"So, you're here about Ratsy. Take a look; ask anything you like," he said, gesturing towards the green folder.
Williams opened it and placed it between us on the desk. The notes were brief and concise.
Ratsy Donaghey had been found in his flat overlooking the local playgrounds and swimming pool on 5th November, tied to a chair, his mouth gagged. His arms were covered with cigarette burns. Ultimately, his killer had slit Donaghey's wrists and left him to watch while his blood poured down his hands and dripped off his fingers onto the ground. Vital reaction indicators around the wounds suggested that he lived for perhaps another twenty-five to thirty minutes as he watched the life drip out of him, struggling against his restraints with such violence that he cracked three ribs.
"Any leads?" Williams asked when we finished reading.
"None," Daly said, draining his coffee and beginning to fold down the lip of the paper cup.
"Nothing?" I asked.
"Nope. Not a thing. Ratsy Donaghey was murdered by someone, but we don't know who and, to tell you the truth, we don't really give a shit."
I was not wholly surprised: Donaghey was a career criminal who had made his money selling drugs for years. No policeman was going to waste effort on the likes of Donaghey when the crime rate was rising and police recruitment numbers dropping.
"Let me tell you a story about Ratsy Donaghey. He bought his little pimp-pad here fifteen years ago, as well as one in Letterkenny and two others in Sligo and Cork. He gave free samples of drugs to youngsters of twelve, then got them to steal cars for him; he took out the radio, they got a free joyride. When they dumped it, Ratsy stuck syringes used by some HIV hypo up through the driver's seat. Some poor bastard in a uniform finds this stolen car, gets in to check it out or drive it back to the station, gets a dirty needle in the ass and Aids for nothing. That's Ratsy Donaghey."
Aids again. Why did everybody talk about Aids all the time? I'd never noticed it before. I reminded myself that I'd been given the all clear. Then an inner voice reminded me that I had three months to wait to know for sure.
"It's still a crime," Williams said, though without conviction. It took me a moment to process the conversation and work out what she was talking about.
"The only crime involved in this would be wasting tax payers' money investigating the fact that someone did us a favour. And while you're defending him, you might be interested to know about the ballistics match you asked about – we never got anyone for that, but Ratsy Donaghey was our number one suspect. Held up a sixty-year- old man locking up a filling station; fired a warning shot above his head when he refused to hand over his cash; guy had a heart attack. He survived, though, or we'd have had a murder case on our hands. Ratsy Donaghey was a piece of shit and good riddance to him."
"There'll be other Ratsy Donagheys," I said.
"There already are. But while they keep taking each other out, they save us the hassle."
"Do you think that's what happened here?" I asked.
"Probably," he replied. "Could be an unhappy customer, new competition, a Provo punishment. Honestly, I don't give a shit. So long as Ratsy suffered a lot before he went."
"Did you find cigarette butts or any physical evidence?" I asked.
"Oh, no. Everything was washed and cleaned and left tidy. No prints, no fibres, nothing. Whoever did it was a pro."
"Fair enough."
"Now, what's the connection with your case?" he asked, leaning back in the chair and stretching.
"None, maybe. A piece of jewellery turned up on a list of items stolen from Donaghey's flat in Letterkenny. It's connected with a case we have ongoing."
"That's it? Hell, it must be quiet in Lifford."
"It is," said Williams smiling. "His gun was used in a murder a few days ago. Though, presumably, Ratsy didn't use it himself."
"Maybe he sold it. Maybe it was stolen along with this ring you're talking about."
"Maybe," I conceded. "Any chance we could see Donaghey's flat?"
"Not a hope. Day after he died the council came in and fumigated the place. They moved a Romanian family in last Monday. Didn't tell them the history. Just hoped they don't see the bloody big stains all over the floor. Everything he owns that wasn't auctioned by the state is in that box."
While Williams continued, I opened the box and flicked through some of the contents: a packet of cigarettes, a set of keys, a bundle of letters, and photographs. Absentmindedly flicking through the bundle of pictures, I found one I recognized. It took me a moment to place it or, rather, when I had last seen it. A woman sat on a flight of steps on a beach. It was the same photograph I had seen tucked behind a vine of ivy on the tree where Angela Cashell had died.
"Who's this?" I asked Daly, holding the photograph up.
"His mother?" Daly guessed. "If he had one."
"I'll hold on to this, if you don't mind," I said, impatient to get back to Lifford to Angela Cashell's murder site to confirm that the pictures matched.
"Nothing you can think of as odd? Nothing that marked this out from a normal drugs kill?" Williams asked, suspecting, perhaps, that the journey had been a waste of time.
"Nothing. Apart from the cigarette-burns torture thing. I only hope whoever did Ratsy videotaped it. Now that I'd pay to see."
We stopped for lunch at a chippy while I explained to Williams about the photograph. She offered to phone Holmes and ask him to pick up the picture for us, just so we'd know it was secure. Then we headed back to Donegal town to the jewellers, stopping on the way so I could buy a chocolate cake for Debbie. I hoped that the ring would yield some answers. Instead, it raised more questions.
We arrived back at the jewellers around 3.30 p.m. to be introduced to Charles Hendershot, an old man with white hair and a thick handlebar moustache. He was small and stooped, his movements considered and careful. His fingers were tapered and feminine, his skin as fragile as aged paper. He sat behind the main sales desk on an antique chair cushioned with red velvet, his feet crossed at the ankles. The ring and a tattered red leather-bound ledger sat in front of him. His head shook ever so slightly as he spoke.
"I remember this ring," he said softly, after we had sat down with him at the back of the shop. "I remember every piece I make. Each is different. Each is a piece of art." He raised a slender finger towards us, speaking mostly to Williams, who sat turned towards him, her hand resting lightly on the arm of his chair. "You know, I was asked to make a piece for the Pope in 1979, when he came to Drogheda. I was asked to make a cross by the President himself."
"Really?" Williams said and he smiled at her in a way that was almost boyish.
"1978 I made this piece. June 1978.1 found it here in the ledger. I changed my styles each year. That year I did rose-cuts. They're an antique cut, but I did them then, and again in '85 and then in 1991, but never again with moonstones."
"How did you remember it was June?" Williams asked, and I believe she fluttered her eyelids at him.
"Easy, my pet," he said, patting her hand lightly with his own. "The moonstone. It's the birthstone for June: that and pearl. So June 1978. I remembered it and I was right," he said as he leaned forward slowly and tapped the ledger. "It's right there."
"What about the 'AC', Mr Hendershot?" I asked. "Did you engrave that?"
"Yes. It should have read 'From AC'. Too much on a piece like this. So they settled for 'AC'."
'"From AC', not' For AC'?" Williams asked.
"Yes. Odd that. Really, it's the lady's initials that should go on a piece. You remember that, young man, when you buy this lovely girl a ring," he said, pointing at me in a way that reminded me of my grandmother. Williams smiled at me expansively, probably because he had called her a girl, as well as lovely. "But it was' From AC'. I checked."