by Matt McGuire
When it popped, uniform piled into the house, shouting, ‘Police!’ at the top of their voices. They fanned out into the rooms, three running up the stairs. From the front door O’Neill heard shouts of, ‘Clear, clear, clear. .’ as each room was secured.
He cursed under his breath. No one was home.
After a few minutes uniform slowly backed their way out of the house. Ward had reminded them beforehand that it might be a crime scene, and that the first man to touch something would be on foot patrol for a year.
O’Neill and Ward let the dogman in, trailing a small brown and white spaniel, its tail wagging as if it had never been happier in its life. The dogman pointed at things, opened cupboards and ran his hand under furniture. The spaniel sniffed its way round the house, in seeming ecstasy. Near a chest of drawers the dog suddenly stopped and sat down, looking up at its master. The dogman gave a treat and had a quick rummage through the drawers but couldn’t see anything. It might only be a trace on the clothes. He turned to O’Neill, making sure the detective had seen it before he moved on with the dog. The spaniel stopped and sat three more times but each time the dogman couldn’t see anything obvious. Once the spaniel was back in the van he came to talk to O’Neill.
‘This place is definitely hot. Or at least it was, not too long ago.’
O’Neill thanked him and went inside, starting a room-to-room search. The kitchen cupboards were sparse, containing tins and jars with various foreign labels that he didn’t recognize. Dzem. Makrela. Pinczow. Walczak lived alone and there was no sign of a woman, something O’Neill confirmed when he went through the clothes upstairs.
In a living-room cupboard Ward found a 12-inch bowie knife and an improvised baton, made from heavy-duty cable, twisted and held by masking tape.
‘Nice guy,’ O’Neill muttered, holding up the weapons.
The bedrooms didn’t contain much and only had the most basic furniture.
‘This guy lives like a monk,’ he said to Ward on his way out of the bedroom.
The first sweep found nothing and O’Neill had gone back to the four spots where the dog had sat down. He still couldn’t see anything. He bagged the clothes from the chest of drawers, some more forensic evidence for his new friend Robin Bradley.
Then O’Neill went back and started over at the front door. He went from room to room again, this time going through the litany of secret spaces, the secluded hiding spots that every criminal thought he was the only person in the world to have thought of. He checked the carpet in the corners, listening for loose floorboards. He pulled back the side of the bath and lifted the cistern. He tore apart the beds and pulled kitchen units away from walls. He sliced open the sofa and felt up the chimney. With each new empty space, O’Neill could feel his chest tightening.
Under the floor in the cupboard, he got his breakthrough. It wasn’t drugs, it wasn’t a gun. It was better.
O’Neill lifted out a shoe-box and called Ward in from the next room. He placed the box on the bed and slowly took off the lid.
Inside were a couple of photographs. One was a picture of some soldiers in full combat gear, their faces blacked up. They were crawling through a forest and looked to be on some kind of training exercise. In another picture, a group of three men stood side by side. They looked lean and menacing, all with shaved heads and black combat uniform. Again their faces were camouflaged but O’Neill could make out Walczak. On the back of the photograph were the letters WS RP, followed by Wojska Specjalne Rzeczypospolitej Polskiej.
‘What do you want to bet WR SP is Polish Special Forces?’ O’Neill asked Ward.
‘Looks like it to me.’
The box also contained a plastic bag with at least twenty SIM cards for mobile phones. He’d be switching SIM cards all the time to make it difficult to trace his calls. At the bottom of the box were six passports, all of them Polish. O’Neill flicked through them, expecting a series of false identities for Walczak. They weren’t. They belonged to different people. In each one the face of a young man, no older than sixteen, was framed in a 1-inch passport photo. O’Neill held the fifth passport in his hand, showing it to Ward. It was their victim.
‘It’s him.’
O’Neill read the name. Jacob Pilsudski. He was from somewhere O’Neill had never heard off. Pomorskie. Born 11 December 1989. He was sixteen years old.
‘Yeah. That’s him all right,’ Ward said. He picked up the passports and flicked through them.
‘They’re all Polish,’ O’Neill said. ‘They’re kids. He has them dealing for him. He takes the passports off them — a bit of extra security. That was why he knee-capped this one after he killed him. He knew we’d end up running round in circles, chasing after anyone with a paramilitary past. Shit, it’s not as if there’s a lack of suspects for something like that.’
‘So what now?’ Ward asked.
‘Mint. It’s our last chance.’
THIRTY-FIVE
O’Neill and Ward swung by Musgrave Street and swapped the black Mondeo for an unmarked white van. It belonged to the Proactive Unit but Ward pulled rank and commandeered it.
At half four they parked up in Waring Street and waited. They had a clear view down Henry Street and into the Cathedral Quarter. Halfway down the cobbles were the doors of Mint. O’Neill knew this was the only thing to do now, wait and hope. They’d closed Walczak’s door and left two units hidden at either end of the street in case he came back. There was a good chance a neighbour had seen the action and tipped him off though. If that was the case he’d go underground and try to slip out of the country. The airport, ferry and train stations had all been put on alert and a picture had been circulated. A description had been sent round the entire PSNI with officers instructed to stop and search anyone resembling.
They needed to be lucky. O’Neill thought about everything he’d done over the last month, the hours he’d spent sifting the case-file, sitting outside Burke’s, staking out The George, chasing Joe Lynch. And still it came down to luck. He needed a bit of luck to get Walczak. How did that work? How was that fair?
He looked at his watch for the third time in ten minutes.
‘Will you stop looking at your frigging watch?’ Ward said.
‘I seem to spend my life sitting in cars. Waiting.’
‘Hey, that’s the job. If you haven’t figured that out by now, you never will.’
O’Neill shifted in his seat trying to get comfortable. The van smelled of stale crisps and cigarette smoke.
‘This thing reeks,’ he said.
‘So would your car, if you spent twelve hours a night sitting in it.’
O’Neill watched pedestrians walk down Waring Street. At the bottom of the road a couple of men stood smoking outside the Northern Whig. The bar had opened a few years ago in the former newspaper offices.
‘So tell me, Detective,’ Ward asked. ‘How do a bunch of Polish kids end up dealing on the streets of Belfast?’
‘Same way Belfast kids do. It’s about money. All they’re doing is working. Trying to get by. Doing what it takes.’
‘And what about our friend Walczak?’
‘He’s involved with somebody. A middle man. There is no way the local boys would have allowed him to set up shop on his own. He controls the door to one of the biggest clubs in town though. The customers come to see you. A guy that’s on coke will drink all night. He’ll never get pissed, never pass out. If the place is making a killing over the bar, everybody’s happy. It’s one big party and everyone’s winning.’
‘So what about Joe Lynch and Gerry McCann?’
‘Good question. I don’t know.’
‘And Burke? Spender?’
‘They’re dirty. Up to something. How it all fits is another question.’
The clock on the car ticked forward. O’Neill reckoned the doormen came on at seven and as it got closer he could feel his legs starting to itch. Ward was gazing out the window, trying to figure out who would be at O’Neill’s Review Boards. .
O’Neill tapped on his arm. He looked up and saw Walczak illuminated in the doorway of the club. He was with the same man as the previous night. Both wore dark suits and long black coats. Business as usual.
‘Is this that karma stuff you were on about?’ Ward asked, arching an eyebrow.
The two detectives got out of the car and started walking down the cobbled street. Neither man looked at the door, trying to pretend they were a couple of guys, out for a pint and a spot of food.
Walczak glanced down the road, saw O’Neill and instantly took off. He leaped down three steps and sprinted down the alley, away from the cops.
O’Neill ran after him, shouting over his shoulder to call it in. Ward grabbed his radio.
‘This is 571. Officer in pursuit. Requesting immediate back-up. Suspect is five ten, shaved head and black coat. Heading up Henry Street in the direction of St Anne’s.’
Ward then took off after them, cursing. ‘More bloody running.’
O’Neill was already 100 yards away before Ward got going. Walczak had made it to the end of the lane and crossed Talbot Street, turning right down a narrow alley. A thought suddenly came into O’Neill’s head — this guy could run all day. He’d read a book about some British SAS guys who had been caught behind enemy lines in Iraq. They just put their heads down and ran across the whole country, trying to get away.
O’Neill pumped his arms, oblivious to the burning in his chest. At the end of the lane he turned right and his feet slid out from under him. Leather shoes on greasy cobbles.
‘Bastard!’
His right leg hit the ground hard. O’Neill saw Walczak turn a corner 20 yards away. He scrambled up and took off. Back-up was on the way. All he had to do was stay on top of him. They turned down Exchange Street, Academy Street. O’Neill was gaining on the doorman. The latter’s heavy coat wasn’t helping his cause. By the bottom of the lane they were only a few feet apart.
The bouncer slowed to turn the corner and O’Neill dived. He managed to get Walczak round his legs and both men hit the ground. The doorman was strong and turned, punching the cop in the head. O’Neill had hold of a foot and clamped his arms around it.
Walczak stood up, unfazed by the peeler’s hold on him. He leaned down and punched O’Neill in the face. The detective clung on. Walczak punched him again, trying to make him release his grip. He then leaned back, lifting a boot and bringing it down hard on O’Neill’s head. He lifted it and did the same again.
O’Neill tried to squeeze tighter, bracing himself against the blows. Ward, he thought, where the fuck are you?
He tried to tuck himself round Walczak’s leg as a way of shielding himself. He just needed to hang on. The boot came down again. O’Neill felt his grip slacken. And again, the boot. He swooned. Lightheaded. The boot, again. A wave swept over O’Neill. His hands went limp. He felt the leg lift up and out of his grasp. His arms clutched at thin air. It was the last thing O’Neill was aware of before the lights went out.
THIRTY-SIX
O’Neill woke up. He was warm and surrounded by bright light. He felt as if he was floating.
He could only open his left eye, and blinked several times trying to get the room into focus. He was in a hospital bed. A room on his own. A dull ache throbbed on his right side. He tried to move his arm and felt a searing pain shoot through his shoulder and up his neck, causing him to grimace.
After a few seconds he looked down and saw a sling holding his arm. His left hand had a needle in it and there was a drip going into the back of his hand. He was plugged into a heart monitor, the digital graph rolling left to right, showing his vitals.
I’m not dead then, he thought.
Ward sat beside the bed. O’Neill tried to speak but his throat was dry and his voice croaked. Ward stood up and poured some water into a cup. He leaned over, holding it to the detective’s mouth. The water soothed on its way down his throat.
‘I thought for a second this might be heaven,’ O’Neill said. ‘Until I saw your ugly mug.’
‘I wouldn’t count on either of us getting there,’ Ward replied.
O’Neill smiled and a stab of pain hit along the side of his jaw. He spoke again, more quietly than before.
‘How long have I been asleep?’
‘A day.’
‘Walczak?’
‘We got him.’
O’Neill felt himself relax.
‘I got there just as you blacked out.’
‘I was beginning to think you’d stopped for a fag or something.’
Ward laughed softly. ‘You and your frigging running.’
He sat down again, pulling his chair closer to the bed.
‘He’s some piece of work, that Walczak. He’s Polish. Ex-Special Forces. You should have seen him in the interview room. He laughed at the idea of jail. “Fucking police. You think I give a fuck about you and your prison?” After that he stone-walled us. Just sat there. Arms folded.’
O’Neill lay on the bed, wishing he’d been there, just to be in the room, to be asking the questions, even if Walczak didn’t answer a single one. They had the footprint. They had the DNA. They had the passports.
‘Who was he working with?’
‘He’s not going to give anyone up. He’ll do his time. He didn’t even blink at the prospect of life. Oh, and the nightclub — Mint? You’re not going to believe who owns that building.’
O’Neill guessed. ‘You’re not serious?’
‘Yeah. That’s right. Spender’s got that whole block. We can’t tell how involved he is. He might just be a man with a big building. I don’t think so. But that’s as far as we can go with him for the time being.’
‘What about the black book he found — his son’s? The one with all the phone numbers?’
‘Who knows what he did with it? Maybe he burned it.’
O’Neill tried to adjust himself in the bed, wincing as a fresh stab of pain hit his shoulder. He breathed in through his teeth.
‘What about Burke and his brother?’
‘They were definitely up to something. Possibly to do with Laganview. Burke’s phone record shows they talked eight times the weekend the kid was killed. We don’t have anything tying them directly to the body though.’
Despite the pain and the cloud of medication, O’Neill could feel the weight starting to lift from him. Sure, there were loose ends. There always were. They’d got someone though. It was a victory. It meant something.
‘So what’s my diagnosis then?’ O’Neill asked.
‘Dislocated shoulder. Fractured skull. You took a few digs to the head so you’re not as pretty as you once were. Doctor says it’s nothing a bit of time won’t fix.’
‘You’ll need to apologize to Wilson. I don’t think I’m going to make my Review Board at this rate.’
‘I wouldn’t worry about that,’ Ward said. ‘Walczak’s in bracelets. Laganview’s over. You’re going to be keeping your stripes. I’ll tell you better than that — there’s a permanent Sergeant’s post coming up in March and your name’s already been pencilled in.’
O’Neill lifted his eyebrows, raising three fingers on his left hand, thinking about tapping his shoulder. He winced halfway through the movement and brought his hand back down.
‘Detective Sergeant O’Neill,’ Ward said. ‘Yeah. I always thought it suited you.’
O’Neill gave a faint smile. The light in the room was beginning to sting his eyes. He put his head back and closed them.
He heard the door open and someone else walk in. A nurse, possibly the doctor.
He looked up to see Sam Jennings standing at the door, a look of worry on her face. Jennings looked at the DI. She knew who Ward was, but she was new to Musgrave Street, and in uniform. She wouldn’t be on his radar.
Ward stood up, raising his eyebrows at O’Neill. ‘I’ve got some paperwork needs doing. I’ll leave you both to it.’
As he turned to walk out of the room, Sam stood back.
‘Jennings,’ Ward said, passing the WPC.
‘Sir,’ she replied, hiding a tinge of embarrassment. She stepped forward to the bed and put her hand against O’Neill’s face.
‘You should see the state of the other guy,’ O’Neill said.
‘I did. Funnily enough, there wasn’t a mark on him.’
‘Yeah. So they keep telling me.’
Molloy felt as if he was back at school, sitting in the headmaster’s office, about to get the caning of his life.
It was eleven in the morning and The George hadn’t opened. He sat in a booth along the back wall. Gerry McCann was on a bar stool smoking, a deep frown across his forehead. He hadn’t spoken since walking in, and had ignored Molloy. Three dirty pint glasses sat on the bar next to him — leftovers from the previous night. Molloy could hear McCann breathing, each exhale angrier than the one before. He looked as if he was trying to suck the life out of his cigarette.
Molloy didn’t speak. This was a ‘wait till you’re spoken to’ moment. Most definitely. There were no lights on in The George and the grey winter sky filtered through the window at the far end of the bar. McCann was fuming, surrounded by smoke. He looked as if he wanted to hurt someone.
‘Where’s Joe Lynch?’ He spoke without looking at Molloy.
‘Eh, we’ve had people watching the house, walking round town, in and out-’
McCann repeated the question, slowly with emphasis.
‘Where — the fuck — is Joe Lynch?’
‘We don’t know.’
A pint glass flew through the air, smashing above Molloy’s head and showering him in glass.
In Cultra, Karen Spender stood on the patio looking down the lawn and out over Belfast Lough. She was smoking again. Two days ago she had bought her first packet in eight years. It was the phone call to Manchester that did it.
She’d hired a private investigator. Wanted him to find Phillip. He had quoted her his daily rate, plus expenses. Who cared how much it cost? She needed to know — even if it was as bad as she imagined. Every time the phone went, she jumped three feet in the air. At least that’s what it felt like. She had got into the habit of cutting people short. She couldn’t talk to them. Not now.