by Matt McGuire
An old lady stood at the bus stop, clutching her handbag, trying not to look at him. Marty watched the traffic, scanning for faces, wondering where Eddie was. He’d no idea what the car would be. He’d said low-key, a Corsa or an Astra, but with Eddie you never knew.
‘A granny wagon,’ his mate had said. ‘Come on, wise up.’
‘You want the money or not?’
‘All right,’ he’d said, sighing. ‘Gimme half an hour.’
Marty lit a cigarette and looked at his mobile – quarter past.
Twenty yards away a black Golf rounded the corner, accelerating hard before stamping on the brakes. The old dear pulled her bag close as a laugh echoed from the car. Marty stepped forward and jumped in.
Behind the wheel Eddie stared straight ahead.
‘Taxi?’ he said, his voice all sing-song.
‘Just go, would you.’
Eddie revved the engine and lifted the clutch, peeling away.
‘Slow down,’ Marty ordered. ‘And quit fucking about. If we get stopped you don’t get paid.’
‘You’re worse than my ma.’
Eddie slid down in his seat, collar up, cap low. He’d been joyriding since he was fourteen, nicking cars, goading the peelers into a chase. Last year the Ra caught up him and gave him a Padre Pio. It was a stigmata, a bullet through each hand. Eddie had screamed, begged them, said he’d never do it again. Two months later, hands still in bandages, he was back at it.
‘Where we going?’ he said as the car started up the Ormeau Road.
‘Ballybean,’ Marty replied.
‘Same as last time?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Dead on.’
Marty had known Eddie for years, since primary school. He’d been getting him to drive the last three months. For a hundred quid, Eddie rocked up with a motor and took you where you needed to go. He would wait round the corner and if the shit hit the fan, could punch you out of any trouble. The peelers? The Provos? Not a bother.
In the car Eddie turned on the CD player, making a face at the classical music. He hit eject and tossed the CD out the window.
‘Away to fuck Mozart.’
‘Calm down,’ Marty said.
They drove in silence, cutting through Rosetta, past the Cregagh estate, towards Ballybean. Marty found himself glancing at Eddie’s hands, at the gold sovereign rings, the two white scars. They’d grabbed him one night, four guys, all wearing masks. They’d laughed as they beat the shit out of him, enjoying it. They’d held him down, standing on his forearms, gun to the back of the hand. Said he should be grateful this was all he was getting.
In ten minutes the Golf pulled into Ballybean, weaving its way along narrow streets of pebble-dashed houses. There were Union Jacks on lamp posts, painted kerbstones, murals leering down at them. FOR GOD AND ULSTER.
Eddie parked up, shaking his head. ‘Gives me the heebie-jeebies this place.’
‘Just sit tight. I’ll be two minutes.’
Marty walked round the corner, out of sight, and knocked on a door. A guy with a shaved head and a bodybuilder’s physique opened it, ushering him in without speaking. He had tattoos on both forearms – the Northern Ireland flag, the Glasgow Rangers badge. Marty handed over five hundred quid and picked up the gear, same as usual.
‘I’ll need more next week,’ he said. ‘Three times this.’
The man raised his eyebrows. ‘You planning a party?’
Marty didn’t speak.
‘Triple’s no problem,’ he said, laughing quietly. ‘My own wee Fenian. What does Tierney say about all this?’
Marty shrugged.
‘No. That’s what I thought.’ The man shook his head. ‘It’s all money to me, kid.’
Afterwards, Marty walked to the car, fighting the voice inside him that screamed ‘run!’ He felt the eyes on him, the large figure filling the door frame of the house behind him, watching as he walked away. He lowered himself into the car.
‘Let’s get the fuck outta here,’ Eddie said.
‘OK,’ Marty said. ‘But go slow.’
Marty stashed the gear and got Eddie to drop him off at the Tech so that he could see Petesy. It was after four and he should have been out by now. He noticed Mackers coming out the door, sporting his usual Man U top.
‘Marty, big lad. What are you doing here? Signing up for a course?’
‘Aye, likely story. I’m looking for Petesy.’
‘Haven’t seen him.’
‘Thought he was in your class.’
‘He was. Hasn’t been about for weeks.’
Marty screwed up his face. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Hey, don’t ask me.’
‘Right. I’ll see you later,’ he said, storming off.
Twenty minutes later, he was at Petesy’s granny’s, lobbing stones at the window. After three hits a shadow appeared behind a net curtain. A few seconds later, Petesy came to the door, leaning on his stick.
‘Get in would you.’
Marty went inside. He’d been barred since last year, the old girl blaming him for what had happened to her grandson.
‘Boss out?’ he asked.
‘At the bingo.’
Marty stood in the living room, surrounded by miniature ornaments, sagging furniture and patterned carpet. The place smelled musty, like it was trapped in the seventies.
‘I waited for you today.’
‘What?’
‘At the Tech.’
‘I was sick.’
‘And yesterday?’
Petesy looked away.
‘You’re not my da you know.’
‘I saw Mackers. Said he hadn’t seen you in weeks.’
Petesy’s face fell.
‘What’s going on?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Have you jacked it?’
‘Fuck off would you.’
‘Really? Fuck off? That’s what you’ve got. The man with all the brains, Mr IQ, and the best you can manage is “fuck off”.’
Petesy sat down on the sofa and let his shoulders sink. ‘There’s no point,’ he said.
‘What do you mean, there’s no point?’
‘I mean there’s no point. I mean, look at me.’ Petesy threw his stick across the room. ‘I can get all the exams I want, but I’ll still be limping round like a cripple.’
‘What are you talking about?’
Petesy hesitated before speaking. ‘I never told you.’
‘Told me what?’
‘It was a fortnight ago. Coming down the Ormeau Road. I was with Seaneen Quinn, you know, her with the tits … anyway she’s in my class. We’re walking past the Hatfield and three guys come out, all shit-faced. One of them sees the stick and starts slabbering – wee fucking hood, slap it up ye, not so hard now … We just kept walking, not letting on. Next thing he fucking swipes the stick out from under me. I’m down like a ton of shit. And they’re walking away, laughing. And you know what, it was the same voices.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It was the same fuckers that did it. Not Tierney, but the other one, Molloy. I’d know his laugh anywhere. Spat on me and walked away.’
Marty felt his jaw tighten. ‘So what are you saying? You just give up on the Tech then? ’Cause these dicks give you a hard time.’
‘Look at this shit.’ He gestured to his legs. ‘This is how it works round here.’
Marty shook his head and stood up, turning towards the door. He put his hand on the latch.
‘Hey,’ he said, pausing before he left, the anger gone from his voice. ‘You know how to get into my ma’s house right?’
‘What?’
‘My ma’s house. You can get in like?’
‘You mean the flowerpot and the key and all. Sure. Why?’
Marty shook his head.
‘No reason. Checking. Just in case.’
Marty opened the door and stepped out into the evening.
‘Here, wait,’ Petesy called after him.
&nbs
p; Marty looked both ways before putting his hood up and walking off, his shoulders rocking from side to side.
TWELVE
Ward lay for three hours, trying to get to sleep. Every sound had him on edge, every twig snapping, every branch in the breeze. He watched the time on the clock, expecting the dog to start up, to have him out of the house, in the garden again, pointing his gun into the dark. At half two he kicked the covers back and rolled out of bed. He thought about a cup of tea and last night’s Telegraph. Instead he got dressed and grabbed his car keys. On the table was a black notebook, an old one from the early nineties. He’d brought it home from work, knowing what was inside, but wanting to check. He put it in his pocket and left the house.
The clock in the car read 02.56. On the passenger seat was the book Pat Kennedy had given him – Hemingway, The Old Man and the Sea. He set his old notebook on top of it and started the car.
The roads were dead as he crested the Castlereagh Hills and began the descent into Belfast. Traffic lights changed colour, signalling to empty streets. Ward headed through the east of the city, crossing the Lagan before skirting the Markets. He approached Musgrave Street, wondering who was on and whether he should call in. He put the thought away and kept driving. The car rose as he headed north, climbing the Crumlin Road to the Ballysillan and the Horse Shoe Bend. He parked up and looked down on the lights of the city, shimmering beneath him. He knew the clichés – the misty-eyed copper, soon to be retired, reminiscing over his beat. He looked down, picking out main roads, housing estates, the peripheral spaces he’d spent two decades wandering. He searched for some affection, an affinity with the place, a lingering sense of loss. There was nothing there. All he had was a feeling, a reminder, a warning – believe nothing, trust no one.
Ward picked up the Hemingway from the passenger seat and read the last three pages. The back cover showed the author, white and bearded, like some grizzly Santa Claus. Hemingway was an alcoholic, killed himself in the end. Ward had laughed at first, wondering if Pat Kennedy was taking the piss. He remembered him tucking into the chilli, the bowl spotless when he’d finished. That was Pat for you. Always ate like it was his last meal. Ward thought about all the jobs they’d worked together, the hours spent alone, side by side in a car. Kennedy probably knew more about him than Maureen did.
He’d read the Hemingway earlier that evening. It was about some old guy hooking a big fish. For days the thing tows him out to sea, struggling, fighting, following its instincts. Eventually he reels it in, only it’s as big as the boat, so he has to tie it to the side. It takes days to row back to land and then the sharks come, in the middle of the night, taking bites, one after the other. By the time he gets home there’s nothing left, only a carcass, a few bones and a memory of some struggle, him and the fish, alone in the darkness.
Ward lifted the notebook from the passenger seat, balancing it on the steering wheel, not opening it. He felt tired and thought about O’Neill and the hunger he still had for the job. He was on the McCarthy kid like he was family, like he was his own brother. They both agreed the boy was dodgy, neither of them believing the bullshit they’d been fed by the parents or the flatmate or the girl. Everyone lied, like it was basic human nature. Ward told them all, first day in CID, question everything – that was the job.
McCarthy was no choirboy, he figured, but it didn’t mean he deserved Tomb Street. Ward heard himself warning the rookies about the big questions, about what people deserved, about what was right and what was wrong. He told them to stick to the basics – the who, the where, the when. That why stuff would ruin you.
After a while of looking at lights, Ward started the car and drove across town, heading towards Bangor. He passed the new IKEA, the twenty-four-hour Tesco, looming over the Knocknagoney junction. Belfast’s facelift had left it looking like everywhere else. You couldn’t blame folk, he thought. Round here they’d had enough of being different.
In Bangor, Ward parked near the seafront, ignoring the meters and the threats of parking fines. He lifted the old notebook from the passenger seat, buttoned his jacket and headed along the promenade. The wind was cold coming in off the Lough, the waves striking the seawall sending spray skywards. The sky was starting to soften as the purple pre-dawn bled in from the west. Ward figured the birds wouldn’t be long.
Eventually, he stopped at a bench, unsure whether it was the same spot where he proposed to Maureen. Without thinking, Ward listened to see if he could hear a dog barking. He caught himself doing it and shook his head.
Maureen would be dead fifteen years in June. They’d never had kids. Every month was the same, the crying behind the bathroom door. She said she was sorry, it was her fault. He told her to wise up, that it would be fine, that it would happen. Then she got breast cancer. He could see it in her eyes, like it was God’s way of punishing her. There was the chemo, the hair loss, the ulcers.
Three months later she was gone.
On the bench Ward thought about the sympathy cards, wondering what would happen if they killed him. There’d been a programme on the TV earlier about Shakespeare and Hamlet. It was about the son, learning his da had been murdered, vowing revenge. Ward thought about O’Neill. He was the closest thing he had, but still, probably not close enough. There was a tattered copy of the play in the house. It had been Maureen’s, from when she took that night class in English.
Sitting on the Bangor seafront he took the old notebook out of his pocket. It was a year until he retired. He wondered if he would spend the whole of it lying awake, staring at the ceiling. And what about after that? When he’d downed tools and walked away. Would the sympathy cards follow him, the implicit threats, the unfinished business?
The notebook was 1991, 9 September to 14 November. Ward had been with Pat Kennedy, in Special Branch, working out of Tenant Street. He opened the book, flicked through the pages until he found the date, 5 October, the day of Michael McCann’s murder. Ward remembered the scene.
The solicitor had been returning from work, pulling into the driveway when two masked men approached his car. They fired a total of sixteen shots, all from close range. At the autopsy the coroner took twelve bullets out of Michael McCann’s body. His wife had heard the noise and come running out of the house. The gunmen were gone; all that was left was her husband, behind the wheel, seat belt still on. Gerry McCann had arrived at the house half an hour later and had to be restrained by six peelers. It was a crime scene. He couldn’t go in. They didn’t care who the fuck he was.
Later there had been talk of collusion – how had the gunmen got the address? How had they known the solicitor’s movements? The make of the car? The registration? People pointed the finger at the police, at the Branch, said they’d been sharing intelligence with Loyalist paramilitaries. It was all hearsay and nothing was ever proved.
In the back of the notebook Ward had the sympathy card from last week. He opened it again, looking at the words, the curve of the letters, the care and attention. From the notebook he took a copy of a signed interview statement. It was Gerry McCann, the week after the murder. Ward compared the two pieces of handwriting – the jagged ‘r’, the looping ‘p’, the curly ‘s’. They were identical.
Watching the TV the day before, McCann at the boxing club, it all came back – the face, the eyes, the utter hatred for the police. Looking at the two pieces of writing, Ward was in no doubt now about who was sending the cards.
McCann wasn’t stupid either. He’d sent them knowing full well that Ward would figure it out.
The DI sighed and stood up, made his way back to the car. He drove back along the empty carriageway, back to the house, for a shower and a shave before work. He thought about McCann on the TV, that knowing grin, the self-satisfaction. Ward watched the day break through the car windscreen, feeling his eyes slowly settle, his face start to harden.
THIRTEEN
O’Neill arrived at Musgrave Street just after seven. He grabbed some coffee and sat rereading interviews – Sally Curran, Lau
ren Matthews, Peter Craig. Middle-class kids, their nice families, their grammar schools, their university degrees. They were liars, Craig and Curran at least. All playing the old game. Cover your back, keep your head down, look out for number one.
O’Neill pulled up Ronan Mullan on the police computer, wondering what Sally Curran knew about him and what she was so keen to protect. He imagined a good-looking guy with a silver tongue, someone who could charm the birds from the trees. Mullan’s uncle had done time in the Maze – membership of a paramilitary organization, possession of a firearm. The cops had lifted Ronan last year for affray, a drunken brawl outside The M Club, him and five others. They each got a night in the cells and a two hundred pound fine. O’Neill pictured them the next day, bragging about it, the story alone worth the two hundred quid.
He looked up from the desk as DC Kearney walked in. He was carrying a folder in his hand, smiling like it was his birthday. Kearney was young, late twenties and had a criminology degree from some former polytechnic across the water.
‘You gotta love the science,’ he announced.
O’Neill frowned and waited.
‘Forensics came back. The boyfriend, Ronan Mullan, we’ve got a DNA match. On the victim’s clothing. It looks like Mullan’s our man.’
‘Aye, dead on,’ O’Neill said sceptically.
‘I’m serious, look at this.’
Kearney passed the folder.
‘That’s the lab report. They took swabs, cross-matched them with the DNA database. RO-NAN MULLAN,’ Kearney said, like a game show host, ‘come on down.’
O’Neill’s brow creased as he read the report.
DNA was the new science, like fingerprinting on steroids. Management loved it. It was clean, scientific, efficient, or so they reckoned. For the last ten years the police swabbed everyone that came into the nick – every assault, every theft, every burglary. The guilty, the accused, the merely passing through. DNA was the perfect witness – it didn’t lie, it didn’t forget, it couldn’t be intimidated.