Dark Dawn (26 page)

McCann ordered the driver to stop the car.

‘The peeler needs to be done, Joe.’

Lynch remained silent. McCann patted him on the arm, laughing.

‘That’s what I thought you’d say. It needs to happen this week.’

Lynch got out of the car. In the centre of Belfast the rain had worsened. He walked along Donegall Avenue looking into shop windows advertising the remnants of January sales. He felt the envelope in his pocket and thought about buying something for Marie-Therese, or maybe the wee one. He hesitated outside a shop, thinking about the money. Was he a criminal now? Is that what had happened? He felt like a tout. Like someone who had turned his back on his friends. Had he sold them out?

Lynch thought about night-time in the Maze, lying in his cell, six by eight foot. He had nothing in there. But it didn’t matter. He had a reason. He’d taken a stand. Burton was right. He’d been backed into a corner. You couldn’t just sit there and take it. Pretend it was OK, waiting for someone else to come along. It was the only way. Someone had to do the hard yards, get their hands dirty, put themselves on the line.

This was what Lynch had told himself. Night after night, listening to the screws walk up and down the corridors, trailing their sticks along the doors to keep the prisoners awake, fucking with them just for the fun of it. This was what he told himself to placate the ghosts, the faces that visited him as he lay trying to sleep. The off-duty RUC man, the part-time soldier, the fourteen-year-old boy. The last one was an accident. The bomb went off before the coded warning was called in. ‘Collateral damage’ was what they called it. It was a war. Things happened.

What about now though? The five hundred quid. The twenty grand. What was that money for?

He thought about the hunger strikes. Bobby Sands and nine others. Starving themselves to death. All to tell Maggie Thatcher they weren’t criminals. Was she right though? Was this what they were? Was this what they’d become?

A woman pushing a child in a buggy went past Lynch, hurrying into a shop out of the rain. Ten grand. This was his chance. He could leave Northern Ireland for good. Start over. It had been a mistake coming back. What had he expected to find when he returned from London? The buildings were different, sure, but the place was the same. The same faces, the same bullying, the same bragging. The same men, telling the same stories in the same pubs. Was it McCann? Was it people like him? You couldn’t get rid of him. If you did, someone else would step in and fill the void. McCann was right. It wasn’t about your country, your comrades, your cause. It was about money, pure and simple. Lynch looked at people rushing into shops, hurrying to buy things, to get the latest gadget, the latest designer jackets. Money didn’t have a conscience. It didn’t care about flags. It didn’t care where it came from.

Lynch’s eyes narrowed. He pulled up his collar and turned down Donegal Avenue. He could do one more. One more, then out for good. It was the only way.

Ward was furious.

He had been sitting in his office after a briefing meeting when Wilson had knocked on the door. There had been an unofficial complaint made against O’Neill. Ward’s ears had pricked up immediately. An ‘unofficial’ complaint? You either had a complaint or you didn’t. And if you did, then be man enough to at least stand behind it.

O’Neill had been spotted in the middle of the night, climbing over the fence at Laganview. Ward went on the attack.

‘He’s investigating a murder, sir.’

‘I know what he is doing, Inspector.’

‘So what’s the problem?’

‘Climbing back into a crime scene at four o’clock in the morning? It’s not exactly how we want people to see the police operating, is it?’

‘A murder investigation? I think people want to see the police arresting people and putting them away. I don’t think they care how many fences have to be climbed to get it done.’

‘You know what I’m talking about, Ward. Anyway, this isn’t an argument – I’m telling you. Next time, O’Neill’s getting an official warning. Conduct unbecoming.’

Ward knew Wilson would have liked to have gone the whole hog this time. He couldn’t though. If the complaint wasn’t official there’d be no record and you couldn’t go after someone with a piece of hearsay.

How did it end up on Wilson’s desk though? These things normally went through official channels which always bypassed local command structures. There was only one person who’d have the balls to call in with something like that, and call it in directly to Wilson – Spender.

Ward grabbed a set of car keys from his desk and stormed out of the office. In the corridor he blew past DC Kearney who was on his way to see him. ‘Inspector War—’

Ten minutes later, Ward was outside a glass office block on Linenhall Street. He parked on double yellow lines. Policeman’s privilege. Inside, he took the elevator to the twelfth floor where he was greeted by walls of glass. At reception a girl sat beneath the large stylized logo of Spender Property. She looked up.

‘Can I help—’

Ward walked past her as if she wasn’t even there. He heard her lift the phone behind him. ‘Security . . .’

A few twists and turns, and Ward found Spender’s office. He marched past the PA and opened the heavy wooden door.

‘Excuse me! What do you think you are doing?’ a shrill voice demanded from behind him.

The office was empty. Ward turned and rounded on the girl at the desk.

‘Where is he?’

The girl was in her thirties, immaculately made up. The kind of girl who is attractive and definitely knows it. Ward had seen the type a million times. There wasn’t a PA in the world who wasn’t on a power trip. They controlled access to the MD and always thought they were the most important person in the whole company.

The girl was affronted that someone could dare to walk into the office and make demands of her like that. She made to dig her heels in. She’d heard Carol on reception call down for Security and they’d be there any minute.

Ward leaned over the desk, six inches from her face, seething.

‘Listen to me, love. And listen carefully. If you don’t want to be arrested right now for obstructing a police investigation, you’ll tell me where he is.’

The girl wobbled under the threat. Ward saw it in her eyes and closed in, speaking quickly.

‘I’m going to count to three. One. Two. Thr—’

‘Laganview. He’s at Laganview. They have a meeting down there with . . .’

Ward turned on his heel and was off, halfway down the corridor.

At reception Carol stood next to a security guard, pointing at Ward as he marched towards them. The guard made to come forward. The detective pulled out his warrant card as he walked past.

‘Don’t even think about it, son.’

Ward slipped between the doors of the lift as they closed behind the security guard.

Ten minutes later, the Mondeo skidded on the makeshift gravel car park at Laganview. There was a lot of expensive tin in the car park – two Jaguars, a Land Rover and a couple of Mercedes.

He looked down into the site and saw a group of men in suits and yellow hard hats. Spender stood in the middle, holding court, pointing out various aspects of the construction to the visitors. On the perimeter another man stood clutching a mobile phone, pointing at it in an attempt to get his boss’ attention. Ward knew it would be the office, letting them know he was on his way.

He walked in front of the group, positioning himself in their line of sight. He held up his warrant card and spoke in a loud voice, almost shouting.

‘Mr Spender. DI Ward, Musgrave Street CID. I need to ask you a few more questions about the murder on your building site.’

Spender’s bonhomie suddenly evaporated. The expressions on the surrounding faces changed from being impressed to prurient interest. Spender turned to the man holding his mobile phone, his face hiding his anger. Ward wondered if the guy would still have his job by the end of the day.

‘Paul, can you take our guests round and show them the walkway and the view of the river? I’ll join up with you all in a minute.’

The crowd were chaperoned away, leaving Ward and Spender alone. The developer waited until his guests were out of earshot, before hissing, ‘What do you think you’re playing at, Ward? I’m going to have you for this. This is police harassment.’

‘Harassment? Don’t start putting ideas in my head. Or maybe you’d just like to put in another private phone call to Wilson. Tell him his boys aren’t playing cricket. Is our wee investigation messing with the value of your portfolio? Is that what it is? Is that
all
it is? Because at the moment I’m beginning to wonder.’

Spender looked towards the group of men. Ward continued:

‘If you want to make an official complaint, then fire away. Just know that while you’re stirring the pot, I’ll be busy working my way through every planning application, every tax return, every single piece of paper with your name on. You see, I’m old. No hobbies. I’ve a lot of free time on my hands. The Hightown Road. The Gasworks project. The Cathedral Quarter. I imagine there’ll be a few interesting names in there. A few city councillors, perhaps? I am sure this would be something the
Belfast Telegraph
would be pretty keen to hear about. So by all means, complain away. I’ll look forward to it.’ Ward walked away, leaving Spender alone.

The developer stood where he was, watching the detective as he left the building site. He looked over at the group of businessmen on the other side of the apartments’ steel skeleton. A few of the group were watching the police officer as he picked his way back to the car park.

Spender cleared his throat and straightened his tie. As he returned to the group he thought of the questions they’d now have and how he would set about repairing the damage.

Marty carried Petesy for days. He was carrying him when he phoned his cousin in the Ardoyne. He was carrying him when he went into the Holy Lands for Thursday’s paper round. He was carrying him when he saw Cara and her mate, and they pretended not to see him. He was carrying him when Micky’s ma answered the door and told him to sling his hook. He was still carrying him at three in the afternoon, walking across the Albert Bridge, when a black Mondeo pulled up alongside him.

The window rolled down and a peeler shouted his name, telling him to get in the car. Any other day, Marty would have bolted. Across the road, between the cars and off. He’d have been away before the peeler could have lifted his radio. Today though, he was tired – tired of the weight, tired of the guilt, tired of carrying his friend. Marty slumped into the passenger seat of the car. After all, it was only the peelers. What was the worst they could do to you?

After the hospital O’Neill had run Peter Kennedy through the Police National Computer. He found a string of minor offences: possession, affray, shoplifting. He looked at each offence, seeing that Kennedy had twice been arrested along with someone else: Martin Toner. He’d pulled Toner’s file. The mug shot showed a fifteen year old, staring defiantly at the camera. O’Neill recognized him. It was the same kid he’d passed in the corridor of the Royal Victoria Hospital. Toner’s record was longer than Kennedy’s. It featured similar offences: theft, assault, possession. They were both registered to the same school. O’Neill phoned the Principal who hadn’t seen either of them for over a year. ‘Thick as thieves, those two.’ His voice didn’t suggest he wanted to see either of them any time soon.

Toner was registered at an address near the bottom of the Castlereagh Road. O’Neill ran it through the computer. The occupier was a Siobhan Toner. Thirty-six years old. She also had a record: theft, drunk and disorderly, affray. Two years ago she’d received a suspended sentence on condition of attending an alcohol rehabilitation programme.

O’Neill staked out the address. Just after four he watched Toner come out of the house. The teenager wore a white hooded tracksuit and a baseball cap pulled so low it almost covered his eyes. When he walked, his shoulders rocked slowly from side to side with the classic hood’s swagger.

The detective thought about lifting him there and then but held back. He couldn’t make his move yet. People would see. If there was any hope of getting something out of the boy, no one must see. The kid would never risk being labelled ‘Toner the Tout’. If he did, it wouldn’t be long before he was joining his mate in the RVH.

He made his move on the Albert bridge. With Toner in the car O’Neill did a U-turn and headed up the Newtownards Road, out of Belfast.

‘Not going to the station?’ Marty asked, gazing out the window, his voice distant.

‘Not today,’ O’Neill replied.

‘You’re not some kind of fruit, are you?’

O’Neill smiled at the backchat.

‘You should be so lucky.’

They continued up the Newtownards Road in silence. Rows of terrace houses gave way to larger, suburban homes. At the edge of the city the carriageway skirted past the Loyalist Ballybeen estate. O’Neill saw the boy glance at the red, white and blue kerbstones. They drove past the estate, the carriageway rising as they left Belfast. For a moment the car felt like a plane taking off. O’Neill was about to mention it but stopped, wondering if Toner had ever been on a plane. He doubted it.

‘So where the fuck are you taking me then?’

O’Neill didn’t answer.

At the top of the hill Marty made out a small town on the other side. A sign read
Welcome to Newtownards. Drive Carefully.
The car slowed at a large roundabout with a shopping centre squatting on the other side. The car park was busy with folk doing laps, searching for a parking space. O’Neill drove in and turned towards the Burger King. He went to the drive-thru and ordered two Whopper meals with Coke.

He took the last exit from the roundabout and began driving along a country road, away from the town. After a few turns the car started to climb a hill. At the top was a gothic tower over 100 feet tall. Scrabo Tower was built by the Victorians and looked like a cross between a chesspiece and something from
Lord of the Rings.
O’Neill pulled into a deserted car park from where it was a few hundred metres up a path to the base of the tower. He opened the car door.