In the centre of Lifford, almost opposite the Garda station, is the Seat of Power, a museum dedicated to Lifford's history as the administrative centre of Donegal. The museum also houses the original courthouse and cells from the old jail and mental asylum. More importantly, however, the building houses a number of individuals who know more about Lifford and Donegal than is perhaps healthy. One such person is Mary Deeney. Mary is a woman in her late thirties with straight copper-tinted hair, which occasionally reveals glimpses of grey. She was able to give us the rundown on IID in fifteen minutes.
"Invest in Donegal," she explained, pushing her pink-framed glasses up the bridge of her nose, only for them to slide back down almost immediately. "One of these things set up in the '70s to try to bring bigger companies into Donegal. It actually had a few big successes in the late '70s, early '80s with a textile company and an IT firm. Offered incentives, tax breaks, grants and so on; performed feasibility studies; handled contracts for building. Folded up in 1984 – no, 1985 – when Cauley died. Possibly just as well, actually; rumour had it that the Fraud Squad was taking an interest in it by that stage."
"Do you remember a man by the name of Tony Donaghey being involved?" Williams asked. "I think he was quite important to it."
Mary thought about it as she absentmindedly twirled a few loose strands of her hair around her fingers. "No, the name doesn't mean anything. Of course, I'm the wrong person to be taking to. Tommy Powell's the man you'd really want to see."
"Why Powell?" I asked.
"Well he started it. IID was his brainchild. He raised millions through the Dail for it."
"We thought Cauley ran IID" Williams said, and I nodded agreement.
"Cauley ran it alright," Mary said, as if explaining something to very slow children, "but Powell owned it. Cauley was just a manager."
Williams and I stood outside the museum while I had a smoke. Across the street we could see Costello moving around in his office, his blinds pulled back to let in the December sun. At one point he walked over to the window and stared across at us, then moved into the shadows of his room again.
"So, what now?" I said.
"Try to track the kids, I suppose." Williams said. "And Coyle. What about Powell? Are you going to speak to him?"
"Maybe," I said. "But not quite yet. Costello said this morning about bringing the Investigation Bureau in on this."
"Are you going to?" Williams asked, looking a little surprised.
"No. But I think they can help us with one thing."
As well as the local Garda stations around the country, An Garda has a centralised Criminal Investigation Bureau which helps in serious-crime cases. It is just one, however, of a number of support systems. We had already called on the Water Unit. I decided that perhaps it was time to contact the Research Unit as well. The Research Unit does exactly what its name suggests. Over years it has collated information passed on from all the other strands of the Garda system and filed it for future reference. No other section of An Garda could access information on companies or national initiatives as quickly. Or so I hoped.
I returned to our office and phoned through to the Command and Control Centre in Harcourt Street in Dublin and asked to be transferred to Research. I was put through to an Officer Armstrong, and asked him to find whatever he could on Ratsy Donaghey in connection with IID. I decided not to mention Tommy Powell just yet, assuming that the name would turn up anyway once IID was researched. I also mentioned the rumour about the fraud investigation and the chairman, Joseph Cauley. Armstrong told me it might take a few days.
I then tried contacting Hendry again about Yvonne Coyle, but he was still not available. I sat in the storeroom, watching Williams scan phone directories and electoral registers for Derry in an attempt to locate Joanne Duffy, Mary Knox's friend. Then I sat beside Williams and helped her. After a number of false leads, three coffees and a shared tuna sandwich, we found her.
Chapter Fourteen
Monday, 30th December
Duffy had moved from Strabane to Derry in 1983, marrying a man called Edgar van Roost, a Belgian political analyst who was lecturing in Peace and Conflict Studies at a local university. They met at a political rally at which van Roost spoke, comparing the conflict in Northern Ireland with the conflict in the Middle East, while Duffy sold copies of Socialist Worker to an indifferent crowd.
They now lived in an area of Derry known as Foyle Springs, in a modest semi-detached house which required painting. However, inside, the house was far from what we had expected from a socialist. The plush-carpeted hallway, despite being quite narrow, was dominated by a huge chandelier which hung so low I had to walk around rather than under it.
Duffy had clearly aged gracefully, though, perhaps aided by a little surgery, for her eyes were unnaturally free of wrinkles or laughter lines and her lips were full and perfectly pink. Her cheeks were accentuated with blusher and her hair was a steely blonde, set high in a bun.
She smoked a long, slim, brown cigarette, drawing lightly on it and releasing the smoke in a single puff, as if unaccustomed to smoking.
"I can't inhale," she explained, noting my curiosity, and gesturing vaguely with the cigarette, "because of my asthma. I shouldn't smoke at all, but I can't help it."
Williams nodded with understanding. "Ms Duffy, as I explained to you on the phone, we're trying to trace the family of Mary Knox."
Duffy nodded, her bun tottering on her head. "Mary, God rest her. Have you found her? Is that it?" She leaned forward a little in her seat as an indication of concern.
"No, Ms Duffy," I said. "We're re-examining her case. Do you have any idea what happened to her?"
"Oh, Mary's dead," Duffy said in a matter-of-fact tone. "Mary was dead the day she disappeared. I've always known that."
"How?" Williams asked, smiling uncertainly.
"You just do. We were very good friends. I would watch her children for her when she was… you know, when she was working." She broke the tip off her cigarette and laid the unsmoked half in the ashtray beside her. "Would you like to see her?" she asked, standing up before we had a chance to answer. She went over to a heavy mahogany cabinet in the corner of the room and opened it to reveal shelves packed with books and photo albums. Duffy flicked through one or two, then located the picture she wanted, removed it from the album and gave it to Williams, who looked at it and passed it to me. "That's her and the children," Duffy said, standing above me, her head tilted to see the picture in my hand.
The picture was clearly from the same batch as the one we had already seen. In the background, grey clouds had massed, but it did not detract from the sunny disposition of the three figures. Mary Knox was still sitting on the concrete steps to the beach, but in this shot her children were on either side of her. She had obviously been an attractive woman. A black swimsuit was visible through the large white T-shirt she wore. Her hands rested demurely on her bare knees, which were pressed together. Clearly visible on her left hand was the moonstone ring.
To her left was a boy of about eight, his blonde hair cut bowlfashion. He wore nothing but green shorts. His ribs stood out a little through his skin, and he was grinning so much that his eyes were little more than slits. He had one arm around his mother's neck, the other jauntily resting on his hip. Small bruises were visible on his legs and shins.
On the other side of Mary Knox sat her daughter. She too smiled into the camera, but her body was closed, her hands clasped in front of her. She retained a tiny distance from her mother. Her face was thin and her skin light, contrasting with the darkness of her hair, which hung in curls around her face and shoulders. She was wearing a blue swimsuit with a beach towel around her shoulders like a shawl. Something about her expression was familiar and strangely sad. Perhaps it was just that I knew how this family would turn out.