The One You Least Suspect

by Brian McGilloway

Genres: Crime Fiction

Synopsis

'McGilloway is one of the finest crime-writers working today' ANN CLEEVES

'A hugely talented storyteller' CHRIS WHITAKER

Katie lives a quiet life. She likes her small Derry neighbourhood. She likes her job as a barmaid at O'Reillys. And she loves her daughter, Hope.

But everything changes when she is approached by two detectives. They want Katie to tell them the things she hears at work. To become their informant.

In this city, Katie knows the dangers of talking to the police. Yet with Hope's safety at risk, she is trapped between two impossible choices.

Crossing the O'Reilly brothers could cost her everything. Her only chance of survival is if she can remain the one that they least suspect . . .

A gripping, heart-wrenching thriller that explores the fine line between right and wrong, justice and revenge, and how you choose your side when everyone is guilty . . .

Praise for Brian McGilloway:

'A hugely compelling story . . . probably the best novel yet by one of our finest mystery writers. Unmissable' JOHN CONNOLLY

'Some of the very best crime fiction being written today' LEE CHILD

'Searing, thrilling and heartbreaking' CHRIS WHITAKER

'The tension and heartbreak kept me turning the pages' PATRICIA GIBNEY

'One of those rare gems; a beautifully written crime novel that's also brilliantly paced, skillfully plotted and utterly absorbing. Brian McGilloway is, quite simply, a master of his art. Bravo' JO SPAIN

'One of last year's most impressive debuts' THE TIMES

'Thought-provoking, compassionate and beautifully-written' ANN CLEEVES

'Clever, engaging and beautifully crafted' IRISH INDEPENDENT

'A masterclass in crime fiction' ANDREA CARTER

'A finely calibrated account of loss, grief and simmering rage' IRISH TIMES

'Superb' LITERARY REVIEW

Release date: May 8, 2025

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 95000

Sample

It began with Gail’s wedding. The one in the Oceanview Hotel in Moville. That was where they picked me up the first time.

I’d been working that day; I was doing six mornings a week in O’Reilly’s Pub. I used to work behind the bar but gave it up for morning shifts cleaning there instead. It suited me, because Hope, my daughter, had only just started in nursery class at the local primary school and was finished at 1.30 p.m. every day. I could drop her to school, do my work, and be back to collect her before heading on home. The cleaning was easy enough mid-week; unless there’d been a big match the previous night, the place wouldn’t be too bad. Not as bad as Saturday and Sunday shifts where you’d be clearing God knows what out of the toilets. But I tried not to do weekends. At least back then.

That day, it had been raining. I remember because Hope’s teacher had let them out late – someone had lost their lunchbox or something – and we’d all got soaked standing outside, waiting. I’d no coat or umbrella with me, so by the time the kids appeared, my work T-shirt was clinging to me.

I’d stopped at my mother’s house to drop Hope off and to borrow a dry shirt, then went and got my hair done. The bus to the reception was picking us up at 5 p.m.; all the staff had been invited. Gail had worked behind the bar in O’Reilly’s for years and the boss, Mark, had offered to pay for her evening reception. He’d even laid on transport to take us down and bring us home – those of us who wanted to come home that evening. That was Mark all over, looking after the rest of us.

The wedding was great. Gail looked beautiful and her husband had scrubbed up well. I was at the table with a few of the other girls and two of the barmen. One of them, Brendan, though we all called him Benny, came over and sat next to me when I took a breather from the Macarena.

‘All right, love,’ he said, winking as he sat.

He looked around the room, smiling at some of the other guests, seeming to get his breath after the exertions of the dance. Yet, at the same time, I could feel his hand snaking its way over my knee and up my thigh.

‘What the fuck, Benny?’

‘Just checking you’ve got knickers on,’ he said, then his hand brushed me.

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘There they are.’

His hand rested too long, and I squirmed a little, squeezing my legs together where I sat, though he seemed to enjoy that.

‘Ask your wife if she’s wearing knickers,’ I snapped.

Benny had been married for eight years. He’d two kids already and the rumour was a third was coming. He’d never confirmed that for me, probably because he thought I’d be less likely to sleep with him if I knew his wife was pregnant. Mind you, it hadn’t stopped me during the previous two pregnancies. In fact, our first time had been just after he’d announced that she was expecting their first.

I’d been helping behind the bar that night, covering for someone who’d called in a sickie, while my mum watched Hope. We were locking up and Benny asked did I want a night cap.

‘Have you not got someone waiting for you at home?’

‘Her? Huh,’ he said, and that was that. We’d gone for shots, stayed in for a lock-in in a pub down the street, then ended up at a party and, a bit later, in bed.

‘Knickers?’ Benny said now. ‘More like a chastity belt.’

I reached down and pulled his hand away, then crossed my legs away from him.

‘You’re at a wedding. Does that not make you feel guilty?’

‘Do you?’ he asked, seeming genuinely interested.

‘I’m a free agent,’ I said.

‘You’re cheating too,’ he said. ‘And Amy’s done nothing to you. She’s a pain in my hole every day.’

‘Then divorce her,’ I said.

‘It’s not that easy. The kids, you know.’

‘I’d rather Hope had no da than one who was playing away from home every night.’

‘But you’ve no problem with her ma doing it?’ he grinned, believing that he’d reached a winning conclusion, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a white card which he laid on the table in front of me.

‘I’m staying down. I got two keys. Room 121.’

‘Someone’s going to see,’ I said, lifting the card from the table where he’d placed it. It was only as he got up and went back onto the dance floor, laughing, that I realised I’d put it in my bag rather than handing it back to him.

At 2 a.m., when the bus was leaving, I went to the bathroom and waited until I heard the chugging of the diesel engine and the shouts of the wedding party fade, then made my way up to the first floor.

Benny answered the door in his boxers, already holding a bottle of Aftershock.

‘I missed the bus,’ I said.

He laughed and danced, as if on puppet strings. His skin was absurdly white, his chest narrow and free from hair. For a moment, as I looked at him, I wondered what two women now had seen in him, at least one of whom knew he was a cheating weasel.

But I’d no lift home and enough of a buzz from the wedding that I could go a few more shots and, weasel or not, the night wouldn’t be a complete waste.

He woke me at 8 o’clock the next morning and told me he’d a taxi arranged with a few other lads, so I’d need to find my own way home. One would be calling for him at 9 a.m. and he needed me out by then. We’d time for a quick one, he told me, smiling, kissing around my neck and ear, his hand already groping at me.

So it was that at 8.45, while Benny went in to get showered, I padded down to the first floor of the Oceanview, my heels in my hand, and made my way down to reception. I’d not enough money for a taxi home, but I figured if I was sitting in the foyer when the lads appeared with Benny, I could bum a lift off them, without anyone knowing he and I had spent the night together.

That was the plan anyway.

I got in the lift and pressed G, two buttons below 1, skipping the M. The motion of the lift made my stomach churn. The hotel was hot, the lift stuffy and smelling of someone’s perfume. I felt sick and wanted to get out. Then, to add to my annoyance, the lift stopped at M anyway.

The doors slid open, and two men stood there. Absently, I thought they might have been guests at the wedding too, for their dress was neat, tidy, studiedly casual.

The pair stared at me, as if amused in some way.

‘Are you getting in?’ I asked, already reaching for the Close Doors button. Someone had once told me they weren’t actually wired up, they were just to make impatient people feel better, but it was a risk I was willing to take. My head was spinning, the floor of the lift tilting in ways that made me doubt the cables holding it.

‘Katie?’ one of the men said. ‘Katie Hamill?’

The other reached and laid his hand against the open door, preventing it from shutting.

‘Do I know you?’ I asked. The man who’d spoken, who knew my name, was decidedly average. He’d black hair, cropped short, and patchy black stubble which emphasised the roundness of his face. His eyes danced as if he’d just found something remarkably funny, and I couldn’t help but feel that he was laughing at me.

‘I know you. Katie, Katie, doing the walk of shame, eh?’

‘Get lost,’ I said, stabbing the Close Door button, but the second man, the quiet one, stepped into the doorway and stood with his back to the gap, keeping the door open.

‘Can we have a wee word, Katie?’ the black-haired one said.

‘I don’t talk to strangers.’

‘We’re not strangers,’ he said, mock offended. ‘Sure we know all about you, about Hope. About your mum, who’s looking after that wee dote. About Brendan Barr. We know it all. We just want a word. Five minutes and then you’re free to go. We can even throw you a few pound for a taxi if you need it.’

‘I already have a taxi,’ I said.

‘You don’t. Benny’s taxi has four in it. There’s no room for you. Besides, what will Amy think if he lands home with his bit-on-the-side on the side?’

‘Who the fuck are you?’

‘That’s not the question you need to ask,’ he said. ‘The better question is, “What can we do for you?” Just give us five minutes and we’ll show you.’

‘No.’

‘Five minutes, love,’ the second man said, reaching out, as if to guide me out of the lift.

I pulled away from him. ‘Don’t touch me,’ I said. ‘Or I’ll scream.’

‘There’s no need for all this,’ the first man said, his voice lower now. ‘Five minutes and you can go. Trust me, it’s what Hope would want.’

The repeated mention of my daughter focused me. I looked up and saw a CCTV camera in the corner of the lift. There were others in the corridors of the hotel. Someone would see me walking with these men, would be able to trace my steps.

‘Nothing is going to happen to you, Katie,’ Black-Hair said. ‘It’s all good. We just want to talk.’

The quiet one stepped out of the lift and gestured that I should do likewise. My free hand reached into my bag and spidered around until I felt the cold hardness of my house keys. I bunched them in my fist, one sticking out between my fingers.

Then I got out and followed Black-Hair, the other man walking behind me, in step. We went through a set of double doors, into a conference room, then on across towards a second, marked Meeting Room.

Black-Hair opened the door and stepped back, allowing me to enter.

Inside were several black leather executive chairs positioned around a large table covered in pages. One chair was already pulled out, as if in invitation that I sit. It took me a second to register what was on the table. What I’d thought were documents were, in fact, photographs and, as I moved closer, I realised they were all of me: pictures of me and Hope coming home from school; pictures with my mother; pictures of me in a bus; pictures of me shopping; pictures of me dancing at the wedding the previous night, taken from inside the room; pictures of me and Benny. So many pictures of me and Benny, including one of us in a position which could only have been taken half an hour previous.

‘What the fuck?’ I repeated.

‘We know a lot about you, Katie,’ Black-Hair said, closing the door.

I could feel the heat in the room rising, could feel things slide from me. Something crept up the back of my throat and I knew I would either faint or be sick. As if anticipating this very thing, the quiet one stood next to me, holding a wastepaper basket.

As I leaned over to vomit into it, I could see the bottom of it had been lined with pictures of Benny on me. I only saw it an instant before it was awash with the remains of last night’s eating.

‘This happens more often that you’d think,’ Black-Hair said, calm as you like, pulling out the chair next to me and sitting, fixing his trouser leg as he did. ‘Now, let’s you and us have a wee chat, eh?’

They let me sit for a few minutes while I gathered my breath and allowed the retching to subside.

In reality, I think they were deliberately giving me time to take in all the pictures that they had displayed. The ones of Benny and me were closest to my seat, though he also featured in some of the pictures near the top of the table as well, furthest from where I sat.

I got up and, moving slowly, traced back the images. They were in chronological order, mostly. A birthday party with Hope at the local amusement arcade; that must have been mid-August. Pictures of me sitting eating ice cream with my mum. I knew the beach where we’d been, but it was on the other side of the Inishowen peninsula. Moving backwards, pictures of me on the bus, in a taxi, standing outside work sharing a cigarette with Gail, who looked like she was in tears. I remembered that night too: it must have been June at some stage because I’d been drafted in to cover shifts for someone who’d gone on an early holiday before the schools closed and prices rocketed. Gail had been having doubts about her engagement and we’d chatted as we shared a smoke. I told her how lucky she was to have her other half . . . I took a blank – I’d been at his wedding the day before and still couldn’t remember his name.

Finally, at the top of the table, pictures of Benny and me, doing shots in a bar, walking to the taxi stand together, him leaning towards me. Us in the taxi, already kissing before we even made it back to my place.

And scattered throughout, like confetti, a memory of joy, pictures of Hope, smiling, playing, taking my hand. It was these pictures that wounded me most; the knowledge that someone had been filming my daughter, while I was there, and I hadn’t noticed or done anything to protect her. Those images left me feeling much more vulnerable than the images of me and Benny in bed.

‘She’s a lovely looking kid,’ Black-Hair said, seemingly having read my mind.

I could not put my thoughts in order enough to say all that I wanted and instead simply managed, ‘Why?’

‘We’ve been watching you for a while, Katie,’ Black-Hair said. ‘As you can see. You’ve a busy life.’

His accent was northern, broad but polished. Belfast, maybe, but educated Belfast – one of the posh schools. The quiet one hadn’t said enough for me to make a judgement on him yet. He was watching me, his hands resting lightly on the back of one of the other chairs, in a pretence of relaxation. But he did not seem relaxed.

That made two of us.

‘Why?’ I asked again.

‘You seem like a popular person,’ Black-Hair said, leaning forward in his seat. ‘Someone people feel comfortable around. Look at Gail there. Getting cold feet over Hugh and who does she go to? Her best friend? No. You, a work colleague. You’re a shoulder to cry on, Katie. A friendly ear.’

‘I don’t know what this is about,’ I said, then, nodding at the quiet one, asked, ‘And why doesn’t he talk? Who are you?’

My brain was finally beginning to process thoughts. Why hadn’t I asked them to identify themselves from the start. ‘Are you police?’

The quiet one inclined his head a little, as if indicating that such a thing should be self-evident.

‘Guard or PSNI?’ I asked. We were in Donegal, in the Republic where the Gardai had jurisdiction, but his northern accent made me think that, like me, he was from over the border and so maybe with the Police Service of Northern Ireland.

‘It’s not as simple as that.’

‘I want to see some ID,’ I said, folding my arms in a show of defiance I certainly did not feel.

The quiet one laughed at that, and Black-Hair smiled over towards him.

‘Now you make a sound,’ I said. ‘I thought you were a fucking mute for a minute.’

The nervous adrenaline was making me jumpy and I was getting pissed.

‘When I’ve something to say to you, you’ll know all about it, love,’ the quiet one said. English accent. He wasn’t a Guard, that’s for sure.

‘Look, we’re getting off on the wrong foot,’ Black-Hair said.

‘All you have are wrong feet,’ I said, getting up. ‘Who the hell do you think you are, taking pictures of my wee girl? Or my ma?’

I’d barely stood when I felt the pressure of English’s hands on my shoulders, pushing me back down into the seat.

‘We want to help you, Katie,’ Black-Hair said. ‘Just hear us out. Christmas is coming. We could give you a few pounds; get something nice for Hope. She’s asking for a bike, isn’t that right?’

She was, but I didn’t know how they knew that, and I wasn’t going to confirm it for the smug bastard.

‘I know she is,’ he said, again seeming to know what I was thinking. ‘And she deserves it. She’s a great wee lassie, isn’t she?’

This question was directed not to me but to English, who glanced at her picture and nodded.

Black-Hair produced an envelope from his pocket and, placing it on the table, pushed it towards me, spilling some of the pictures onto the floor as he did. Absurdly, I bent to pick them up.

‘Don’t worry about those,’ he said, laughing. ‘We’ll get those later. That’s for you.’ He indicated the envelope with a nod of his head.

I was curious to know what was inside, yet did not want to give them the satisfaction of looking.

‘I don’t want it, whatever it is.’

‘It’s five hundred quid,’ he said. ‘For you. Think what you could get Hope with that. No more scrimping on Santa.’

‘I never scrimp,’ I said. ‘I’d go without before having her be disappointed.’

‘I know you would,’ Black-Hair agreed, his voice plaintive and sincere. ‘I know how much you love her. You can see it in the pictures. And we’ll be destroying all of these once we’re done here, so don’t be worrying about that.’

‘Why bother taking them then?’

‘To show you that we’re serious people. I know you’d only want to work with serious people.’

‘Are you offering me a job?’

Another laugh from English, though this time it seemed to annoy Black-Hair, who glanced at him sharply, then back to me.

‘Kind of. We want you to stay working in O’Reilly’s, but we just want you to keep that friendly ear of yours open.’

‘For what?’

‘Anything.’

‘Like in the playground. Who’s having an affair? Who’s almost broke? That kind of shit? ’Cause that’s all I’m hearing in any day.’

‘Don’t be disingenuous,’ English said. ‘You know what we mean.’

‘Don’t be what? That must be a word from English schools, ’cause I don’t know that one.’

‘Don’t act stupid,’ he said. ‘Is that better?’

English was rattled, though I couldn’t tell why.

Black-Hair took control again. He produced another picture and placed it on the table.

‘You know this man?’

I did. It was my boss’s older brother, Terry O’Reilly. Everyone knew Terry, for all the wrong reasons. He had been in and out of prison more times than I knew. If there was a gun found in the city, Terry was lifted. A bomb scare? Terry’s door was kicked down. Someone shot? Terry was in Antrim in the Serious Crime Suite within an hour.

Yet, despite the almost personalised attention Terry got from the cops, within a few days, he’d be back out, released on bail pending a file being prepared for the CPS. And none of the cases ever went anywhere.

‘You’re Special Branch?’

Another incline of the head. ‘So, you do know Terry?’ he said, putting the picture away.

‘The whole town knows Terry,’ I said.

‘They do,’ Black-Hair agreed. ‘Though the only one he really trusts is his younger brother. Your boss, Mark.’

‘And?’

‘Terry drops into the bar at times, doesn’t he?’

‘You obviously know he does; it’s half his.’ There was no point lying; almost every question he had asked, he already knew the answer to anyway.

‘And he and Mark talk.’

This time it was a statement, not a question. ‘And?’

‘We’d like you to use your friendly ear and if you hear anything interesting, to let us know.’

‘That’s it?’

‘That’s it,’ Black-Hair agreed, his hands open, as if to indicate his honesty.

‘If I hear anything interesting and tell you, you’ll give me five hundred quid to buy my daughter a bike for Christmas?’

He smiled, seemingly overjoyed at my amazement.

‘Do you think I’m fucking stupid?’ I said.

His expression faltered a little but did not fall as I had expected.

‘If I tell you anything about Terry O’Reilly, I’ll not make it to Christmas. I’ll be shot ten minutes later.’

‘I know it’s overwhelming—’

‘It’s not overwhelming. It’s insane.’ The history of Derry was littered with the dead bodies of those who had been accused of informing to the police or Special Branch against paramilitaries. Most often they were found stripped naked, tortured and shot in the head, a punishment carried out at times, it had subsequently been revealed, by others who were themselves informers. All part of the dirty war. Those days might be mostly over now, but it was still a death wish and not one I shared.

‘I know what happens to touts,’ I said. ‘You know what happens to them. So, no thanks. I don’t want your measly five hundred. Five thousand wouldn’t convince me to tout on Terry O’Reilly.’

‘So, you know what he’s like?’

‘Of course I know what he’s like. The whole fucking city knows what he’s like. I told you that already.’

Black-Hair offered me a mild smile. ‘You did. And you’re happy to let him keep shooting people and selling drugs? You’re happy for your daughter, for Hope, to grow up in a town where Terry O’Reilly and his ilk do whatever they feel like?’

‘Hope needs a mother now. The future will see to itself.’

I was shocked to feel English’s hand on my shoulder again. He’d been so quiet, I’d almost forgotten he was still standing behind me.

‘We can be very useful friends to have, Katie,’ he said.

‘I don’t need friends, thanks.’

‘Ah, you only think that,’ he replied, quietly.

I’d had enough. Shrugging off the weight of his hand, I stood, and lifting the envelope, threw it back at Black-Hair.

‘I’m not for sale,’ I said. ‘You can fuck off.’

Calmly, he lifted the envelope from the ground where it fell and stood himself. ‘That’s fine, Katie. We’ll talk again. You might change your mind.’

‘I won’t,’ I said. ‘And don’t come near me or my daughter again, do you hear me?’

‘Or what?’ English asked. ‘You’ll tell Terry we spoke to you? And how do you know he’ll believe you that you said no?’

‘He will,’ I said, though not with the confidence I’d hoped.

English moved towards me, close enough that I could feel the heat off him, smell the citrus of his aftershave.

‘The thing worse than being an informer, Katie, is everyone thinking you’re one,’ he said.

It was only as I made it to reception that I realised I did not have the money they had promised for a taxi. To be honest, I’d not have taken any car they’d booked for me anyway; presumably it would have been wired up with cameras watching me. Benny and the lads were nowhere to be seen so I assumed they had already left. It was 9.30 a.m. now and I knew I’d missed taking Hope to school. I trusted my mother would have done so when she realised that I hadn’t made it home.

I had to ask the receptionist for directions to the bus. As she answered, she glanced at my clothing, obviously from the night before, and curled her lip a little, as if my smell offended her.

The truth is, I felt dirty. Not just physically, though I did, for my top smelt of sweat and beer and food, and my underwear was a day old. I felt dirty because of Benny. At the start, it had been exciting, being with him. There was the added thrill of knowing he picked me over his wife, over Amy. It made me feel good. And I enjoyed it. But not now.

Besides, I could still feel the touch of English on my shoulder, the pressure and warmth of his palm. He’d not considered whether he could or should touch me. He simply had, like I was powerless. They had exposed my life for me to see, its narrowness. Me and Hope and Mum, and beaches and ice cream and Benny. And in the pictures, his bony arse arched, his skinny, white, hairless legs, the pantomime of concentration on his face, his breath on me, yeasty and sour, his grin, his moan, the roll over, the void, the mess. For the first time, they’d made me feel like I was being used. And I’d never felt that way before.

The bus back to Derry was stuffy, the air con seemingly not working. The air smelt stale and I noticed people notice me when they got on and avoid sitting in front or behind me. One woman even chose to stand when no other seats were available, until a young lad lifted down his bag and invited her to take the free one next to him on which it had been placed.

‘This isn’t me,’ I wanted to shout at then. ‘This, what you see. This isn’t me. There’s more.’

But in six months of photographs, there wasn’t much more. That was what they had done to me.

As we rumbled across the border, I wondered was it deliberate. Had the whole thing been intended to break my confidence, to make me doubt myself? They’d not blackmailed me with the pictures, not threatened to use them. They were just to show their power. They could do this without my knowing. They could do what they liked. As with the fact they’d approached me in Donegal, a different country for them. Had the Gardai known they were there?

But everyone knows what happens when you get involved with them. Hands taped in front of you, stripped naked, a bag over your head to contain the mess. Shot from behind so your family couldn’t have an open coffin for the wake. You’d stand there, in the darkness, suffocating, waiting for the shot. Powerless.

I could feel panic rising along with the bile that had settled in my stomach. I thought I might be sick, though knew I had nothing left to bring up. I never felt so weak. I looked around the bus, studying each face. Was one of them filming me right now? Was one of them Special Branch, too. Is that what they did, on a Tuesday morning? Get a bus from Donegal to Derry to watch a thirty-four-year-old woman who cleaned a pub? Who knew nothing? Was that someone’s fucking job?
. . .