‘What, then?’
‘Five hundred,’ Mr Lo said, his voice like a petulant child’s.
Fegan thought about the bundle of notes in a plastic bag, taped beneath the dressing table in his room. Mr Lo was gouging him, but he had no choice. ‘All right, five hundred,’ Fegan said. ‘But you open this fucking door right now.’
Locks snapped, bars rolled back. Mr Lo’s eye appeared in the crack of the door.
‘Come in,’ he said.
23
Lennon sat with his head in his hands, afraid to look at Gordon or Uprichard when he spoke. They thought they had the case wrapped up. Lennon doubted they’d take it well to hear he thought different. He told them anyway.
‘I don’t think it was the kid.’
‘It’s too early to think anything,’ Gordon said. He’d had an Ulster fry sent up to his office from the canteen. He swished a piece of sausage around in a pool of yellow egg yolk.
From his spot against the radiator, CI Uprichard watched Gordon eat. He’d had a minor heart attack last year, and talk was his wife made him eat muesli for breakfast. ‘Wait for the post-mortem,’ he said, ‘even if you can’t wait for forensics to come up with something.’
‘We know he wasn’t there alone,’ Lennon said.
‘So there was another kid,’ Gordon said through a mouthful of egged sausage. ‘Doesn’t mean the one we found didn’t do it. Doesn’t mean he did, either. You jump to conclusions far too quickly, DI Lennon. You should learn to stand back and take in the facts as a whole. Thirty years I’ve been at this, and one thing I can tell you for certain.’ He jabbed his fork in Lennon’s direction for emphasis. ‘Investigating with an agenda will lead you in circles.’
‘Agenda?’ Lennon asked.
‘That’s right,’ Gordon said. ‘First thing you said to me when you found out it was Quigley: “Couldn’t be coincidence,” you said. That’ll taint everything you do from here on if you’re not careful.’
Lennon had to concede the point. ‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘What now?’
‘I suggest you go home and get some rest,’ CI Uprichard said. ‘You look exhausted. We can’t do much until the post-mortem and forensic reports come back.’
Gordon chewed toast, spitting crumbs as he spoke. ‘We’ve got three teams doorstepping the area to see who the kid was friends with. If anything comes up, we’ll call you back in.’
‘All right,’ Lennon said. He got up and headed for the door.
‘Don’t go chasing things that aren’t there,’ Gordon called after him. ‘You’ll end up missing the truth for want of a lie, young Lennon.’
Lennon lay on his back for an hour, wishing for sleep. A dull hint of a headache loomed behind his eyes. Making up for the lost hours of the night before would ease it, but he knew the more he wished for the warm darkness the less likely it would come.
The quiet again. Too much silence, and too many thoughts to break it. Most were of Marie and Ellen. He had found out everything he could when they first disappeared, begged favours, pressed anyone he knew for more information. The same story everywhere he turned: Marie felt unsafe after her uncle got his brains blown out, so she made herself scarce. After a while, Lennon eased up. He told himself to let it go. His daughter was lost to him. It didn’t matter if she lived in Belfast or somewhere across the sea; he’d never know her anyway.
But then Dandy Andy Rankin talked, and once more every thought formed around Marie and Ellen. Lennon couldn’t force his mind to look away. There was only one thing to do. The landlord lived on Wellesley Avenue, two streets north of Eglantine Avenue. He could be there in ten minutes.
Jonathan Nesbitt, sixty-seven and retired, blinked at Lennon’s ID. ‘What can I do for you?’ he asked.
‘Can I come in?’ Lennon asked, putting one foot inside the door.
‘I suppose, if you—’
Lennon stepped past him and said, ‘Thanks.’
Nesbitt’s hall was a little dowdy, but well kept. He had two properties he rented out, houses his wife had inherited from her father before her own death a few years ago. The hall led to a high-ceilinged living room. Cheap prints hung on the walls, cherubic children, dogs playing cards. An old television sat in the corner, Philip Schofield and Fern Britton exchanging banalities in oversaturated colour.
‘What’s this about?’ Nesbitt asked as he followed Lennon in.
‘Sit down,’ Lennon said.
‘Oh, thank you,’ Nesbitt said with no attempt to veil his sarcasm. He lowered himself into the armchair facing the television.
Lennon sat across from him. ‘It’s about the house you own on Eglantine Avenue. The ground floor flat, in particular.’
Nesbitt’s eyes rolled. ‘Miss McKenna,’ he said.
‘That’s right,’ Lennon said.
‘For the last time, Miss McKenna moved out in a hurry, I was given a year’s rent in advance, my son boarded it up for me, and that’s that.’ Nesbitt tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. ‘Hang on, you were here asking about it before. Two or three months ago, wasn’t it?’
Lennon nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said.
‘What do you think I’m going to tell you now that I didn’t tell you before? Look, I was asked to hold the flat for Miss McKenna, I was given the rent in advance, she moved out, and that’s all there is to it.’
‘Who asked you to keep the flat?’
Nesbitt shifted in his seat. ‘I’m not at liberty to say.’
‘I’m a police officer,’ Lennon said.
‘And I’m a retired civil servant and a landlord,’ Nesbitt said.
‘You don’t follow me.’
‘Oh, I follow you all right. But I don’t have to tell you anything I don’t want to.’
‘I can compel you to talk to me,’ Lennon said. ‘I can formally interview you at a station, on record. And if you still don’t want to answer the questions, I can bring you in front of a magistrate, and you’ll—’
‘Don’t waste your breath,’ Nesbitt said. ‘They told me you’d try that. They said they’d quash any legal action, it’d never see a court.’
‘Who said that?’ Lennon asked.
Nesbitt coughed. He waved his hand in the air as he searched for the right words. ‘They did,’ he said, eventually.
Lennon sat forward. ‘Who’s “they”?’
‘I’m not at liberty to say,’ Nesbitt said. His eyes glittered as he smirked. He clearly enjoyed his power over Lennon.
‘Someone picked up Marie’s post last week,’ Lennon said. ‘They must have a key.’
‘Nothing to do with me,’ Nesbitt said. ‘I haven’t set foot in that flat since it was boarded up.’
‘Who has the key?’
‘They do,’ Nesbitt said. He bit his knuckle to suppress a giggle.
‘And who is “they”?’
‘I’m not at—’
‘Yeah, I know.’ Lennon stood up. There was no use in pressing the landlord. He took a card from his jacket pocket. ‘Do me one favour, though. If anyone comes around asking more questions, anyone who isn’t, you know … they … give me a shout, okay?’
Nesbitt took the card with a contemptuous sniff, and studied it at arm’s length. ‘We’ll see,’ he said.
‘Please,’ Lennon said. ‘Anyone you’re not sure of comes around, let me know.’
‘Anyone?’ Nesbitt set the card on the arm of the chair and stared up at Lennon. ‘Anyone like you?’
Lennon said, ‘I’ll let myself out.’
His mobile rang as he got into his car. ‘Yeah?’ he answered.
It was Gordon. ‘Blood type on the knitting needle matches the kid’s, and he has a small puncture wound on his thigh. His prints are on the knife, of course. It’ll take a few days for proper DNA matches from Birmingham, but it looks pretty solid. Mrs Quigley stabbed him with the needle, he fled to the yard, lost his footing in the wet, and that’s that.’
‘What about the other kid?’ Lennon asked.
‘Haven’t turned him
up yet,’ Gordon said. ‘The locals are cooperating for the most part – the paramilitaries told them to – but no sign. We’ll find him before too long, don’t worry.’
Lennon settled into the driver’s seat. ‘I don’t know,’ he said.
‘You don’t know what?’
‘Doesn’t it seem a little … well … easy?’
‘You’re a more experienced investigator than that, DI Lennon,’ Gordon said. ‘This was a clumsy, stupid, hasty killing. Clumsy, stupid, hasty killers don’t cover their tracks. They’re almost always caught within twenty-four hours. Granted, the fact that the killer managed to break his own neck while escaping is a stroke of luck. But nevertheless, pending all reports from our more scientific colleagues, I consider this one wrapped up.’
‘You told me it was too early,’ Lennon said.
‘That was this morning,’ Gordon said. ‘This is now. Like I told you, don’t go chasing things that aren’t there. Take the rest of the day off. You did good work at the scene. I won’t forget it.’
‘Thank you,’ Lennon said.
He hung up and put the phone back in his pocket. Nesbitt watched him from his living room window. The old man had a phone to his own ear. Lennon wondered who he was talking to.
24
Orla O’Kane stood alone in her room in the old house’s servants’ quarters. The small window overlooked the long, sweeping driveway. She flicked the tip of her cigarette against the rim of the ashtray. With her free hand she dialled the mobile she’d given the Traveller.
‘What about ya, love?’ he answered.
She closed her eyes and took a deep drag on the cigarette.
‘Fegan’s in New York,’ she said. ‘We got word from a friend in the NYPD. Some arsehole called Murphy turned up in a hospital, said some Irish fella and a darkie gave him a going over. Said the Irish fella stopped the darkie from killing him. Said the Irish fella’s name was Gerry Fegan.’
‘You want me to fly to New York?’ the Traveller asked.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Stick to the plan. Use the woman and the girl. We’re told they’ll be out in the open soon. Make him come to you.’
‘All right,’ the Traveller said.
‘Besides, you’ve got Patsy Toner to take care of yet.’
‘True,’ the Traveller said.
Orla hung up and dropped the phone on her single bed. She stubbed the cigarette out and checked her watch. Her father’s colostomy pouch needed changing, and he didn’t like either of the nurses to do it. Instead, Orla had to undo the pouch of faecal matter from the stoma, the surgical opening in her father’s belly. Then she would dispose of it and attach a fresh pouch. She’d wept the first few times she’d had to do it. Now she simply ignored the smell and got on with it.
Two flights of narrow stairs took her down to the first floor. She crossed the gallery overlooking the entrance hall and knocked on her father’s door.
‘Who is it?’
‘It’s me,’ she answered.
‘Come in.’
His voice carried an urgency she didn’t like. She opened the door and entered, then stopped between the door and the bed.
‘Don’t just fucking stand there staring,’ Bull O’Kane said. ‘Come and help me.’
He sat on the edge of the bed, sheets and blankets tangled around his legs. They were stained orange and red. An upturned plastic bowl lay on the floor, a tumbler beside it. The tray rested against the bedside locker.
Orla approached him. ‘Jesus, Da, why didn’t you call one of the nurses?’
‘Because I don’t want them fussing round me. Just help me, all right?’
She knelt down, retrieved the tray, and placed the bowl and tumbler upon it. The smell was bad down here, so close to him. She plucked a handful of tissues from the box on the bedside locker and dabbed at the puddles of soup and orange juice on the floor.
‘You have to let the nurses help you sometimes,’ she said. ‘That’s what we pay them for. I can’t always be here to pick up after you.’
‘I don’t want them near me,’ the Bull said. ‘If I can’t depend on my own daughter, then Jesus, who can I depend on?’
Anger broke free of her, hot and pure, before she could catch it. ‘Then be more fucking careful, you—’
The slap knocked her sideways, and she landed on her shoulder. Her ear burned, a high whine sounding somewhere deep inside it. She lay there until her breathing came under control.
The old man gazed into the distance. ‘My own daughter, for Christ’s sake.’
Orla got to her knees, balled up the tissues, and placed them on the tray. She stood, carried the tray to the door, and left the room. Her ear whined as the tears burned her eyes. She threw the tray at the wall, and watched the last drops of soup and orange juice streak the wallpaper before the plastic clattered to the floor.
25
The Doyles’ men had scattered as soon as they heard the sirens coming. Fegan had everything he needed in a sports bag and was walking west along Hester Street when the blue and red lights flickered on the buildings behind him. He’d turned south on Forsyth Street and kept walking until he reached the ferry terminal. He and the commuters making their way home from their night shifts ignored one another as the boat slipped across the bay to Staten Island. He disembarked and kept walking. He collapsed once with visions of child-eating fire and smoke. He screamed at the dawn before picking himself up and moving on, sweat coursing over his body.
Fegan wasn’t sure enough to admit it to himself, but somewhere deep in his gut he knew he was going home. The phone in his pocket had dried blood between the keys, its screen was cracked, but it still worked. He often dreamed of it ringing. He was never sure if he felt terror or relief at its clamour, but he had a notion the answer wasn’t far off.
26
Lennon parked his Audi on the side street by McKenna’s bar. Traffic passed along the Springfield Road just a few yards ahead. He wondered if he dared do this. His hand rested on the door handle for thirty long seconds before he decided. The decision made, he got out, locked the car, and walked to the pub’s entrance. The handful of afternoon drinkers fell silent when he entered. This was not the kind of place that welcomed strangers. He returned their stares in turn and walked to the bar.
‘Pint of Stella,’ he said.
The barman took a glass and filled it with foam. He set it in front of Lennon.
‘Big head on that,’ Lennon said.
The barman brought the glass back to the tap and topped it up.
Lennon took out his wallet and put a five-pound note on the bar. The beer was cold enough to sting his throat. The barman put the change in front of him.
‘You’re Tom Mooney,’ Lennon said.
‘That’s right,’ Mooney said. ‘Who are you?’
Lennon opened his wallet, subtle, shielded by his hands.
Mooney’s shoulders slumped. ‘What do you want?’
Lennon stowed the wallet away. ‘You know Marie McKenna?’
‘Of course I do,’ Mooney said. ‘Her father used to own this place.’
‘No he didn’t,’ Lennon said. ‘Her uncle owned it. Her father’s name was on the licence, but Michael McKenna owned this place.’
‘Not any more,’ Mooney said.
No,’ Lennon said. ‘Funny thing, that, what happened to Michael. Then that business with Paul McGinty on that farm in Middletown.’
‘It was a bad doing,’ Mooney said.
‘Yeah,’ Lennon said. ‘You ever hear anything of Marie these days?’
‘She moved away,’ Mooney said. ‘That’s all I heard.’
‘Any idea where she went?’
‘Haven’t a baldy notion,’ Mooney said.
‘None at all?’ Lennon asked. ‘No rumours? No whispers?’
Mooney leaned close. ‘I’m hard of hearing,’ he said. ‘I can’t hear whispers.’
Lennon gave Mooney a smile. ‘It’s personal business,’ he said. Nothing official. She’s not in trouble.
I just need to talk to her about something. Did she leave any word where she was going?’
Not a peep,’ Mooney said, his face softening. Not even her ma knows where she is. Marie just phoned her up one morning, said she was away, and that was that. You know her father had a stroke a couple of weeks back?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Yep. He’s in the Royal now. I went over to see him. Paralysed down one side, his mouth’s hanging open, can’t talk. Fucking pitiful. Some of Marie’s ones were giving off ’cause she didn’t come back to see him. If you want my opinion, she got scared over that feud and just packed up and got out. Can’t blame her, really.’
‘No,’ Lennon said. ‘Can’t blame her.’
‘Anything else?’ Mooney asked.
‘One thing. You were one of the last people saw Michael McKenna alive,’ Lennon said. ‘He left here with some drunk, dropped him home, and went to the docks to get his brains blown out. The reports say he phoned you from there just before it happened.’
‘I cooperated,’ Mooney said. ‘I gave my statements. It’s all on record. If you want to know anything, just look it up. Now drink up and get out.’
Lennon took a swig of gassy beer. ‘I want another Stella,’ he said.
‘You haven’t finished that one yet,’ Mooney said.
‘I’m planning ahead,’ Lennon said. ‘The inquiry said the Lithuanians got McKenna and that sparked it off. Is that what you think happened?’
‘I gave my statements,’ Mooney said.
‘That’s not what I asked.’
‘It’s all I’m saying.’
‘You know about Declan Quigley,’ Lennon said.
‘Aye,’ Mooney said. ‘Another bad doing. I heard some kid did it. Is that right?’
Lennon ignored the question, asked one of his own. ‘He ever drink here?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘How’d he been lately?’
‘How do you mean?’ Mooney asked.
‘What sort of form was he in? Was he depressed? Nervous? Angry?’
‘All three,’ Mooney said. ‘He got a bad scare when McGinty was killed.’
‘Did he ever talk about it?’
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