phone, but I answered it before
it woke the children. It was Costello. A body had been found in a burned-out
car on Gallows Lane by a local farmer, Petey Cuthins.
Gallows
Lane was so called because, several hundred years ago, before the courthouse
was built, this was where local criminals were executed, left hanging from the
branches of three massive chestnut trees on the approach into the town, a
warning to all visitors. On a good day it provided a panoramic view of
Counties Donegal, Derry and Tyrone.
The
fire had abated by the time I arrived, a hoar of mist sizzling lightly off the
scorched bodywork of the car. Costello had already arrived on the scene with
two uniforms whom I recognized but couldn't name, their faces pale, eyes
red-rimmed, working silently through their tiredness. Petey Cuthins was
standing against his gate, several hundred yards away from the wreckage, trying
to keep his pipe smouldering. He nodded a greeting when I got out of the car
and muttered "Merry Christmas" through teeth still clenched on the
pipe-stem. His face was dark under the hood he wore. I nodded over at Costello,
who was telling the uniforms where to place the crime-scene tape. I took a
quick glance inside the car, thought better of looking more closely, and went
back over to Petey to wait for my stomach to settle.
"Heard
the bang - must've been the petrol tank. Nearly sent my cattle haywire."
He gestured with a slight nod of his head towards the charred body in the car.
"Nothing I could do, Ben. Couldn't carry much in a bucket from the house.
By the time I got here there wasn't much sense in getting the fire brigade out:
fire was almost dead. Weren't gonna do him no good anyhow."
The
registration plate, though damaged, had not been destroyed, the raised numerals
revealing that it was a new car - a Nissan Primera, as far as I could tell. The
driver was alone; from the size I guessed it was a man, but the body was so
badly burned I couldn't be sure.
Costello
sent the two officers about their business then approached us. The female
officer smiled sadly as she passed with a roll of blue and white tape which she
tied onto the hedge behind us and began to unwind.
"Do
you think it crashed?" Cuthins called, reluctant to go any closer to the
car. To the right of the driver's side I could see a pool of vomit in the grass
- presumably Petey had seen more than enough already.
"I
don't think so," Costello said, patting me on the back as a gesture of
greeting. I guessed he was right: there was no sign of denting on the bodywork,
no signs of impact on the area around where the car had stopped. I peered in at
the body of the driver, the smell of burnt flesh thick in my mouth and
nostrils. "The handbrake is on," Costello pointed out. "And the
ignition is turned off." Which meant the car was parked when whatever
happened to it had occurred. Costello shook his head slowly, "An awful
business, boys. An awful business."
I
stepped away from the car and spat the taste from my mouth as Costello took out
his phone and called Burgess who had reached the station, giving him the
registration number to trace. "Best get a doctor up here. And a few more
pairs of hands. It's going to be a long night."
The
SOCO officers had to go over to Strabane first to borrow arc lights and a
generator from the PSNI. Occasional needles of sleet darted now through the
mist, trapped in a fluorescent glare, just as the first gash of red cracked on
the horizon. Burgess called back, having run the registration number through
Garda Central Communications. The charred remains still strapped inside the car
now had a probable name - Terry Boyle, an accountancy student from Dublin,
whose parents lived in Letterkenny. Costello asked me to break the news to the
family, sending female officer, Jane Long, with me. Just as we were about to
leave, I saw John Mulrooney struggling up Gallows Lane towards us to fulfil the
slightly ridiculous task, as medical examiner, of pronouncing dead
it woke the children. It was Costello. A body had been found in a burned-out
car on Gallows Lane by a local farmer, Petey Cuthins.
Gallows
Lane was so called because, several hundred years ago, before the courthouse
was built, this was where local criminals were executed, left hanging from the
branches of three massive chestnut trees on the approach into the town, a
warning to all visitors. On a good day it provided a panoramic view of
Counties Donegal, Derry and Tyrone.
The
fire had abated by the time I arrived, a hoar of mist sizzling lightly off the
scorched bodywork of the car. Costello had already arrived on the scene with
two uniforms whom I recognized but couldn't name, their faces pale, eyes
red-rimmed, working silently through their tiredness. Petey Cuthins was
standing against his gate, several hundred yards away from the wreckage, trying
to keep his pipe smouldering. He nodded a greeting when I got out of the car
and muttered "Merry Christmas" through teeth still clenched on the
pipe-stem. His face was dark under the hood he wore. I nodded over at Costello,
who was telling the uniforms where to place the crime-scene tape. I took a
quick glance inside the car, thought better of looking more closely, and went
back over to Petey to wait for my stomach to settle.
"Heard
the bang - must've been the petrol tank. Nearly sent my cattle haywire."
He gestured with a slight nod of his head towards the charred body in the car.
"Nothing I could do, Ben. Couldn't carry much in a bucket from the house.
By the time I got here there wasn't much sense in getting the fire brigade out:
fire was almost dead. Weren't gonna do him no good anyhow."
The
registration plate, though damaged, had not been destroyed, the raised numerals
revealing that it was a new car - a Nissan Primera, as far as I could tell. The
driver was alone; from the size I guessed it was a man, but the body was so
badly burned I couldn't be sure.
Costello
sent the two officers about their business then approached us. The female
officer smiled sadly as she passed with a roll of blue and white tape which she
tied onto the hedge behind us and began to unwind.
"Do
you think it crashed?" Cuthins called, reluctant to go any closer to the
car. To the right of the driver's side I could see a pool of vomit in the grass
- presumably Petey had seen more than enough already.
"I
don't think so," Costello said, patting me on the back as a gesture of
greeting. I guessed he was right: there was no sign of denting on the bodywork,
no signs of impact on the area around where the car had stopped. I peered in at
the body of the driver, the smell of burnt flesh thick in my mouth and
nostrils. "The handbrake is on," Costello pointed out. "And the
ignition is turned off." Which meant the car was parked when whatever
happened to it had occurred. Costello shook his head slowly, "An awful
business, boys. An awful business."
I
stepped away from the car and spat the taste from my mouth as Costello took out
his phone and called Burgess who had reached the station, giving him the
registration number to trace. "Best get a doctor up here. And a few more
pairs of hands. It's going to be a long night."
The
SOCO officers had to go over to Strabane first to borrow arc lights and a
generator from the PSNI. Occasional needles of sleet darted now through the
mist, trapped in a fluorescent glare, just as the first gash of red cracked on
the horizon. Burgess called back, having run the registration number through
Garda Central Communications. The charred remains still strapped inside the car
now had a probable name - Terry Boyle, an accountancy student from Dublin,
whose parents lived in Letterkenny. Costello asked me to break the news to the
family, sending female officer, Jane Long, with me. Just as we were about to
leave, I saw John Mulrooney struggling up Gallows Lane towards us to fulfil the
slightly ridiculous task, as medical examiner, of pronouncing dead
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