dropped. But
she disappeared; her and her family. The case couldn't be made that time, so it
was left on ice until the mid-'80s when it was brought up again."

I did not
even wait to say thanks. I cut the connection and called straight through to
Burgess.

"Where's
Costello?" I asked.

"He isn't
here, I told you."

He became
even more annoyed when I told him I wanted a car to pick up Jason Holmes on
suspicion of murder.

"I
need to check that, Inspector," he replied, all smugness gone.

"Just
do it, Sergeant," I said. "Costello's not about. That makes me
ranking officer. I want Holmes lifted ASAP. Put me through to Williams."

There was a
buzz of static, then Williams spoke. "What's this about?" she
snapped. "Are you fucking mad?"

"Caroline.
I can't tell you everything yet, but I think Holmes is involved in this - he
was in Templemore with Yvonne Coyle; he may even be her brother. I think he
knows more than he's let on. We have to bring in him."

"I'll
phone him and ask him then, instead of sending someone out to arrest him. I
mean for Christ's sake, Ben."

"No!"
I said, louder than I'd intended. "Listen, Caroline, I'm sorry. I'll
explain everything later. I need you to babysit Tommy Powell in Finnside."

"What?"
I could understand her anger.

"Look,
Powell is Yvonne Coyle's father. He was running a scam that Mary Knox knew
about. She was going to testify against him; then she vanished. That puts him
top of the suspect list. Which also makes him top of the target list. If Knox's
children are going to go after anyone, it'll be him. I want you there in case
they try anything," I explained. "Today is the anniversary of their
mother's disappearance."

I cut the
connection again and tried phoning Costello's house, but the line rang out.
Frustrated, I gave up and slid and skidded my way back out onto the main road,
stopping several times to wipe snow off the windscreen which the wipers failed
to dislodge.

It took me
almost thirty minutes to manoeuvre my way to Costello's house. Before I reached
the front door I knew something was amiss - no smoke curled up from the
chimney, and the curtains had not been drawn. I slipped on the front path,
landing on my tailbone and reawakening the searing pain in my ribcage. With
some difficulty, I balanced myself, wiping the snow from the back of my coat. I
rang the doorbell several times and then tried the door. It was unlocked.

I went into
the house, knocking the snow from my boots, and called out. "Sir? Mrs
Costello?" My voice carried through the cold of the house, but did not get
a reply. I moved down the hallway and pushed open the door into the living
room.

Emily
Costello lay in front of the fireplace. The purple-red of her headwound stood
out against the soft white wisps of her hair. She lay curled on the floor in
her nightgown. Her eyes were still open, though they had begun to turn cloudy.
Her hands seemed locked together, raised slightly towards her face. Strangely,
even in death, her expression was soft and kindly. Beside her lay a poker, the
blackened end shiny with congealed blood.

Costello
was lying on the kitchen floor, weeping uncontrollably. There was a telephone
in his hand, but I noticed that the wire leading to the wall had been cut.

He looked
up at me in bewilderment. "She's gone, Ben," he said. "My Kate's
gone."

I checked
each room, one by one, slowly making my way around the house. When I was
satisfied that neither Emily's killer, nor Kate Costello, were in the house, I
used my mobile to call Burgess, requesting support. While I was on the line I
asked about Holmes.

"Your
sergeant has just left here. Her words were something along the lines of, 'I'll
rip his fucking throat out.'"

"Poor
Holmes," I said.

"She
was talking about you. They haven't found
him
yet."

Costello
had crawled back to his wife. He sat on the living- room floor, cradling her in
his arms, her blood clotted and thick against his stomach, his breath rattling
in his chest.

"I
just came back and found her. Forgot my glasses. Just came back for my
glasses," he said, then seemed to panic. He patted his pockets, his shirt,
his legs, searching for
them. "No
...
I forgot them. I came back
and ...
and Kate's
gone ...
and ..."
He did not, could not, finish the sentence. I had been wrong. Knox wasn't going
after Costello. She was going after his children.