by Matt McGuire
‘It’s going to have a House of Fraser and all, so it is?’
The other woman gasped, confessing that she couldn’t wait.
Lynch looked back at Burton. ‘There’s some changes going on round here, eh?’
‘What do you mean?’ Burton asked.
‘Around the town. I mean, I went the other day to put a line on at a bookies I used to go to down Smithfield. I turned the corner and it’s one of them frigging coffee places. It’s like every time you walk round the corner, someone’s building something. And shops — I mean, how many frigging shops do people need? It’s getting as bad as London.’
‘You lived in London?’
‘Just for a while.’
Lynch remembered the stories his Aunt Annie told about the seventies. She used to come home talking about signs outside boarding houses. No Blacks. No Irish. As soon as they heard your accent, they treated you like something the dog dragged in.
Burton knew that Lynch was avoiding any real engagement. Still, at least he was speaking. If he kept him talking there was a chance they’d end up somewhere by the end of the session.
‘Know anything about Buddhists?’ he asked.
‘Hari Krishnas. Enlightenment and all. You going to start chanting, Doc?’
‘I wouldn’t get your hopes up. Buddhists reckon everything is always changing. All the time. The thing is, we just don’t see it. Living and dying. Growing and rotting. Our problem is that we don’t get it. We expect things to stay the same. And they don’t. They can’t. Nothing can.’
‘That’s deep,’ Lynch said dismissively. ‘Pass the spliff, man, would you?’
Burton tried to mask a sigh. He knew Lynch could oscillate all day between aggressive question and cynical put-down. He was clever. Disciplined. He gave nothing away, not unless he wanted to. And he didn’t let you in, not for a second. He had been involved, but Burton could tell he wasn’t the kind of person who blindly followed orders. He thought about other ex-prisoners he had worked with. Ninety per cent of the time it was about ego, vanity, self-worth. Being involved gave them something to do, someone to be. They were the star in the film of their own lives. At least that was how it felt. And there was always a father figure, someone senior, someone to tell them who they were. Tell them that they were part of something. An heroic struggle. A great cause. That history would remember them.
Lynch was different. Too practical. Too deliberate. Burton couldn’t imagine him buying the romance. That was for followers, for those who needed pulling along. Burton looked at the clock. Lynch had been late and the session was almost over.
The other man spoke, interrupting Burton’s thoughts.
‘So what about people?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What do your Buddhists say about people? Do people change?’
Burton paused.
‘What do you think, Joe?’
Lynch knew what Burton was up to, deliberately turning the question back on him.
‘Maybe they do. Maybe they don’t. Maybe there comes a point when it’s too late. When somebody has been someone or something for so long, they’ve gone past the point where it’s possible to change, and maybe they don’t realize it. They walk round, thinking they’re someone new, only they’re not. All the time though, lurking below the surface, the real them is waiting. Just waiting for a chance to stick his head out of the water.’
Lynch’s eyes narrowed and he went back to looking out the window. Burton wanted to let him run but he had closed down, just as quickly as he had opened up. Lynch snorted a quiet laugh to himself.
‘So the other day, I’m walking round to the shop to get a pint of milk. It’s eleven o’clock in the morning, and round the back of the Spar there’s these two young ones, sitting among the bins. Glue sniffing. Twelve, maybe thirteen. They’re passing this plastic bag between them, taking turns to put their faces into it. They have that red rash round their mouth like you see. They look up for a second, almost look through me, and go back at it. It’s their eyes. Empty. The lights are on but there’s nobody home. Like they’re completely dead on the inside. They’d pull a knife on you as soon as look at you. They don’t give a shit. Don’t care about getting caught, getting a beating, getting locked up. Because nothing can happen to them that will make their lives worse than they already are. I mean, how the fuck do you hit rock bottom by the time you’re twelve? So that there is nothing to be done. Except you stick your head in a bag so you can forget about everything, even if it’s only for thirty seconds. What I want to know is this, Doc: if your Buddhists know so much, then are things going to start changing for these two?’
Burton paused, allowing the question to drift away.
‘What are you so angry about, Joe?’
Lynch’s eyes moved from side to side, weighing up whether to speak, to tell Burton what he really thought.
‘It’s bullshit. All of it. A new dawn. A new day. A load of fucking crap. Stormont. Politicians chuckling for the cameras. Collecting their fat salaries. Meanwhile, the guys are out there running everything. Making sure. . well, making sure things run. And what are we doing, sitting here in your plush office, looking at the nice view, talking about Buddhists. . I haven’t seen too many frigging Buddhists walking the streets of Belfast.’
Lynch gestured to the window with his thumb. Burton sensed he was about to leave. He’d talked himself to the point of walking out, recovered that sense of indignation, of being wronged.
‘You used to like to work alone, Joe. Didn’t you?’
Lynch was taken aback by the change of subject.
‘Come again?’
‘It was people. People were the problem. They were a liability — even the ones on your side. They’d let you down. Lose their bottle. Not follow through. Sure it was fine, talking about it beforehand, but when push came to shove, there was only one person you could really rely on.’
Lynch sat quietly, listening.
‘And that’s not really changed. We can talk about Buddhists all day, but it’s not about them, Joe. It’s about you. You haven’t changed. You go days out there, not saying a single word to anyone. And why? Because they know you. Or at least you think they do. It’s in that look you get. Fear and respect. But mostly it’s fear. Yeah, they know you. So you sit in front of the TV, nothing but you and your memories, and no matter what you do, they keep coming back. You can’t make them go away. They don’t want to vanish.’
Lynch stared at Burton. He couldn’t acknowledge how close he was. It would be like giving something away, losing some control.
‘The past. It doesn’t just go away on its own,’ Burton said. ‘The memories — you’ve got to replace them with different ones. New ones. Better ones. And sometimes, it still won’t get rid of them altogether.’
‘So what are you supposed to replace them with?’
‘It’s not up to me, Joe. Only you can figure that out. But it’s going to involve other people. I can probably guarantee you that.’
There was a light knock on the door. The signal from the receptionist. They were five minutes beyond their time and Burton’s next appointment would be waiting outside.?100 an hour. It didn’t pay to keep people waiting.
FOURTEEN
It was Monday morning. Laganview was a week old. Ward drove across the Sydenham bypass and out of the city. The road skirted the coastline of Belfast Lough leading to Holywood, Cultra and eventually Bangor.
O’Neill still didn’t have an ID on his body. The forensics had come back and were as weak as they both feared. Wilson had reassigned the investigating team, leaving O’Neill on his own. Ward was a DI though and could do what he wanted. He was on his way to Cultra to visit William Spender, the MD of the developers behind Laganview. It was little more than a fishing expedition but Ward had history with Spender and thought, what the hell, it wasn’t as if O’Neill had a cell full of suspects.
Cultra was fifteen minutes along the south shore of Belfast Lough. Nineteenth-century mans
ions with large bay windows stared out to sea, turning their faces from the city up the coast. Ward imagined an Agatha Christie novel. Guilty butlers, billiard rooms, candlestick-holders. It wasn’t the kind of place where the PSNI spent much time.
He had called Spender the night before. The developer didn’t have time to meet him. The body was an inconvenience and had already cost a day’s work on site. Ward rolled his eyes. The richer people got, the less they wanted to play the helpful citizen. He was about to make Spender come in to Musgrave Street when the developer cut him short, saying he could see him early Monday morning. Ward didn’t read much into it. It confirmed what he remembered about Spender: the ego, the arrogance, the self-importance.
Spender Properties had been in the Belfast Telegraph a few years earlier over allegations of corruption. Nothing ever came of it though and the papers dropped the story after a few days. The North had a pretty visceral news diet. ‘Business Back-Hander’ v ‘Brutal Bomb Blast’. It wasn’t really a contest.
On Sunday Ward had called up one of his old contacts at the Telegraph. Stuart Colman was in his late fifties and had forgotten more about Belfast than most people would ever know, the police included. He was from York Street but had gone to London, ‘Dick Whittington style’, in the late seventies. He’d got a start with the Evening Standard and stayed a few years until his father died and he came home. Colman agreed to meet him in the Duke of York. When Ward asked about Spender, Colman clocked it straight away.
‘You’re on Laganview? I thought that was O’Neill?’
Colman was a dying breed. A real reporter. You didn’t have to spell things out. He knew most of Musgrave Street by face and never forgot a name. Ward thought he would have made a good detective.
‘Anything worth sharing with a humble, hard-working journalist?’
‘Nothing yet. But you’ll be the first to know.’
‘Since when did I start doing pro bono?’ Colman joked. ‘You were always a lousy first date, Ward. Not even a wee kiss, a bit of a fumble in the back row?’
‘Slowly does it now. Whatever happened to respecting a girl?’
‘I never had you as the prudish type. Anyway, how can I help the Police Service of Northern Ireland?’
‘Spender. You guys were looking at him a couple of years ago. It was over some fraud allegations. What do you know about him?’
‘Spender? He’s building the new Northern Ireland. At least, that’s what they say. He probably owns half the new builds going up round here. Started as a family of builders. His father was an apprentice bricklayer and worked his way up. Died when Spender was in his twenties and left the firm to his son. At that stage Spenders were building houses, one at a time type of thing. The son was ambitious though and wanted to expand. Within a few years they were doing housing developments. Small estates. First-time buyer stuff. Three bedrooms, a patch of grass out back.’
Colman stopped talking and drained the rest of his pint.
‘This is thirsty work.’
Ward took the hint and got in two more Guinness.
‘Spender’s ambition took the company in the right direction. Along came the Peace Process and when the price of property started soaring they were in the right place at the right time. Laganview’s just part of what they have on the go. They’re the main players in the redevelopment of the old gasworks at the bottom of the Ormeau Road. They did the Cathedral Quarter and are bidding to get part of the Titanic Quarter.’
‘Interesting,’ Ward said. ‘So what was the scoop back then?’
‘Bribing public officials. Someone in the Planning Office at City Hall.’
‘Did you get a name?’
‘Don’t know. Wasn’t my story.’
‘Why’d the Telegraph get cold feet?’
‘Usual story. Businessman calls lawyer. Lawyer calls paper. Paper shits itself.’
‘What happened to the Fourth Estate and all that?’
‘Who are you kidding? The Fourth Estate’s a housing estate. Half these journalists wouldn’t know a story if it jumped up and bit them on the arse. Soap stars shagging footballers — that’s all people care about these days. Or who’s the latest contestant on Big fucking Brother. Honestly, the place is going down the pan. And no one gives a shite about it.’
‘Well,’ said Ward, ‘do a bit of hoking round. I might be able to get you a second bite of the cherry on this.’
‘I’ll see if there is anything I can come up with. Do you think Spender has some connection with the body?’
‘No. But I thought I might be able to have a little fun with him though. Stir it up in Cultra. Give them something to talk about over their sherry in Royal Belfast.’
‘A man after my own heart. Keep me posted. I’ll be waiting here with my dress on.’
The cars became more expensive as Ward turned off the carriageway into Cultra. He passed a black BMW saloon, followed by a silver Porsche. The navy Mondeo looked out of place. Ward imagined the Victorian mansions looking down their noses as he rolled along the wide avenues.
Spender’s place was guarded by a 12-foot, wrought-iron gate. Ward pressed the intercom and it slowly swung open. Up a curved driveway he came to the house. The triple garage held two Mercedes, a silver coupe and a long black saloon. There was another car. A red TVR with personalized registration: WS 1. The front lawn looked like an oversized tennis court and stretched down to the shore where a 20-foot sailboat was tied to a jetty. Ward imagined summertime — long white tables, jackets and dresses, glasses of Pimm’s. He looked at the view. Belfast was a silver slither on the horizon, hidden by a row of elm trees along the western wall. It was almost as if the city wasn’t even there.
Before Ward had a chance to ring the bell a petite woman opened the door. She had bobbed blonde hair and wore a black skirt and white blouse. A deep olive tan made her look several years younger than she probably was.
‘Mrs Spender?’
‘Please. Call me Karen.’
‘DI Ward. Musgrave Street.’
‘You’re a long way from home, Detective.’
Ward glanced up at the house. ‘You’re not wrong there.’
The woman smiled. Ward looked down the garden toward the water.
‘This is quite a view you have here.’
‘Yes. We like it.’
‘You know, there’re people out there make fun of Cultra but I think I’m beginning to see the attraction.’
Ward knew he had a chance to make a friend. And friends could turn out useful further down the road.
‘Believe me, Detective, there’s plenty to be made fun of down here.’
The wife and Spender weren’t from Cultra. They were Belfast people. New money. He imagined the local women, gossiping over their pearls and afternoon tea.
‘Sorry to call so early.’
‘Don’t worry. William’s been working from six. He has an office here as well as the one in Belfast.’
‘Busy man. Still I guess with the property market. . making hay and all that.’
Ward followed Karen Spender down the hall. Her heels clicked loudly on the large black and white tiles. A large gilt mirror hung in the main artery of the house. On the wall was a framed family photograph — husband, wife, two teenage children, a son and daughter. Spender smiled out of the frame: smug, assured, proprietorial. Ward paused.
‘Your two then?’
The woman paused before she spoke. ‘Yes. Although that was a few years ago. Zara is now-’
‘I am sure he doesn’t need your whole life-story, Karen.’
William Spender strode out of an adjacent room. He was in his late fifties, older than his wife and not wearing so well. Spender wore a shirt and tie, his wrists flashing a pair of gold cufflinks, bearing the initials WS. He was impatient. He didn’t like Ward being in the house and wanted to get on with it. The woman ignored her husband and told the detective it was nice to meet him. She walked off down the hall and up the stairs.
‘Let’s step into my office,
’ Spender said. It was a command rather than an invitation. Spender signalled the door he had come out of. They walked through into a vast room, centred round an 8-foot mahogany desk.
Ward looked round the room. Spender’s office was bigger than the press room at Musgrave Street. The back wall was lined with a large bookcase containing rows of leather volumes. Ward didn’t think Spender had read any of them. Behind the desk was a high-backed executive chair. The developer took up his position and motioned to a seat in front.
‘So, Detective. Where are you with the investigation?’
Ward paused, wondering who Spender thought he was. He ignored the question and got out his notepad, slowly and deliberately. When he’d opened it at a clean page he looked up.
‘So. What do you know about the body on your site, Mr Spender?’
‘Only what I have seen on the news,’ Spender replied.
‘And where were you, the night of the murder?’
‘I was here with my wife.’
‘What were you doing?’
‘Probably working.’
‘Probably. .?’
‘Listen, Detective-’
‘And what about Monday morning?’
‘I was here.’
‘So how did you find out about it?’
‘Someone called me.’
‘Who called you?’
‘The foreman.’
‘The foreman called you?’
‘No. He called the office and they put him through. Listen, Detective, I don’t know why you’re-’ Spender was getting increasingly annoyed.
‘What time was the call?’
‘In the morning.’
‘You don’t know what time?’ Ward asked, a deliberate note of disbelief in his voice.
‘Before nine,’ Spender snapped back.
‘And what did you do?’
‘What do you mean what did I do?’
