Dark Dawn (17 page)

He threw his mobile across the room. It hit the wall and exploded, falling to the floor in several pieces.

O’Neill looked at the clock. He wasn’t due in Musgrave Street until six that night. He thought about the dream, the sound of the gun being cocked next to his head. He picked up his car keys, knowing he couldn’t stay in the flat another minute.

On the way into work O’Neill stopped at a mobile phone shop on Botanic Avenue.

‘I dropped this,’ he said, handing a young guy his handset in four pieces.

The shop assistant looked back incredulously. The phone was broken. Completely broken. O’Neill told him to replace it. The assistant launched into his sales patter about the latest Nokia. He was cocky and presumptuous. It had a camera, a digital screen, extra memory, high speed . . .

O’Neill’s eyes bored into him. The assistant worried for his personal safety and quickly realized this wasn’t going to be an upgrade.

‘Same again?’ he asked meekly.

O’Neill nodded.

He produced a box from under the counter and rang through the transaction. O’Neill didn’t say anything but paid and took the phone.

William Spender closed the heavy oak door of his office. The house was quiet and Karen had gone out. She would be at the hairdresser’s, the gym or out to lunch. Whatever it was she filled her days with.

Eight miles away at Laganview, Tony Burke was sitting in the site hut when his mobile rang in his pocket. It came up
Number Withheld.

‘Hello?’

‘It’s me,’ Spender said.

‘We need to talk. I think the police—’

‘Not over the phone.’

The statement sounded like a threat. Burke was immediately worried and stayed silent, waiting for the other man to speak. He hadn’t been in contact with Spender since they took him into Musgrave Street. They’d both agreed it was best to lie low.

Since walking out of the station that Monday, Burke had felt like he was constantly under surveillance. Every time he turned a corner he seemed to come upon a parked-up police wagon. In the town on Saturday two cops had come sprinting towards him. Burke had thought it was all over, and braced himself, but they blew past, chasing some hood in a tracksuit who had come running out of a shop.

On the other end of the phone Spender issued an order.

‘Eight o’clock tonight. Usual spot.’

The line went dead before Burke could say anything.

It was the middle of the week and the Ormeau Road was quiet. Burke had walked from his house just off the Ravenhill Road, taking a deliberately circuitous route. Since Spender’s call he’d felt even more sure there was someone on his tail. The walk normally took ten minutes but it was nearer twenty by the time he’d doubled back on himself. Burke knew he couldn’t afford any risks and had looked round a couple of times, pretending to tie his shoe or light a cigarette. Since the phone call he’d spent the whole afternoon wondering what Spender wanted. Whatever it was, he didn’t sound pleased.

Work on the site had picked up again. They had brought in ten more men since losing the previous Monday to the cops. Burke did the usual, gathering the foreign workers at the end of the day and telling them he needed ten more the next morning. That Thursday he’d arrived at seven to find twenty-five guys lined up. Poles, Lithuanians, a few Czechoslovakians, or whatever it was they called the place nowadays. It was that easy. He would keep them on until he didn’t need them and just get rid of them. They were always on time, worked themselves to the bone and never complained. It was capitalism as it was meant to be.

At five to eight Burke took up his spot in the empty doorway, across the road from the Errigle Inn. He looked up and down the street, waiting for the black Mercedes to pull up to the kerb. It had started to rain on his way over and the tarmac road shone a sleek black. Across the street a solitary figure stood outside the Errigle smoking a cigarette. A taxi pulled up outside the bar, and the driver glanced over at Burke. The passenger window came down and the smoker approached the car, leaning in the window to say something to the driver.

Burke started to panic. Had Spender turned on him? Was it a set-up?

He looked up and down the road, trying to figure the best way out. Down Sunnyside Street? No. Better the main road. More obstacles. More people. Ormeau Police Station was 300 yards away, squatting by the roadside like an iron fortress. Burke thought about walking up the street, trying to get closer to its protective shadow. Spender would wonder what he was up to though and he might think Burke had said more to the peelers than he was letting on.

The foreman glanced across the street. The back door of the taxi closed and he saw a swish of long blonde hair in the back. The car pulled out into the night traffic and Burke let out a sigh, whispering: ‘I’m getting too old for this shit.’

He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a packet of Lambert & Butler. He lit one just as a sleek black Mercedes slowed at the kerb. Burke looked at the fag. It was always the same. He suddenly wondered if this might be his last smoke and took two quick draws before tossing it away. He pushed the thought to the back of his head, telling himself it was all right, everything was dead on. As he rounded the car he checked that the passenger seat was empty and Spender was alone. A somewhat relieved Burke turned his collar up, glanced down the street, and lowered himself into the car.

‘Mr Spender, I—’

‘Shut up.’ Spender was tense and knew he wouldn’t have to repeat himself.

As the car eased out into the night traffic Burke was struck by how quiet the engine was. He was about to mention it, but thought better. Spender drove up the Ormeau Road, past the new shopping complex at Forestside. He took his time, keeping to the 30 m.p.h. speed limit. Spender liked being in control and enjoyed Burke’s discomfort beside him. The foreman’s mind raced. Was he driving with deliberate care? Not wanting to attract attention? No. It was OK. There was nothing to worry about.

The houses started to thin as the car made its way up the Saintfield Road and out of Belfast. They passed Purdysburn, the city’s mental asylum. Burke wanted to ask where they were going but stopped himself. You can’t be nervous, he told himself. A nervous man’s hiding something. He thought about his brother Michael and wished he was there. Michael had been involved and had seen things. Burke didn’t know how many operations he’d been on, but a situation like this wouldn’t have worried him in the slightest. Why hadn’t he brought Michael along?

In the past Spender would park up round the corner from the bar, in a side-street, somewhere off the main road. They were now well out of Belfast.

Just before the Carryduff roundabout the Mercedes slowed and turned off the main road, winding its way down a narrow country lane. In two minutes they were in the middle of nowhere. It was dark, and high hedges crowded in on the car. Burke had no idea where they were. Spender steered the Mercedes through a gap in the hedge and they emerged into a clearing in front of a 40-foot corrugated iron building. It was disused but looked as if it had been some sort of hay barn.

Burke peered at the gloomy surroundings, half-expecting another vehicle, a van perhaps, with a couple of men at the back doors. There was no one else, a fact that didn’t reassure him as much as it should have.

Spender stopped the car and turned off the engine. The car lights went out and the yard was plunged into darkness.

Burke glanced at the door handle.

‘Now,’ Spender said, turning to his passenger. ‘Tell me, have I got a tout working for me?’

O’Neill arrived at Musgrave Street to find a message from Mike Hessian.

Hessian was part of Civilian Support and was known as Big Brother round Musgrave Street because he worked CCTV and video surveillance. Eight hours a day he sat locked in a cupboard with nothing but a bank of six screens for company. The Health and Safety men would have had a field day.

Hessian was in his fifties and wore a cardigan and a pair of glasses, perched on the end of his nose. He looked like a librarian more than a peeler. Everyone round Musgrave Street knew though: you could cheat on your wife and
she
might never find out, but Mike Hessian would know.

He might not have been a proper peeler but Hessian had locked up more guys than anyone in the nick. He gave you what every crime needed: a witness. And Hessian’s witnesses always took the stand. They didn’t get cold feet. They couldn’t be intimidated. In Musgrave Street you learned pretty quickly: when Bap stabbed Mackers, when Gerry did Jackie, when Micky ran over Carsey, and the whole world happened to look the other way, you went to see Mike Hessian.

Last week O’Neill had spent a day in the cupboard, poring over the CCTV from the street around Laganview. They had this, plus footage from the Court House, the Hilton Hotel and the Waterfront Hall. Everything in the vicinity. He’d come up with nothing. Hessian joked that whatever had gone on at Laganview happened in the only blind spot in the whole of the city. O’Neill had rolled his eyes, knowing he was a fool to have expected anything else.

When he got the message from Hessian he headed straight for the cupboard.

‘Mike. How are you doing? Watching
EastEnders
again, I see.’

Hessian laughed. ‘Detective Sergeant O’Neill. The very man.’

O’Neill took a seat. The room smelled of black coffee and Old Spice aftershave.

‘So what have you got? Please tell me it’s someone running from Laganview holding a baseball bat.’

‘Afraid not. But you did say if there was anything interesting in the Markets, to let you know.’

Hessian pressed some buttons on the control panel in front of him.

‘The Markets is a black spot. Always has been. Cameras don’t last more than a couple of days in there. But take a look at this. It was sent over by Central. It’s the early hours of Sunday morning.’

The read-out in the corner of the screen showed 03:36. O’Neill recognized Cromac Street, the main road that ran along the edge of the Markets. It was less than five minutes from where the body was discovered at Laganview. The picture was grainy but you could make out four traffic lanes and both footpaths. The road was quiet, except for the occasional taxi.

‘Cromac Street,’ O’Neill said.

‘They don’t give you guys those badges for nothing then.’

Little happened on the screen. A traffic-light changed in the black-and-white picture.

‘Very good, Mike.
Belfast By Night.
You should enter this in the Turner Prize next year.’

‘Hold your horses, Detective. I’ve got a few friends I’d like you to meet . . . Here we go.’

A figure ambled into shot. He had his back to the camera so you couldn’t make out his face. He was swaying and had definitely had a few. He continued walking up the road until he was almost out of the picture.

‘OK, Hessian. I get it.
Drunk Man Walking.
I wouldn’t be practising your Oscar speech just yet.’

‘The younger generation – no patience. Just watch the screen, will you?’

Suddenly, the man on the screen went down as if he’d been shot. He lay motionless on the pavement for several seconds. A taxi drove along the road, slowing slightly, before continuing to the lights and then turning into May Street. Ten seconds later, a figure stepped out of the shadows. He stood over the man and looked down on him, holding something in his hand. The figure crouched over the body, as if he was thinking about something. Then he stood up and walked off purposefully. He crossed the street and disappeared out of shot, down a side-street into the Markets.

‘Have I got your attention yet?’ Hessian jibed.

‘Sure. A little bit of Belfast nightlife. But as you know, drunken vendettas aren’t exactly my thing at the moment.’

Hessian shook his head. ‘Wait until you see.’

He fast-forwarded the tape, stopping it a few minutes later. The man on the ground started to move. His hand went up to his face, touching his nose, inspecting the blood on his fingertips. He stood up, steadying himself against the wall before staggering off in a similar direction to his assailant.

At no time during the whole episode could anyone’s face be made out.

‘We can’t follow them into the Markets,’ O’Neill said.

‘No.’

‘OK. So why am I so interested in all this?’

‘Take a look. You think I’ve shown you the good stuff. That’s just the trailer.’

Hessian rewound the tape as the images started to scroll backwards. A series of cars reversed down the road. He typed on the keyboard in front of him, pulling up a video of Victoria Street.

‘This is a couple of minutes before he went down.’

O’Neill could make out the same tall figure, swaying drunkenly towards the camera. He got closer and you could almost make him out. The man lifted his hand, rubbing his face, obscuring the camera’s view.

‘Come on. Stop teasing, you bastard.’

After a second the man on the screen dropped his hand. Hessian hit pause and zoomed in on the face. After a second the pixels adjusted and the blurred outline crystallized into a face.

‘Sean Molloy,’ O’Neill announced.

‘Bingo.’

Molloy was held in freeze-frame, looking sidewards, his expression part-snarl, part-grimace. O’Neill watched intently. Who had the balls to take out Sean Molloy? Moreover, why would you let him live? Molloy wasn’t the kind of guy you wanted getting up and coming after you. It was a one-time deal. You had to put him in the ground, first time of asking.

‘OK. You can start practising the Oscar speech now,’ O’Neill said. ‘So what about our friend? Who’s the shadow with a death wish?’

‘Shadow is the right word. Wait until you see this.’

Hessian pulled the tapes of Cromac Street, Victoria Street and High Street and put them up on separate screens. He slowly wound the footage back, retracing Molloy’s progress. Sporadically, in the corner of each shot, a diminutive figure could be made out stealing along, just out of shot. He’d come into view for a split second, before ducking down an entry or sliding into a doorway. He would wait, out of view, and then make another move. When he did step out, he stayed tight to buildings. He had on a black beanie and his collar was pulled up high. When he passed directly beneath the camera on Victoria Street he put his hand up to hide his face.