Free Borderlands by Brian McGilloway Page A

satin grey top that accentuated every
curve. She wore make-up and looked older, but there was no mistaking her - it
was Yvonne Coyle, the girl who had been feed ing Tommy
Powell in his room the day before. At the same time, it suddenly came to me
where I had seen her face before. It was with her cheek pressed against Angela
Cashell's in a strip of passport photographs, placed carefully between the
leaves of an unfinished romantic novel lying under the dead girl's bed.
     
    I phoned
Finnside almost immediately, while Holmes and Williams set about the tasks we
had agreed earlier that morning. Mrs McGowan told me, with some annoyance, that
Coyle had phoned in sick, having left early the day before.
    "Are you
sure she's alright to have here?" Mrs MacGowan asked. "You know, I'd
rather not have staff involved with Gardai."
    "As far
as I know, Mrs MacGowan, Yvonne Coyle has done nothing wrong. I want to speak
to her about something completely innocuous," I lied. "She witnessed
an accident."
    "I'll
tell her to contact you if she returns tomorrow—"
    "Thanks
Mrs MacGowan."
    "Though
if she doesn't, she needn't bother ..."
    I put the
receiver down quickly to avoid hearing the rest. Picking it up again, I phoned
Strabane PSNI station and asked to be transferred to Inspector Hendry.
    As I had
expected, Hendry didn't care about our people going across the border to
question bar owners, though it was technically not allowed. Some policemen on
both sides of the border could be sticky about it, but generally we all knew
that we were chasing the same people. The bad old days, when collusion and
suspicion had prohibited any contact, were passing, if not yet past. Hendry
also agreed to the more unusual request that I interview Cashell in the PSNI
holding-cell - so long as I was a silent partner, technically off-duty, and
Hendry asked the questions on my behalf. Finally, I asked him if Whitey
McKelvey had been spotted yet, though I knew that, if he had, Hendry would have
phoned us to boast about the efficiency of the northern police in comparison
with their sleepy southern counterparts.
    "No sign
here," he said, "though I hear rumours from the travelling community
that he's over your side. Apparently a branch of his family has set up camp
outside of Ballybofey."
    "I've
heard nothing about that," I said, a little rankled at having not received
this information myself.
    "That's
because I haven't told you until now. I'm telling you: British Intelligence,
best in the world!" he laughed.
    "See you
in an hour," I said, and hung up. I immediately rang through to Ballybofey
Station and was transferred to a Sergeant Moore, who promised to investigate
the tip about Whitey McKelvey being in their area after I had given him a
description and some background on the boy. I cautioned him to keep it low-key;
I didn't want the boy running again.
    I had decided
not to ask Hendry for Yvonne Coyle's address; the cost of having to listen to
more crowing about Intelligence was too high for such basic information. I
decided instead to do some rudimentary detective work and checked a northern
phonebook someone had 'borrowed' from a phone box just over the border a few
years earlier. There were no Coyles listed for Glennside. I tried Mrs McGowan
again, suitably apologetic for my earlier abruptness. She gave me the address
immediately, with commensurate curtness. I decided to visit Yvonne before
seeing Johnny Cashell, on the off- chance that Angela might have mentioned her
father to her friend at some stage.
     
    I had to ring
the doorbell three times before I heard the thud of someone running down stairs
and the clunk of the deadbolt. Then Yvonne Coyle answered the door in a pink
dressing-gown one would expect to see on a child, with a teddy-bear embroidered
on the breast. Her hair was quite short and, being wet, appeared dark. Her skin
still sparkled with moisture, smelling unmistakably of shampoo and soap.
    "Oh . .
. I ... Can
I help you?" she said, gripping the lapels