by Matt McGuire
Eventually, O’Neill looked up. ‘Impressive,’ he said, nodding to the paperwork. ‘You’ve been busy.’
Toner didn’t speak.
‘Where were you Saturday night?’
Silence.
The boy stared at table, miles away.
‘Do you not remember?’
Silence.
‘Do you not want to talk to us?’
More silence.
‘We need to know where you were.’
Nothing.
O’Neill spent ten minutes going round the houses, acting dumb, like he was trying to figure something out. It was a waste of time. Marty sat like a piece of stone, and a mildly bored one at that.
O’Neill produced a picture of Jonathan McCarthy. ‘You know who this is?’
A glance, then back to the table.
O’Neill changed tack, talking about obstruction of justice, aiding and abetting, lying to the police. It was elevator music; Toner didn’t blink. O’Neill spoke about Hydebank, about being in there, about constantly watching your back. They were proper nut jobs, those boys, made knives from toothbrushes, stabbed each other over nothing, arguments about fags, the TV, the pool table.
‘We’re here to help you, son,’ O’Neill said. ‘Don’t go down for something you haven’t done.’
Marty sat still, allowing it all to wash over.
Eventually, O’Neill sighed and sat back in his seat. ‘Forget it then,’ he said and busied himself, writing something in the file.
‘How’s Petesy anyway?’ he said, casual, not looking up.
No reply.
‘Still on the sticks?’
Nothing.
O’Neill laughed quietly to himself.
‘Like that, eh? Not even a word. Sure you wouldn’t want folk thinking you’d talked to the peelers, eh?’
Marty didn’t speak.
‘Spoke to your ma this morning.’
Marty looked up, eyes intent.
O’Neill gave a faint smile, like he was talking to himself.
‘Gin,’ he said, pausing. ‘It was gin for my ma, always the gin. At least at the start anyway. After a while she took whatever she could get.’
O’Neill’s mother didn’t drink, she was teetotal, never touched a drop in her life.
‘It’s like they say,’ he continued, ‘if it’s not one thing it’s your mother.’
He offered the boy a wry smile.
‘Bringing men home was the worst. Next morning, some guy in the kitchen, staring at you. My ma singing as she made him breakfast. They never stayed round long. But that didn’t matter, sure there was always the bottle. Least you could count on that.’
O’Neill could tell the kid was listening.
‘Grow up fast in a house like that. You learn things, like the only person you can trust is yourself. If you want something done, well, you do it—’
‘You never got them,’ Marty said.
O’Neill waited.
‘Got who?’
‘The guys that did Petesy.’
O’Neill hesitated.
‘Aye, you’re right. But then we only had one witness,’ he said, nodding across the table, ‘and he didn’t exactly kill himself to help us.’
Marty shook his head, as if O’Neill hadn’t a clue.
‘I was looking at your file before we brought you in. I’ll let you into a secret. Except for the name at the top – Martin Francis Toner – it could be any one of a thousand files. Wee hoods, yous are all the same, wanting to prove something, get a rep, carve out a name. Vandalism, shoplifting, theft. Possession, burglary, assault. The charges get bigger, the sentences longer. It’s not original, you know.’
Marty was immune to the lecture.
‘Look at the first one here. Vandalism at Roselawn Cemetery. I mean, how old were you then, eleven, twelve?’
‘Ten,’ Toner said, correcting him.
‘Nineteen headstones, a sledgehammer …’
‘It wasn’t me.’
‘Oh aye? How do you figure? We caught you in the graveyard.’
‘I only did one of them and I didn’t use no sledgehammer.’
‘Really?’
‘Aye, just the one. Took lumps out of that fucker.’
‘Which one was that then?’
‘My da’s.’ Marty’s eyes burned at O’Neill before dropping back to the table.
‘You know the interesting thing here?’ O’Neill said, holding up the file. ‘Last year. Not a single arrest. I mean nothing. Now I’m thinking, either this guy has cleaned up his act or he has got serious and knows what he’s doing. But I’ll let you into a wee secret, Marty. If you’ve got serious and you’re thinking of playing with the big boys, well, you’re going to need more than a street corner and a bit of backchat.’
Marty looked up, half listening.
‘You might hear things out there, about touting, about talking to the peelers. But I’ll tell you something for free – everybody touts. How do you think we got Jackie McLarnon. Or Dessie Smith? Or Ozzie Fusco?’
Marty knew the names, everyone did.
‘McLarnon’s doing eight years in Maghaberry, Smith got five, Fusco three. Everybody touts. They use us – to settle scores, to get revenge, to get rid of the competition. So if you want to play with the big boys, son, that’s how it works.’
O’Neill looked across. He had Toner’s attention, could see him thinking. It was enough for now. O’Neill tore a scrap of paper from the file and wrote his mobile number on it. He slid it across the table, Toner glancing, not moving.
‘You should take it.’
Marty gave a faint smile but kept his hands in his pockets.
O’Neill stood and opened the door, gesturing him out.
Wilson called O’Neill into his office when he’d finished. McCarthy’s father was threatening a press conference on his front lawn. It had been a week and they’d heard nothing from the police. O’Neill was to go up there, reassure them, smooth things over. They couldn’t go to the press, it would hurt the force’s reputation, not to mention the investigation.
O’Neill was in no doubt which mattered most to the Chief. He was glad he’d gone to MacPherson, glad Mullan had walked, glad Wilson had to wait. He shook his head, remembering the threat about Bally-go-backwards. And now he was supposed to bail Wilson out, keep his beloved station out of the press.
The rain was easing as O’Neill drove out of Belfast, down the M1, past Lisburn. He turned up the McCarthys’ driveway and saw the father about to get into his Range Rover. He was suited and booted, briefcase in hand. As O’Neill stepped from the car, the man put up his hand, shooing him away like he was a Mormon.
‘I know why you’re here,’ he said. ‘I told Wilson. Five days and not a peep. We need a public appeal. I’m sticking up twenty grand, asking folk to come forward.’
O’Neill shrugged like he didn’t care. It had started with Portugal, since that couple’s little girl was abducted. People reckoned the police were incompetent, that media attention was what you needed, that it was all about posters, public appeals, keeping the spotlight on your case.
‘Mr McCarthy—’
‘Listen, you’ve had your chance. The money will bring people forward, fresh leads, new information. Folk don’t give a crap about doing the right thing. The only thing they care about is money.’
‘Solved a lot of murders have you?’
McCarthy shook his head, stepping up into the Range Rover. ‘Listen, if yous did your job we wouldn’t be in this mess. One way or another, I’m going to find out who killed my son.’
O’Neill hesitated, imagining Wilson’s face as he watched the news and saw his beloved PSNI dragged through the dirt. He thought about Tomb Street, remembering Jonathan McCarthy lying there, curled in a ball, battered beyond recognition. He didn’t blame the father. He wanted answers and was doing whatever he could to get them.
‘Mr McCarthy this isn’t about PR. You do that press conference, announce that reward, we’re goin
g to have five hundred calls by midnight. All of them will be bullshit, folk chancing their arm, all of them after the money. You know how long it’ll take to wade through that? To sift them all? ’Cause that’s what we’ll have to do.’ O’Neill shook his head. ‘You think you’ll be bringing us closer but all you’ll be doing is putting more obstacles in our way.’
McCarthy started the vehicle. ‘I’ve somewhere to be, Detective.’
O’Neill put his hand on the door. ‘We’re looking into drugs.’
‘Our Jonathan?’ McCarthy snapped, offended.
‘If you hold this press conference the police’ll respond, talk about the case, about lines of inquiry.’
‘Are you blackmailing me, Detective?’
‘I’m telling you how it works.’
O’Neill let go of the door and stepped back. McCarthy pulled it closed and slipped the wagon into drive. Gravel crunched between oversized wheels as the Range Rover slowly pulled away. O’Neill watched it go through the gates and turn towards Belfast. He looked at the house, deciding to go knocking.
A girl in her twenties answered, long black hair, fringe to her eyebrows. She looked like her mother.
‘You must be Jonathan’s sister?’
‘Yes. Who are you?’
O’Neill produced his warrant card. The girl apologized saying they’d been getting phone calls to the house, journalists at the door.
‘It’s Karen right?’
A nod.
‘Just back from London.’
‘Until Monday. They gave me a week. That’s finance for you.’
She invited O’Neill in, leading him to the kitchen.
‘You know about your dad’s press conference? The reward?’
She nodded.
‘Mum’s dead against it. Says we should let you do your job.’
‘She’s right, you know.’
‘Yeah.’
‘He’s a force of nature your father.’
‘Yeah. Pretty strong willed.’
‘Must have been tough on yous growing up?’
‘Worse for Jonathan, being the boy and all.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Just the rugby thing, then the business doing well. My father didn’t come from money, so he figured we had to prove ourselves, show that we could make it on our own.’
‘Did him and your brother get on?’
‘You know any families that get on?’
O’Neill smiled, conceding the point. He sat silently, waiting for the girl.
‘Jonathan was doing all right. He did well at hockey, got his degree, had his traineeship. Then they bought that flat.’
‘Your dad helped them right?’
She shook her head. ‘No. It was all them. Him and his flatmate.’
O’Neill nodded, like he already knew. He thought about the bank statements and McCarthy’s spending. The clothes, the car, Miami Beach, Las Vegas. The numbers didn’t add up. There was no way they lived that life on trainee lawyer salaries.
He asked could he look in Jonathan’s bedroom again. The girl showed him upstairs and hovered at the door. O’Neill looked through drawers, studying team photographs, the school first XI. He looked in the cupboard, pausing over a box of medals lying amongst discarded shoes.
‘These his hockey medals? There’s a lot of them.’
The girl sighed. ‘They’ve always been in there. For my dad it was rugby or nothing.’
On the way back to Belfast, O’Neill remembered school and the only piece of poetry he’d ever liked. It was Philip Larkin – ‘they fuck you up, your mum and dad, they may not mean to, but they do. They fill you with the faults they had and add some extra, just for you.’
He pulled on to the M2, turning on his wipers as the rain started to come down again.
NINETEEN
Musgrave Street, CID. Two DCs, Larkin and Kearney.
‘I’m telling you – big BMW it was, X5, forty grand’s worth. Driver’s this blonde thing, all teeth and tits. She goes, “Yous uns only stapped me ’cause you’re jealous.” Excuse me, I said to her. “’Cause you can’t afford a car like this.”’
Larkin shook his head.
‘No, madam, I says to her. I stopped you because you mounted the kerb and almost mowed down two pedestrians. “Whatever,” she says.’
‘So what you give her?’
‘The lot – 3 points, five hundred pound fine.’
‘Nice.’
‘I thought so,’ Kearney said, shaking his head. ‘Just jealous …’
Ward came in, asking if they’d seen O’Neill. No. He headed back to his office, thinking about the Public Prosecutor, his reluctance to go after Ronan Mullan for Tomb Street. O’Neill had tipped him off, about the DNA and how it was most likely a transfer from when they’d put their coats in the cloakroom of the club. Ward approved, enjoying the two fingers to Wilson and his beloved clearance rate. O’Neill would be keeping a low profile, dodging the Chief Inspector, staying away from Musgrave Street. Ward agreed with him. Mullan was too easy, too obvious, too storybook.
He opened the top drawer and took out the sympathy cards. He felt better than he’d done in weeks. It was the visit to the George had done it, sitting across from McCann, looking him in the eye. At least now he wasn’t wondering, wasn’t trawling the memory banks, thinking about the hundreds out there, all of them with a reason to go after him. He’d slept better that night as well, managing seven hours, before getting up and taking the dog for a walk.
Ward’s pocket trembled and he reached for his phone. ‘DI Ward.’
‘Jack. It’s me.’
He recognized Hugh Rafferty’s voice. They’d been at Tenant Street together, Rafferty an Inspector now, up the coast in Ballymena.
‘Have you heard?’
‘Heard what?’
‘I thought I should phone you …’
A reluctance in his voice.
‘Speak.’
‘It’s Pat.’
Ward pictured Pat Kennedy, in the Stormont Hotel four days earlier, tucking into his chilli.
‘There was a road traffic accident.’ A pause. ‘He’s dead.’
Ward thought it was a joke, that Kennedy put Rafferty up to it, that he was outside the door, about to burst in, laughing at him. Rafferty didn’t speak though.
‘Where’d it happen?’
‘South of Dunloy, towards Ballymoney.’
‘What happened?’
‘We don’t know yet. Looks like he lost control. Car hit a tree.’
Ward’s eyes narrowed. ‘Pat Kennedy? Lost control?’
‘Look, we don’t know yet. The car must have been doing at least sixty.’
‘Pat drove rally cars.’ Ward annoyed.
‘Look, don’t start on me, Jack. This is a courtesy.’
‘What about the other car?’
‘There wasn’t one.’
Ward paused, eyebrows creased. ‘You been to the scene?’
‘No. It only just came in.’
‘So you’re telling me Pat Kennedy lost control of his car and wrapped it round a tree?’
‘Look, Jack, I’m phoning you out of respect. I didn’t want you seeing the news and—’
‘Into a tree,’ Ward, angry now.
‘Listen, there’ll be an investigation. Our boys are out there at the minute. We’re going to—’
‘Who told Eileen?’
‘We sent a car.’
Ward snorted. ‘Twenty-five years’ service and you sent a car?’
‘Look, Jack, we—’
‘What was the road again?’
‘Listen, we don’t need you up here—’
Ward hung up, cutting him off. He lifted his car keys and headed for the door; Dunloy was a small place.
Fifty minutes later, Ward saw the roadblock on the Ballaghy Road, four miles south of Ballymoney. There was a patrol car blocking the road, a bored traffic cop turning folk around.
Ward slowed, flicked the badge and was waved through.
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The B road stretched in front of him, half a mile, then a sharp right. In the distance he could see Saab, up on the verge, wrapped round the tree. He parked three hundred metres away and walked. The RTA investigator was there, taking measurements, pausing to write on a clipboard.
Ward let out a sigh and turned his head to look up and down the road. He took in the dull green fields, the tattered hedgerows, the overhanging trees with their branches shorn by passing traffic. Overhead the sky was depressed and grey. Not winter, not quite spring. The road was quiet and eerily still. Somewhere in the distance a magpie let out a caw, looking for his mate.
Ward clicked into character, forgetting about Pat Kennedy, focusing on the facts. The road was wet from an earlier shower and the verge churned up beneath the Saab. The car round an old elm, a deathly embrace, machine and nature. Ward snorted. The car had crumpled, the tree barely flinched.
He started sifting possibilities. There was no frost. Someone could have rounded the bend, taken it wide, caused Pat to swerve. Or something happened with the Saab – accelerator stuck, brakes failed, steering problem. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred it was human error. That was what he didn’t like. He looked at the road. Kennedy could have taken the corner at eighty and still come out fine. The guy had driven rally cars for frig sake. Ward wondered about a stroke, a heart attack. Folk had seizures, the body went into spasm. He imagined Pat, the sudden pain, stamping on the accelerator, unable to move.
The ambulance had gone by the time he’d arrived. On the ground lay the debris. The film backing from the paddles, the wrapping from the chest tube, the lid from the adrenaline. Ward felt cheated somehow, like they shouldn’t have moved him until he got there, until he’d seen it with his own eyes. He looked at the car, feeling numb. It was the same when Maureen had died. The initial shock, like an asthma attack. Then the ebbing away and the emptiness, the suffering, the pain.
The traffic investigator was surveying the scene. In a highvis, he moved slowly, trailing a giant measuring tape. He worked methodically, looking, writing, looking again. He took distances, looked at angles, drew diagrams. Every so often he would pause to take another photograph. He looked up as Ward approached.