Collusion (13 page)

‘But it’ll never change,’ Lennon said. ‘How can we complain about the RUC being a Protestant force when we refuse to join? How can we condemn them for not protecting this community when we won’t allow them to? I’m doing this for—’

‘Just get out,’ Bronagh said. She slipped her arm around her mother’s shoulders. ‘Look what you’re doing to her. Get your stuff and get out.’

That evening, Lennon left the home he’d grown up in. With a tattered suitcase and a sports bag carrying his few possessions, he drove back to Belfast. He heard through an old friend that Phelim Quinn once again called on his mother a few weeks later. This time, Quinn told her if her son ever returned to Middletown, he’d be shot. For the second time in a year she told the councillor to get out of her house.

Lennon bent down and kissed his mother’s forehead. She reached up and stroked his cheek. A crease appeared on her brow.

‘Where’d all those lines come from?’ she asked. ‘You look more like your father every time I see you.’

Lennon doubted she remembered the last time she’d seen him. ‘So you keep telling me.’

‘He’ll be back soon,’ she said.

‘Who? Our da?’

‘Aye, who do you think? The Pope? He’ll be back soon, and he’ll take us all to America with him.’

Lennon could barely recall his father’s face. Almost thirty years had passed since he’d seen it. No one had heard tell of him since, but it would do no good to remind Lennon’s mother of that. Let her cling to her delusions if they brought her a glimmer of happiness.

‘He’ll take us all to some fancy place in New York. Me, you, Liam and the girls. All of us together.’

‘That’s right, Ma,’ Lennon said. He kissed her again and left her there.

The exit to the car park opened as he approached it. Bronagh stepped through and froze when she saw him. She stood there for a few seconds, still as a cold morning, before putting her head down and walking past him.

‘Bronagh?’ he called.

She stopped, her back to him, her gaze fixed on the floor. Her hands formed fists, opening and closing. She wore a smart jacket and skirt. She’d probably come straight from the hotel she managed in the centre of Newry.

‘How’s she been?’ he asked. ‘Are they looking after her?’

‘I didn’t know you’d be here,’ she said.

‘Sorry, I forgot to text you.’

‘Don’t do it again,’ she said. She walked away without looking at him.

29

The Traveller was sick of waiting. Two and a half hours now, coming three, and no sign of Toner. The little runt of a lawyer had left his wife and kids and moved into a grotty flat off the Springfield Road. The Bull said he was drinking himself to death. The Traveller would be doing Toner a favour, really. Put him out of his misery.

He shifted in the driver’s seat. The wound in his arm wouldn’t let him settle, and his eye itched and stung. He’d put a dollop of antibiotic ointment in it twenty minutes ago. For conjunctivitis, the chemist had told him. The stuff found its way down to the back of his throat and turned his stomach. He’d opened the window an inch to let the night air at it, but it did little good. Everything was a blur in that eye. The Traveller knew he wasn’t at his best. It wouldn’t matter with a speck of fly shit like Toner, but anyone harder, he’d have to hold back.

A fresh flutter of stings and itches made the Traveller’s eyelid twitch, and a warm drop of something ran down his cheek. ‘Fuck,’ he said.

He pulled a wad of tissues from the door pocket and mopped his face and eye. The soft paper stuck to something on his eyelid and tore. He blinked, shreds of tissue flapping against his cheek. ‘Fuck,’ he said. ‘Shite bastard fucking whore.’

The Traveller screwed his eyes shut and put his head back. He picked at bits of tissue, feeling them tug at the stickiness on his eyelid. He felt in the door pocket for the bottle of water. He found it with his fingertips, unscrewed the cap. Blinded, he poured some into his palm and splashed it across his eyes. He wiped them with the heel of his hand, then his sleeve. His vision came and went as he blinked. He reached for the interior light switch and flicked it on. His reflection in the rear-view mirror blurred and focused. Jesus, that eye looked bad enough. The lid was red and swollen, the eyeball was streaked red. Maybe he needed more of that ointment. He looked around him to see where he’d dropped it.

He saw Patsy Toner standing on the footpath across the road, outside his building, staring back.

‘Fuck,’ the Traveller said. He reached between his legs, under the seat, where he’d stowed the Desert Eagle, found only rubbish and damp carpet.

Toner stood frozen for just a second before he turned and ran for his front door. The Traveller explored the darkness beneath him, grazed his knuckles on the metal rails that supported the seat. As his hand flailed in the narrow space, he spared Toner a glance. The lawyer’s panicked whines didn’t mask the sound of his key scraping at his lock.

The Traveller twisted his torso as he shoved his hand further back. His injured shoulder screamed at the effort, but he was rewarded by the feel of cold pistol in his fingers. He pulled the Eagle free, leapt out of the car, on his feet, chambered a round, aimed.

Toner’s door slammed shut.

‘Fuck,’ the Traveller said. He ran for the door, kicked once, twice. It wouldn’t budge. Toner lived on the top floor. The Traveller hit the buzzer for the first floor flat. He hit it again. He stayed close to the door in case the flat’s occupant looked down from the window above. He heard footsteps on the stairs inside.

A woman of young middle-age opened it, her face sharpened with anger. ‘What do—’

The Traveller crushed her nose with the butt of the gun. She fell back and her head bounced on the polished floorboards. She sighed, coughed blood, and stilled. Her chest rose and fell. The Traveller thought about finishing her, but there was no time. He stepped over her and made for the stairs. He took them two at a time until he reached the top floor.

Toner’s door would give with one kick, the Traveller was sure of it. He paused, breathed deep, wiped his sleeve across his eyes. The right blurred, and he blinked until it cleared. He formed a good combat grip on the Eagle, one hand supporting the other, and booted the door below the handle. It slammed back against the wall. A ragged couch faced him in the dimness. Dishes, bottles and the detritus of takeaways littered a coffee table. The Traveller edged into the room. A breeze licked at the dampness on his face.

‘Fucking cock-pulling arsehole,’ he said.

A door in the corner of the kitchenette stood ajar. It opened onto a metal staircase that descended into the yard two floors down. A fucking fire escape.

The Traveller’s eye flickered and blurred and burned. Something warm trickled down his cheek. His left shoulder ached.

‘Bastard cunt of a motherfucking whore’s son,’ he said.

30

Fegan sat in the darkness of a cheap motel room near Newark Airport, breathing hard. Had the phone really rung? He reached for it and thumbed a button.

No calls. He returned it to the bedside locker and lay back down on top of the blankets. The pillow was damp with sweat. He had dreamed of fire, of a little girl swallowed by black smoke as her screams turned to the sound of a phone ringing. Her name was Ellen McKenna and she would be almost six by now. Only months ago, Fegan had carried her past the bodies of men he had killed. She had closed her eyes and pressed her wet face against his neck, just like he told her to. Her skin had been hot against his.

The last time he’d seen her, she waved at him from the back of her mother’s car at Dundalk Port. It seemed a lifetime ago. He had told Marie McKenna to call the cheap mobile phone he carried with him if she was ever in danger. That phone had not left his side since. He rubbed his left shoulder with the heel of his right hand. The scar itched, like baby spiders burrowing beneath the shiny pink skin.

Fegan considered the dream. Could dreams break into the waking hours? He had come to understand the thin borders between this place and others. That was why dreams of fire and burning girls terrified him, made his gut tighten and his legs slip from under him.

Ellen’s mother never featured in these dreams. Fegan sometimes struggled to remember what Marie McKenna looked like. He remembered her on the dock, warning him to stay away, but her face had dissolved into something unreal. Like a person he had only imagined, who had never actually existed. When his phone rang, which he knew it would, she would be real again. He dreaded the moment.

But if – when – she called, he would go. He had sworn he would make her and Ellen safe. He had spilled so much blood in his life, but his greatest sin had been to drag Marie and Ellen into the violence that always seemed to gravitate to him. He had brought death to their door; he would do anything to prevent it crossing their threshold.

The room shook as a plane passed overhead. The call would come soon, he was sure of that. After that phone call, he would go to the airport and buy a ticket to Belfast. He would fly home to the city he thought he’d never see again and finish what he’d started. much blood in his life, but his greatest sin had been to drag Marie and Ellen into the violence that always seemed to gravitate to him. He had brought death to their door; he would do anything to prevent it crossing their threshold.

The room shook as a plane passed overhead. The call would come soon, he was sure of that. After that phone call, he would go to the airport and buy a ticket to Belfast. He would fly home to the city he thought he’d never see again and finish what he’d started.

31

‘What were you doing at Jonathan Nesbitt’s house yesterday?’ DCI Gordon asked, his hands folded on top of his desk.

Dan Hewitt stood silent in the corner.

Lennon looked at each of them in turn. ‘
Just
asking a few questions,’ he said.

‘About what?’ Gordon asked.

Lennon scrambled for some reply. Before he could come up with one, Gordon said, ‘I sent you home yesterday to get some rest, not to go harassing a decent man like Jonathan Nesbitt.’

‘It was only a few questions,’ Lennon said.

‘Pertaining to what?’ Gordon didn’t wait for an answer. ‘You go knocking on people’s doors, flashing your badge, your questions had better be relevant to an investigation I’m supervising. Were they?’

Lennon shifted in his seat. ‘Not directly.’

‘Not directly.’ Gordon pursed his lips. ‘Which is another way of saying “not at all”.’

Hewitt cleared his throat. ‘Look, we know why you went to Mr Nesbitt’s house, and we know what sort of questions you asked. Mr Nesbitt reported it to his contact in Special Branch yesterday afternoon. My colleagues weren’t best pleased. Not for the first time, I had to do some sweet-talking on your behalf.’

‘You owe DCI Hewitt your gratitude,’ Gordon said. ‘I was ready for dropping you from my team, but he’s convinced me to let it go. But you’re on thin ice, understand?’

Lennon sighed and nodded.

Gordon leaned forward. ‘Understand?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Lennon said.

Gordon’s face softened. ‘Look, you’re an excellent police officer. You should be a DCI by now, heading up your own MIT. Behave yourself, and you’ve got a good career ahead of you. Don’t get sidetracked by personal agendas.’

Lennon couldn’t hold his gaze. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said.

‘Good. Now, go on. Chase up the forensics on our friend Mr Quigley, there’s a good fella.’

Lennon stood and went for the door. As he walked down the corridor, Hewitt caught up with him.

‘I need a word,’ Hewitt said.

Lennon stopped. ‘What?’

‘Listen, Jack, I did you a big favour today.’ Hewitt kept his voice low and even. ‘You might never know how big.’

‘Well, I owe you,’ Lennon said, walking away.

‘I’m about to do you another one,’ Hewitt called after him.

Lennon turned. ‘Yeah? And what’s that?’

Hewitt walked past him and opened the door to the copy room. He looked inside, then beckoned Lennon to follow him in.

Lennon entered the room. ‘So what’s the favour?’

‘Me telling you to leave it alone, that’s what.’

Lennon smiled in spite of himself. ‘Funny, you’re the second person to tell me that since yesterday.’

Hewitt’s face fell. ‘Who else said it?’

Lennon put his hands in his pockets. A little bird.’

‘Jesus, Jack, tell me you’ll leave it alone, please.’ Hewitt took a step closer. ‘You know Special Branch doesn’t piss about. They’ll fuck you over soon as look at you.’

‘They? By
they
, you mean
we
. Right?’

‘Don’t put me in this position, Jack. I stuck my neck out for you today, and it wasn’t the first time. I’ve been a good friend to you, whether you think so or not. I’m being a friend to you now. Leave it alone.’

Lennon’s hands made fists inside his pockets. ‘For Christ’s sake, this is my daughter we’re talking about. She’s been missing along with her mother for months now. I know Marie was mixed up in that feud,the McGinty business, and no one’s seen her since. How do you expect me to leave it?’

Hewitt paced the floor as he considered. He stopped, nodded. ‘All right. I’ll tell you one thing, and one thing only. But promise me you’ll leave it alone.’

Lennon took his hands out of his pockets and flexed his fingers. ‘Tell me what?’

‘Promise me.’

‘I can’t.’

Hewitt stared hard at Lennon. ‘Promise me.’

Lennon’s shoulders slumped and he leaned against the photocopier. ‘Fuck,’ he said. ‘All right.’

Hewitt took a breath. ‘You’re right, Marie was mixed up in that feud.’

‘Jesus,’ Lennon said.

Hewitt held his hands up. ‘But only on the periphery,’ he said. ‘Not directly. She moved away just as a precaution. I don’t know where she is, but—’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Jack, I—’

‘You’re C3, Special Branch, for Christ’s sake, so don’t tell me you don’t know where she is.’

‘She’s safe,’ Hewitt said. ‘Marie McKenna and her little girl –
your
little girl – are safe. That’s all I can tell you. They’re safe. Okay?’

‘Where are they?’

‘They’re safe,’ Hewitt repeated. ‘That’s all you need to know.’

‘Christ,’ Lennon said. He went to swipe a stack of paper off the top of the copier, but thought better of it. Instead, he clasped his hands at the back of his neck and inhaled.

Hewitt said, ‘There’s one more thing.’

Lennon exhaled and his head went light. ‘What?’

‘It doesn’t mean anything.’

‘What?’

‘I don’t want you making something of this. It’s just a coincidence.’

Lennon’s hands dropped from behind his neck. ‘What? Fucking tell me.’

‘The lawyer, Patsy Toner.’

Lennon’s heart went cold. He let his face go slack, prepared to show no reaction to whatever Hewitt was about to tell him. ‘What about him?’

‘He has a flat off the Springfield Road. A woman was assaulted in his building around eleven last night. An intruder broke her nose. She doesn’t remember anything about it. Toner’s door was kicked in. He’s missing.’

Lennon wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘I know you were asking questions about him,’ Hewitt said. ‘Tom Mooney at McKenna’s bar is an informer. He told one of my colleagues you were asking after Patsy Toner.’

Lennon thought about denying it, knew there was no point. ‘That’s right.’

Hewitt raised a finger. ‘Well, don’t go asking after him any more. Whatever happened at his flat has nothing to do with you, and nothing to do with Marie McKenna, understand? Patsy Toner is mixed up with all sorts of bad people. Whatever trouble he’s in is his own and no one else’s. The only reason I’m telling you this is so you don’t find out off someone else and go chasing some bloody conspiracy that isn’t there. Now, for God’s sake, leave it alone.’

Lennon studied Hewitt’s face, his grey eyes, the lines around his mouth. He tried to remember if he’d ever really liked him, even back at Garnerville.

‘Tell me you’ll leave it alone,’ Hewitt said. ‘Please.’

Lennon swallowed, nodded. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll leave it alone.’