Dark Dawn (16 page)

Petesy stood by the road, holding the Mars bar by his side as his friend strode off on his own.

Tuesday night dissolved into Wednesday morning. O’Neill lay in bed staring at the ceiling. He’d been watching the clock since twelve. It was almost three. The smell of Chinese food wafted in from the empty cartons in the living room. O’Neill had sat for an hour, rereading the forensics. Taking police paperwork home was a serious offence but what the hell, the ship was sinking anyway. Since the break with Catherine it had given him something to do. Stopped him thinking too much.

The one-bedroom flat was identical to when O’Neill had first moved in. There were no pictures and no plants. A pile of dishes rose out of the sink. Beside the bed sat an unframed photograph, curling at the edges. It was Sarah on the beach at Portstewart. She wore a woollen hat with her hair falling halfway across her face. He had another one of the three of them, but he had put it away in a drawer. He had told himself to wise up, to stop kidding himself. He knew ‘a break’ meant Catherine didn’t have the guts six months ago to tell him it was over. Divorced at thirty-four, O’Neill thought. Well done, son. All he needed was a drink problem and a dodgy past and they’d make him a character in some crime novel.

To stop the self-analysis, O’Neill thought about the case. CCTV from the area round Laganview had given them nothing. There was no murder weapon. No witnesses. And still no ID. The autopsy had found wooden splinters in the head wound. It was pine. Heat-treated. Containing traces of methane bromide. Baseball bats and hurling sticks were made of ash which was strong and flexible. Pickaxe handles were hard wood, something like hickory. Pine was soft, cheap. It tended to be used in furniture or packing material. Forensics had taken samples of all the wood near the body – fence-posts, internal beams, cable drums. The splinters matched some nearby pallets. The heat-treatment and methane bromide confirmed it. They were to prevent Asian longhorn beetles coming in through packing crates from China. Apparently they were munching their way across the forests of Europe.

‘Bloody foreigners,’ O’Neill had said sarcastically.

The question was, how did it all relate? What did it say about the murder? Whoever did it didn’t bring the weapon with them. They grabbed the nearest thing at hand. It took away a degree of premeditation. Perhaps they hadn’t intended to kill the kid. Just having some fun and things got out of hand. Maybe they found out something from him and that tipped them over the edge. Something he said which meant he had to go. It was all theory, all conjecture. O’Neill needed more than that.

He thought they must have chased him into Laganview. He imagined the kid running and figuring he could get away through the building site. Scrambling over the fence. Being followed, caught and then given a hiding. Ending up dead. Maybe there was never a decision to kill him, just to give him a good beating. He must have tried to bolt and wound up taking one to the head. Game over. Lights out. Thanks for coming.

The chase didn’t chime with a punishment beating though. It was unplanned, impromptu. Punishment beatings were controlled, ordered, disciplined.

By three in the morning O’Neill decided enough was enough and rolled out of bed. He needed to see Laganview the way the victim saw it, the way the killer saw it. Deserted. In the middle of the night. He got dressed and lifted his car keys.

Belfast looked like a ghost town as he drove towards the city centre. He passed a couple of taxis hoovering up the night’s stragglers. A white armoured Land Rover was parked up outside Queen’s University. O’Neill wondered if Sam Jennings was in the back. He pictured her, hat down, her eyes staring through the blacked-out glass. He caught himself on.

‘Calm yourself, son. What are you? Sixteen years old?’

He went back to the case. He needed to see the scene again, to be there alone, away from the distortions of daylight and the whole circus of a crime scene. He parked on Bridge Street across from Central train station and jumped the wall, heading across a patch of wasteground towards Laganview.

The building site was surrounded by 8-foot blue fence panels. Graffiti decorated the side –
UTH
and
FTIRA.
O’Neill walked slowly along the perimeter, scanning the panels as he went. After 20 yards he noticed a muddy smear, 4 feet from the ground. He moved along to the next panel, which was unmarked. O’Neill stepped back and took a run at it, making to shimmy up and over the fence. He stopped halfway and stood back. His foot had hit the wall at almost the exact same height as the other smear.

‘Edmund Locard. How did I ever doubt you?’

O’Neill took out a packet of B&H and lit one. He emptied the box and put the loose cigarettes in his pocket before tossing it over the fence and into the site.

Some 500 yards away the security guard slept in his hut, oblivious to the figure examining the fence. O’Neill saw an old oil drum 30 yards from the footprint. Rolling it against the fence, he climbed up and dropped down on the other side. He used his torch to find the cigarette packet, the gold box winking at him in the dark. He stood back and swept the beam of light over the area. The packet of B&H glimmered in the darkness and 3 feet from the box he could make out a pair of prints. The feet were parallel, close together, quite deep. It was a landing. O’Neill looked round him. He was at the opposite end of the site to where the body was discovered. It was no wonder Forensics hadn’t seen these. From where he was standing, O’Neill could make out the Nike swoosh in the footprints. It was the same brand of trainers the victim had been wearing. If someone followed the kid over, there would be other prints. He’d get the SOCOs out first thing. Get them to take anything within a 15-foot radius. He left the small gold packet of B&H as a marker, taking another loose cigarette from his pocket and lighting it.

O’Neill walked down through the site to where they had found the body the week before. It was quieter than he remembered it. At the bottom of the bank the black waters of the Lagan flowed by. On the far side the Hilton, the Waterfront Hall and the Court House seemed to look off in the opposite direction. Tourism. Showbiz. Justice. Three silent witnesses, turning their backs as if they didn’t want to know.

O’Neill looked at the view. The Black Mountain stood silhouetted in the distance. The white limestone of the Court House was lit up against the dark night sky. It was quiet, peaceful. Could have made a good postcard.

To his right stood four pallets, stacked with breeze blocks, covering the area where the body had lain.

‘Business as usual,’ O’Neill said.

He imagined the makeshift pine bat and the sound of bones breaking. He tried to hear the cries of pain, the apologies, the pleading. There was no romance here. No poetry. Nothing to write home about.

O’Neill drove back along deserted roads. Red lights stopped him, forcing him to wait and stare across empty junctions. They turned to green and he pulled away slowly. He was tired, but he thought about the prints and felt a little lighter than he had at any time in the last seven days.

Catherine couldn’t remember the last time she had seen Sarah so well-behaved. The five year old sat on the sofa with her coat on and her bag by her side. Every time she heard a car outside she jumped up and ran to the window.

It was Wednesday morning and the schools were on half-term. O’Neill was picking her up at nine o’clock as Catherine had to go to work. They were going to the cinema together to see the new Wallace and Gromit and then out somewhere for lunch. Catherine wondered at the fairness of it all. Why did
he
get to be the best friend and she always had to be the parent? He didn’t have to deal with the tantrums, the vegetables, the not wanting to go to bed. It was all pictures and popcorn with Dad. Like being on holiday. Catherine thought if she had to hear the words ‘my daddy’ once more she’d explode.

She tried to remind herself that it was a good thing Sarah loved spending time with him. A good thing that she got so excited about seeing him. A good thing . . . Catherine looked at the clock. Five to nine. John had come off doing a series of nights. She wasn’t sure if he had been working last night. If so, he would go home for a shower and swing by and get her. Catherine had seen it before. Not sleeping, working a nightshift, seeing Sarah and then back into work for eight. No wonder he looked like death warmed up. She imagined him sleeping in the cinema, surrounded by noisy children and the disapproving looks of parents. She had an urge to stand over him, to stare down the other parents, to defend him. She would tell them what he spent his days doing. When someone was prowling round the school gates, who did you think went out there after them?

Sarah’s voice called from the living room. ‘Mummy? What time is it
now?’

‘It’s almost nine, sweetheart.’

She had been asking every five minutes for the last half-hour. In the kitchen Catherine cleared up the remains of breakfast. She moved fast, scraping bowls and rinsing glasses, as if her energy could somehow make John appear. She muttered under her breath.

‘You better not let that wee girl down. So help me.’

The hands of the kitchen clock ticked past nine. There was still no sign. Catherine lifted the phone and dialled O’Neill’s mobile. It went straight through to answerphone. She sighed and slammed the receiver down, harder than she meant to.

Sarah’s head popped round the door.

‘Was that him?’

‘No, love.’ Catherine forced a smile. ‘He’ll be on his way.’

Sarah went back into the living room and resumed her post as sentry on lookout.

Catherine went upstairs and started stripping the beds. It was a deliberate tactic to avoid having to be in the same room as her daughter. She caught herself looking out the window at the street below. Three doors down, the Brogans were getting into the car. Kevin and Sue must have taken the day off and it looked as if they were taking the boys swimming. Catherine heard the car doors slam shut and the engine start up. She heard Sarah’s voice calling up the stairs, ‘Mum, what time is it now?’ She pretended she didn’t hear her.

At twenty past nine Catherine picked up the phone and tried O’Neill again. Straight to answerphone.

She cursed him. It was vintage John. Always the same. First there was the disappointment, then the excuses and then the promises to make it up next time. It wouldn’t be him that would have to spend the rest of the day with Sarah, dealing with the tears, trying to make up excuses. Catherine had heard them enough times before. Back when they were directed at her. How could you tell a child though?
Daddy had to work. He’s out there chasing a bad man.
There were only so many times . . .

At ten o’clock Catherine knelt down in front of her daughter. Sarah fought back the tears. She had seen enough to know that her daddy didn’t always come when he said he was going to.

‘It’s not fair,’ Catherine said, as much to herself as to her daughter. She was only a child. She was only five, she didn’t know how to guard against the disappointments, to shield herself the way her mother had learned to do over the years. Catherine knew now she’d have to call in sick to work.

‘Something must have happened, my love – something really important at work. Would you like me to take you to the pictures instead?’

The girl’s mouth turned downwards and she shook her head. Catherine wished she would cry because at least then she could give her a hug. Her eyes were almost unbearable to look at.

‘It’s OK, Mummy. We’ll go next time.’

The girl slowly took her coat off and hung it back on her hook, the one John had put at a special height when they had first moved into the house. She then went upstairs, into her bedroom, and quietly closed the door.

Catherine marched into the kitchen, cursing under her breath. She opened the drawer beside the cooker, rummaging through the old shopping lists and spare batteries until she found what she was looking for. The brown A4 envelope. She grabbed her handbag from the counter and searched for the stamps she knew were in her purse. She put a whole book of first class on the envelope. There was no way it wasn’t going to get there.

She called Sarah down from her bedroom and told her: ‘Put your coat on, sweetheart. We have to go out to do a message.’

In the flat on the Stranmillis Road O’Neill snored heavily. He hadn’t slept much the day before and had ended up down Laganview at four in the morning. He’d planned to have a shower before going to pick up Sarah. He was looking forward to seeing her and taking her to the pictures. They were going to Johnny Long’s for fish and chips afterwards. It was Sarah’s favourite. On the bed his suit lay crumpled. The phone in the pocket was dead, the battery completely out of charge.

The hot shower had been like a knock-out blow and O’Neill had almost fallen as he stepped out of the bath. He lay down for a few minutes on the bed. The clock said 8.15 so he could have twenty minutes’ kip and then head over to get Sarah.

The tiredness dragged him down instantly.

He dreamed he was running through a labyrinth. It was the dead of the night and freezing cold. When he stopped he could see his breath, bellowing in front of him. He didn’t know where he was – somewhere among rows of terrace houses. Long redbrick walls were interspersed with wooden doors into back yards. He was chasing someone. A figure in black. But he was always too slow. Every time he turned a corner he’d see a shadow disappearing round the next one. No matter how fast he ran, how much his lungs burned, it was no use. He stopped at a junction, his hands on his knees, sucking in air. He stood up and felt a cold metal barrel held to the back of his head. The last thing he heard was the loud click of a gun being cocked.

O’Neill snapped awake. It was twelve thirty.

He cursed, jumping out of bed and grabbing his suit for his mobile. He saw the blank screen and tossed it aside. Then he remembered he had no landline and fumbled round for the charger. He scrolled through, looking for Catherine’s number. The phone at the other end rang five times before going through to answerphone. He heard the recording of his wife’s voice and tried to think of what to say. He tried the house phone but there was no answer either.