By the time I had stopped reading and put the paper down, Costello was holding the phone in his hand, the mouthpiece covered. "Do you know anything about this?" he said, lifting the paper, as though to check whether the story was still there, then throwing it across his desk. It skimmed across the polished surface and slid onto the floor. I picked it up.
"A bit. The Derry man left a message. I only got it today. I thought we had more important issues."
"Well, this might explain Anderson's complaints about his sheep."
"Possibly," I agreed.
"Except we look like spare pricks at a funeral not doing anything about it. RTE have been on the phone. Again."
"Twice in one week. We've hit the big time."
"Three times," Costello corrected me. "You got the pathologist's report, I take it?" I nodded. "What do you think?"
I recounted my thoughts on reading it, including my view that perhaps Terry Boyle had parked at Gallows Lane to sleep off the effects of overdrinking. Costello let me speak, then passed me a booklet of typed sheets.
"Forensics' report," he said. "Bloody detailed. I've one of those forensics boyos on the phone, except he's put me on hold. Car was parked and the engine was off when he was killed, they say." With that, we both heard a tinny voice over the phone line. Costello listened for a few seconds before announcing that he was putting the phone onto speakers, which took rather longer than it might have. Eventually, I was introduced to Sergeant Michael Doherty, who had written the report.
"We discovered a fair bit from the car, Inspector," Doherty began. "The victim was likely shot by someone standing outside the car. On the driver's side. We recovered the bullet from the bodywork behind the passenger seat. Ballistics tests are being carried out at the moment. I'll say this – it must have been a scare for whoever was sitting next to him."
"Was there a passenger?"
"Almost definitely. You see, blood spattering is a definite science, Inspector. When your victim was shot, his blood should have spattered all over the inside of the car. But around the passenger seat, there's significantly less blood than there should be. My guess is that someone was sitting beside him – someone who was covered in blood when they got out of the car. Now, their seats were pushed right back and, though your victim's clothes were badly burned, we can tell his trousers were unbuttoned and unzipped when he was killed, so I'd say he was up for some hanky-panky." Doherty laughed in a vaguely embarrassed way and continued, "The important thing is that your victim's window was wound down. Obviously the glass was blown out in the fire, but the mechanism was down near the bottom of the door."
"His window was open?" Costello interrupted. "So what?"
"The weather wasn't great that night. I don't know about you, but if I'm about to strip off for a bit of action in the back of the car, the last thing I'd do in the middle of winter is wind down my window. A bit chilly round the nether regions, eh?" His laugh rattled from the speaker again. "No, my guess would be-"
"That he opened the window to his killer," I said.
"Just so," Doherty agreed.
"Why not just shoot him through the window?" I asked, as much thinking aloud as seeking a response.
"Maybe whoever did it wanted to be sure that they had the right person. Or wanted to see his face. Or wanted to make sure they didn't hit whoever was sitting beside him in the car."
"Maybe," I agreed.
Doherty made a few final observations, then hung up. Costello had listened grimly to the whole conversation without speaking. He sat opposite me, his hands clasped. "So," he said finally. "What do you think?"
"Seems like forensics have done the thinking for us: he picks someone up – or is picked up by someone – parks in the lay-by for a bit of sex; there's a tap on the door, opens the window and bang."
"What about the person in the car with him? An accomplice?"
"Hard to see it otherwise. How did his killer know where to find him, unless he followed him? Why not kill the passenger too? And why burn the car, unless they were scared that the passenger had left some evidence. Either that, or it was some poor innocent out for a night's fun who's wandering around Lifford in shock, covered in blood."
"Jesus, Ben, we need to clear up some of this quick. Two killings in a week. We'll start to look incompetent."
When I came out of the office, Harvey was still sitting opposite my desk. He stood when I approached, his cap held in his hand.
"Everything alright, sir?" he asked.
I nodded. "Can I help you with something else?" I asked, lifting some of the paperwork from my desk.
"Sergeant Burgess asked me to tell you that Officer Moore from Ballybofey was on the phone, sir," he said. "He said it was important."
Ten minutes later we were on our way to pick up Whitey McKelvey.
Chapter Six
Tuesday, 24th December
It was late afternoon and the sky was the colour and texture of slate. The moon was beginning to shine from behind a thick bank of cloud that threatened snow, and the air was cold and dry.
Three cars left Lifford station on the way to Castlefinn where, Moore had reliably informed me, McKelvey was staying with some cousins who were camped in a picnic area. I knew the place he mentioned. Learning from the problems encountered in Strabane, Donegal County Council had placed height-restriction bars across the entrance to all public areas – lay-bys, car parks and so on – to stop the travellers from using them. The group that had taken over the area outside of Castlefinn had arrived in the middle of the night in early August and had spent several hours dismantling the restriction bars. They then moved into the area en masse, before re- erecting the bars, thus apparently materializing in the picnic spot like a ship in a bottle.
The area was not ideal for picking up McKelvey. While there were only two entrance/exit points, it backed onto an area of woodland and fields. If McKelvey made a run for it we would have difficulty catching him. We had decided that Holmes, Williams, Harvey and I would approach the caravans from behind, waiting in the trees in case McKelvey came that way. Costello himself, who knew the family, would knock on the caravan door and ask to see McKelvey in the hope that he might come peaceably Several uniforms would accompany him, while two cars blocked the exits.
We stopped about a quarter of a mile short of the campsite and my team got out of the cars and began to pick through the bramble hedges that lined the road into the field beyond. By following the perimeter, we would eventually come up behind the site. The field was sodden from the autumn rains and it had now frozen into thick brown ridges like waves, over which we tripped and stumbled. We had misjudged how long it would take to reach the camp and Costello radioed several times, impatient to get moving. Just as we reached the treeline directly behind the caravan, the snow began. Great fat flakes at first, drifting lightly around us, like eiderdown. Then the snow grew thicker and fell with greater speed, gathering on the branches of the trees and settling on our backs and shoulders. Holmes began to stamp his feet and blow into his hands for heat. Williams shuddered involuntarily and Harvey offered her his jacket. Momentarily, she looked offended, then smiled and took it. I couldn't tell whether Harvey was blushing at her smile or from the cold, but I was left to wonder how consistently Williams practised her feminist beliefs.
A buzz of static on the radio, and Costello announced that he was moving in. I drew my baton and saw the others follow suit. Holmes flicked open the catch on the slip for his pepper spray, and I wondered what he expected from a seventeen-year-old traveller boy. The snow fell increasingly heavily, the pattern of the falling flakes became almost hypnotic, and I realized that I was not paying attention to what was happening. I heard a thud as Costello knocked on the door. Then voices. Almost immediately, the curtains across the back window of the caravan, which was in darkness, were pushed back and the window opened. A small figure began to climb out, one thin leg first squeezed through, then another. Finally, the figure dropped silently to the ground and approached the trees between Holmes and Harvey. As the figure moved into the trees, Harvey flicked on his torch, momentarily lighting the startled face and the shock of black hair. Then the figure ran, with Harvey and Holmes crashing after him. I heard Williams shout and assumed that she, too, was after the boy.