by Matt McGuire
O’Neill walked down through the site to where they had found the body the week before. It was quieter than he remembered it. At the bottom of the bank the black waters of the Lagan flowed by. On the far side the Hilton, the Waterfront Hall and the Court House seemed to look off in the opposite direction. Tourism. Showbiz. Justice. Three silent witnesses, turning their backs as if they didn’t want to know.
O’Neill looked at the view. The Black Mountain stood silhouetted in the distance. The white limestone of the Court House was lit up against the dark night sky. It was quiet, peaceful. Could have made a good postcard.
To his right stood four pallets, stacked with breeze blocks, covering the area where the body had lain.
‘Business as usual,’ O’Neill said.
He imagined the makeshift pine bat and the sound of bones breaking. He tried to hear the cries of pain, the apologies, the pleading. There was no romance here. No poetry. Nothing to write home about.
O’Neill drove back along deserted roads. Red lights stopped him, forcing him to wait and stare across empty junctions. They turned to green and he pulled away slowly. He was tired, but he thought about the prints and felt a little lighter than he had at any time in the last seven days.
NINETEEN
Catherine couldn’t remember the last time she had seen Sarah so well-behaved. The five year old sat on the sofa with her coat on and her bag by her side. Every time she heard a car outside she jumped up and ran to the window.
It was Wednesday morning and the schools were on half-term. O’Neill was picking her up at nine o’clock as Catherine had to go to work. They were going to the cinema together to see the new Wallace and Gromit and then out somewhere for lunch. Catherine wondered at the fairness of it all. Why did he get to be the best friend and she always had to be the parent? He didn’t have to deal with the tantrums, the vegetables, the not wanting to go to bed. It was all pictures and popcorn with Dad. Like being on holiday. Catherine thought if she had to hear the words ‘my daddy’ once more she’d explode.
She tried to remind herself that it was a good thing Sarah loved spending time with him. A good thing that she got so excited about seeing him. A good thing. . Catherine looked at the clock. Five to nine. John had come off doing a series of nights. She wasn’t sure if he had been working last night. If so, he would go home for a shower and swing by and get her. Catherine had seen it before. Not sleeping, working a nightshift, seeing Sarah and then back into work for eight. No wonder he looked like death warmed up. She imagined him sleeping in the cinema, surrounded by noisy children and the disapproving looks of parents. She had an urge to stand over him, to stare down the other parents, to defend him. She would tell them what he spent his days doing. When someone was prowling round the school gates, who did you think went out there after them?
Sarah’s voice called from the living room. ‘Mummy? What time is it now?’
‘It’s almost nine, sweetheart.’
She had been asking every five minutes for the last half-hour. In the kitchen Catherine cleared up the remains of breakfast. She moved fast, scraping bowls and rinsing glasses, as if her energy could somehow make John appear. She muttered under her breath.
‘You better not let that wee girl down. So help me.’
The hands of the kitchen clock ticked past nine. There was still no sign. Catherine lifted the phone and dialled O’Neill’s mobile. It went straight through to answerphone. She sighed and slammed the receiver down, harder than she meant to.
Sarah’s head popped round the door.
‘Was that him?’
‘No, love.’ Catherine forced a smile. ‘He’ll be on his way.’
Sarah went back into the living room and resumed her post as sentry on lookout.
Catherine went upstairs and started stripping the beds. It was a deliberate tactic to avoid having to be in the same room as her daughter. She caught herself looking out the window at the street below. Three doors down, the Brogans were getting into the car. Kevin and Sue must have taken the day off and it looked as if they were taking the boys swimming. Catherine heard the car doors slam shut and the engine start up. She heard Sarah’s voice calling up the stairs, ‘Mum, what time is it now?’ She pretended she didn’t hear her.
At twenty past nine Catherine picked up the phone and tried O’Neill again. Straight to answerphone.
She cursed him. It was vintage John. Always the same. First there was the disappointment, then the excuses and then the promises to make it up next time. It wouldn’t be him that would have to spend the rest of the day with Sarah, dealing with the tears, trying to make up excuses. Catherine had heard them enough times before. Back when they were directed at her. How could you tell a child though? Daddy had to work. He’s out there chasing a bad man. There were only so many times. .
At ten o’clock Catherine knelt down in front of her daughter. Sarah fought back the tears. She had seen enough to know that her daddy didn’t always come when he said he was going to.
‘It’s not fair,’ Catherine said, as much to herself as to her daughter. She was only a child. She was only five, she didn’t know how to guard against the disappointments, to shield herself the way her mother had learned to do over the years. Catherine knew now she’d have to call in sick to work.
‘Something must have happened, my love — something really important at work. Would you like me to take you to the pictures instead?’
The girl’s mouth turned downwards and she shook her head. Catherine wished she would cry because at least then she could give her a hug. Her eyes were almost unbearable to look at.
‘It’s OK, Mummy. We’ll go next time.’
The girl slowly took her coat off and hung it back on her hook, the one John had put at a special height when they had first moved into the house. She then went upstairs, into her bedroom, and quietly closed the door.
Catherine marched into the kitchen, cursing under her breath. She opened the drawer beside the cooker, rummaging through the old shopping lists and spare batteries until she found what she was looking for. The brown A4 envelope. She grabbed her handbag from the counter and searched for the stamps she knew were in her purse. She put a whole book of first class on the envelope. There was no way it wasn’t going to get there.
She called Sarah down from her bedroom and told her: ‘Put your coat on, sweetheart. We have to go out to do a message.’
In the flat on the Stranmillis Road O’Neill snored heavily. He hadn’t slept much the day before and had ended up down Laganview at four in the morning. He’d planned to have a shower before going to pick up Sarah. He was looking forward to seeing her and taking her to the pictures. They were going to Johnny Long’s for fish and chips afterwards. It was Sarah’s favourite. On the bed his suit lay crumpled. The phone in the pocket was dead, the battery completely out of charge.
The hot shower had been like a knock-out blow and O’Neill had almost fallen as he stepped out of the bath. He lay down for a few minutes on the bed. The clock said 8.15 so he could have twenty minutes’ kip and then head over to get Sarah.
The tiredness dragged him down instantly.
He dreamed he was running through a labyrinth. It was the dead of the night and freezing cold. When he stopped he could see his breath, bellowing in front of him. He didn’t know where he was — somewhere among rows of terrace houses. Long redbrick walls were interspersed with wooden doors into back yards. He was chasing someone. A figure in black. But he was always too slow. Every time he turned a corner he’d see a shadow disappearing round the next one. No matter how fast he ran, how much his lungs burned, it was no use. He stopped at a junction, his hands on his knees, sucking in air. He stood up and felt a cold metal barrel held to the back of his head. The last thing he heard was the loud click of a gun being cocked.
O’Neill snapped awake. It was twelve thirty.
He cursed, jumping out of bed and grabbing his suit for his mobile. He saw the blank screen and tossed it aside. Then he remembered he had no
landline and fumbled round for the charger. He scrolled through, looking for Catherine’s number. The phone at the other end rang five times before going through to answerphone. He heard the recording of his wife’s voice and tried to think of what to say. He tried the house phone but there was no answer either.
He threw his mobile across the room. It hit the wall and exploded, falling to the floor in several pieces.
O’Neill looked at the clock. He wasn’t due in Musgrave Street until six that night. He thought about the dream, the sound of the gun being cocked next to his head. He picked up his car keys, knowing he couldn’t stay in the flat another minute.
On the way into work O’Neill stopped at a mobile phone shop on Botanic Avenue.
‘I dropped this,’ he said, handing a young guy his handset in four pieces.
The shop assistant looked back incredulously. The phone was broken. Completely broken. O’Neill told him to replace it. The assistant launched into his sales patter about the latest Nokia. He was cocky and presumptuous. It had a camera, a digital screen, extra memory, high speed. .
O’Neill’s eyes bored into him. The assistant worried for his personal safety and quickly realized this wasn’t going to be an upgrade.
‘Same again?’ he asked meekly.
O’Neill nodded.
He produced a box from under the counter and rang through the transaction. O’Neill didn’t say anything but paid and took the phone.
TWENTY
William Spender closed the heavy oak door of his office. The house was quiet and Karen had gone out. She would be at the hairdresser’s, the gym or out to lunch. Whatever it was she filled her days with.
Eight miles away at Laganview, Tony Burke was sitting in the site hut when his mobile rang in his pocket. It came up Number Withheld.
‘Hello?’
‘It’s me,’ Spender said.
‘We need to talk. I think the police-’
‘Not over the phone.’
The statement sounded like a threat. Burke was immediately worried and stayed silent, waiting for the other man to speak. He hadn’t been in contact with Spender since they took him into Musgrave Street. They’d both agreed it was best to lie low.
Since walking out of the station that Monday, Burke had felt like he was constantly under surveillance. Every time he turned a corner he seemed to come upon a parked-up police wagon. In the town on Saturday two cops had come sprinting towards him. Burke had thought it was all over, and braced himself, but they blew past, chasing some hood in a tracksuit who had come running out of a shop.
On the other end of the phone Spender issued an order.
‘Eight o’clock tonight. Usual spot.’
The line went dead before Burke could say anything.
It was the middle of the week and the Ormeau Road was quiet. Burke had walked from his house just off the Ravenhill Road, taking a deliberately circuitous route. Since Spender’s call he’d felt even more sure there was someone on his tail. The walk normally took ten minutes but it was nearer twenty by the time he’d doubled back on himself. Burke knew he couldn’t afford any risks and had looked round a couple of times, pretending to tie his shoe or light a cigarette. Since the phone call he’d spent the whole afternoon wondering what Spender wanted. Whatever it was, he didn’t sound pleased.
Work on the site had picked up again. They had brought in ten more men since losing the previous Monday to the cops. Burke did the usual, gathering the foreign workers at the end of the day and telling them he needed ten more the next morning. That Thursday he’d arrived at seven to find twenty-five guys lined up. Poles, Lithuanians, a few Czechoslovakians, or whatever it was they called the place nowadays. It was that easy. He would keep them on until he didn’t need them and just get rid of them. They were always on time, worked themselves to the bone and never complained. It was capitalism as it was meant to be.
At five to eight Burke took up his spot in the empty doorway, across the road from the Errigle Inn. He looked up and down the street, waiting for the black Mercedes to pull up to the kerb. It had started to rain on his way over and the tarmac road shone a sleek black. Across the street a solitary figure stood outside the Errigle smoking a cigarette. A taxi pulled up outside the bar, and the driver glanced over at Burke. The passenger window came down and the smoker approached the car, leaning in the window to say something to the driver.
Burke started to panic. Had Spender turned on him? Was it a set-up?
He looked up and down the road, trying to figure the best way out. Down Sunnyside Street? No. Better the main road. More obstacles. More people. Ormeau Police Station was 300 yards away, squatting by the roadside like an iron fortress. Burke thought about walking up the street, trying to get closer to its protective shadow. Spender would wonder what he was up to though and he might think Burke had said more to the peelers than he was letting on.
The foreman glanced across the street. The back door of the taxi closed and he saw a swish of long blonde hair in the back. The car pulled out into the night traffic and Burke let out a sigh, whispering: ‘I’m getting too old for this shit.’
He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a packet of Lambert amp; Butler. He lit one just as a sleek black Mercedes slowed at the kerb. Burke looked at the fag. It was always the same. He suddenly wondered if this might be his last smoke and took two quick draws before tossing it away. He pushed the thought to the back of his head, telling himself it was all right, everything was dead on. As he rounded the car he checked that the passenger seat was empty and Spender was alone. A somewhat relieved Burke turned his collar up, glanced down the street, and lowered himself into the car.
‘Mr Spender, I-’
‘Shut up.’ Spender was tense and knew he wouldn’t have to repeat himself.
As the car eased out into the night traffic Burke was struck by how quiet the engine was. He was about to mention it, but thought better. Spender drove up the Ormeau Road, past the new shopping complex at Forestside. He took his time, keeping to the 30 m.p.h. speed limit. Spender liked being in control and enjoyed Burke’s discomfort beside him. The foreman’s mind raced. Was he driving with deliberate care? Not wanting to attract attention? No. It was OK. There was nothing to worry about.
The houses started to thin as the car made its way up the Saintfield Road and out of Belfast. They passed Purdysburn, the city’s mental asylum. Burke wanted to ask where they were going but stopped himself. You can’t be nervous, he told himself. A nervous man’s hiding something. He thought about his brother Michael and wished he was there. Michael had been involved and had seen things. Burke didn’t know how many operations he’d been on, but a situation like this wouldn’t have worried him in the slightest. Why hadn’t he brought Michael along?
In the past Spender would park up round the corner from the bar, in a side-street, somewhere off the main road. They were now well out of Belfast.
Just before the Carryduff roundabout the Mercedes slowed and turned off the main road, winding its way down a narrow country lane. In two minutes they were in the middle of nowhere. It was dark, and high hedges crowded in on the car. Burke had no idea where they were. Spender steered the Mercedes through a gap in the hedge and they emerged into a clearing in front of a 40-foot corrugated iron building. It was disused but looked as if it had been some sort of hay barn.
Burke peered at the gloomy surroundings, half-expecting another vehicle, a van perhaps, with a couple of men at the back doors. There was no one else, a fact that didn’t reassure him as much as it should have.
Spender stopped the car and turned off the engine. The car lights went out and the yard was plunged into darkness.
Burke glanced at the door handle.
‘Now,’ Spender said, turning to his passenger. ‘Tell me, have I got a tout working for me?’
TWENTY-ONE
O’Neill arrived at Musgrave Street to find a message from Mike Hessian.
Hessian was part of Civilian Support and was known as Big Bro
ther round Musgrave Street because he worked CCTV and video surveillance. Eight hours a day he sat locked in a cupboard with nothing but a bank of six screens for company. The Health and Safety men would have had a field day.
Hessian was in his fifties and wore a cardigan and a pair of glasses, perched on the end of his nose. He looked like a librarian more than a peeler. Everyone round Musgrave Street knew though: you could cheat on your wife and she might never find out, but Mike Hessian would know.
He might not have been a proper peeler but Hessian had locked up more guys than anyone in the nick. He gave you what every crime needed: a witness. And Hessian’s witnesses always took the stand. They didn’t get cold feet. They couldn’t be intimidated. In Musgrave Street you learned pretty quickly: when Bap stabbed Mackers, when Gerry did Jackie, when Micky ran over Carsey, and the whole world happened to look the other way, you went to see Mike Hessian.
Last week O’Neill had spent a day in the cupboard, poring over the CCTV from the street around Laganview. They had this, plus footage from the Court House, the Hilton Hotel and the Waterfront Hall. Everything in the vicinity. He’d come up with nothing. Hessian joked that whatever had gone on at Laganview happened in the only blind spot in the whole of the city. O’Neill had rolled his eyes, knowing he was a fool to have expected anything else.
When he got the message from Hessian he headed straight for the cupboard.
‘Mike. How are you doing? Watching EastEnders again, I see.’