Dark Dawn (ds o'neill)

by Matt McGuire

  ‘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.

  THIRTY

  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.

  ‘I’m eating. You can sit here on your tod if you want.’

  O’Neill got out of the car and walked up the path. After a few seconds Toner followed, walking up the hill ten yards behind the cop.

  At the base of the tower was a flat piece of grass with three benches. Each had a small brass plaque, dedicated to someone. You could see for miles. On one side was an expanse of water, Strangford Lough. Two arms of land reached down either side of the large inlet. On the horizon, a low winter sun was starting to dip below the grey band of cloud. Newtownards stretched out to the left. You couldn’t make out Belfast
, which was out of sight, hidden behind the Castlereagh hills.

  On the nearby golf course, an old boy in an Argyle sweater was teeing off. He made a swipe, topping the ball which scuttled away into some gorse. The man was 200 yards away and out of earshot. It didn’t stop Marty though.

  ‘You’re shee-ite. And so’s your jumper.’

  ‘Sit down,’ O’Neill said to him.

  He opened up the brown paper bag and handed the teenager a small square box with a burger in it. Marty took it suspiciously.

  ‘What?’ O’Neill asked. ‘You’re going to tell me you’re a vegetarian?’

  The boy smiled slightly, taking a bite of the burger. He took several chews before speaking with his mouth full.

  ‘You can buy all the burgers you want. I’m not telling you fuck all.’

  ‘Dead on,’ said O’Neill. ‘It’s your call. I mean, it wasn’t my best mate that just got seven shades of shite beaten out of him.’

  The two sat eating in silence. Marty took the pickle out of his burger and flicked it away.

  ‘Frigging pickles.’

  They watched the golfer poke around in the gorse looking for his ball. He scraped it out with a club before standing up to take his shot. This one was much better. The small white dot bobbled down the fairway, coming to rest just beside the green.

  ‘I spoke to Mr Johnson at St Matthew’s. He said he hadn’t seen you for over a year.’

  ‘School? Don’t make me laugh.’

  ‘He remembered you though. Said you were a hell of a footballer. Hattrick in the Belfast Schools Cup. He said Glentoran had been looking at you. There was even a chance you could have gone across the water.’

  Marty smiled. He remembered the hat-trick as if it was yesterday, the boys jumping on him down the back of the bus on their way home.

  ‘I know what you’ve been up to, you and Petesy. You’ve been working. Out there grafting.’

  Marty sat up straight. He could get done here if he wasn’t careful.

  ‘Out on your own. Fuck Molloy and Tierney and those boys, right? Yeah. You’ve got yourselves some gear and gone it alone.’

  O’Neill was fishing, voicing his theory as to why Peter Kennedy might have been done. He seemed to be on the money so far.

  ‘We have almost nothing on you. That’s how I know. You and Peter have been at this a while, but you’ve managed to keep a low profile. Stay under the radar.’

  O’Neill paused, taking another bite of his burger. He looked at the open space in front of him. The golfer had arrived at his ball on the green, 500 yards away.

  ‘Bet you he gets it in two,’ O’Neill said.

  They watched as the small figure knocked his ball on the green. He walked over and tapped the ball towards the hole. It didn’t disappear.

  ‘Hey. What do I know about golf?’ O’Neill mused. Then: ‘Thing is, Marty, you’re doing what you’ve got to do. That’s all. The problem’s not you. It’s not Peter. The problem is the guy in the Hugo Boss suit, standing in the toilet of a nightclub, hoovering a gram up his. . Or the wee student at Queen’s, skinning up, dropping a few Es, then back to his lectures on Monday.’

  O’Neill paused.

  ‘None of these guys are lying in the RVH like your mate. None of them are getting a baseball bat taken to them. None of them will be on walking sticks the rest of their life. I mean, sure, we could arrest you. Lock you up. But so what, right? Out here, we’re the least of your worries.’

  O’Neill stopped talking. They sat there in silence, looking at the expanse of land stretching out below them. He was deliberately quiet, trying to get the kid to speak, to say something. After a minute Marty spoke.

  ‘It’s fucked up,’ he said. O’Neill thought he could feel an opening, but just as quickly, the silent stand-off resumed.

  They sat for a few minutes. O’Neill had another go.

  ‘Have you ever thought it’s not fair? Like, why does it have to be yous always taking the hiding? Where were you when Peter was getting a beating? Hospital told me it was a bat with some nails through it. They hit him twelve times. Where were you, Marty? I thought you were his best mate? Aren’t best mates supposed to stick up for each other?’

  O’Neill could sense the teenager tensing up beside him. He kept pressing.

  ‘We spoke to his granny at the hospital. Had she told you to take yourself off? Was that why you stormed out, holding back the tears? Did she blame you, Marty? Petesy didn’t seem like the kind of guy to go up against Molloy and Tierney. Was it your idea?’

  Toner stared out at the horizon. It was cold. He felt as if he was in a different country. The coastline, the water, the green fields stretching off in the distance. Belfast seemed miles away, the streets around the lower Ormeau, almost another world.

  Marty was half-listening to O’Neill; the other part of him was back by the side of the river, his face shoved into the gravel as the bat came down on Petesy.

  ‘Do you blame yourself, Marty — is that what it is? Have you been walking round, thinking it should have been you instead of your mate? Do you want some revenge — is that what you’re looking for? Because if it is, this is your chance. You’re not going to go up against these boys on your own. I’m the only way you can get to them. You need to use me. You need to help me. You need to tell me who it was that did Peter.’

  They sat on for ten minutes. O’Neill went back to the well several times, evoking images of Peter Kennedy, the beating, the effects it would have on him. The teenager went back into his shell, shutting himself away from the cop, away from what he was saying. O’Neill eventually gave up and got to his feet.

  ‘Come on. Let’s go.’

  They drove back into Belfast, the car-heater warming them after the cold outside.

  ‘You’re not a tout, Marty. You’re sticking up for your mate. Get the fuckers that did it to him. This is the only way. What else are you going to do? I know why you don’t want to talk. We don’t live where you live. We’re not going to be there when someone kicks your door in at three in the morning. Sure. You could call 999. You’d be as well asking for an ambulance though, by the time we got to you. It’s fucked up. You’re right. The whole thing’s fucked up.’

  The traffic outside was starting to thicken. From the dual carriageway on the top of the hill the car looked down on Belfast. Church spires were sprinkled across the horizon, jutting up from rows of terrace housing. The two giant yellow cranes of Harland amp; Wolff straddled the docks.

  ‘Thing is, Marty,’ O’Neill continued, ‘eventually, someone’s got to take a stand. They shouldn’t get away with doing that to you. You guys take the risks — and for what? So they can come and beat the shit out of you when they don’t like what’s going on?’

  Marty spoke for the first time since he had shouted at the golfer.

  ‘I’m not telling you who did Petesy. There’s only two people that know, me and him. They would know who’d told. And if they couldn’t get to me, they’d come back for him. And he’s had enough.’

  O’Neill thought about it. The kid was right. He couldn’t talk. There was no way.

  ‘Fair enough. But you need to give me something. It’s the same people, right — the ones who did the kid we found by the Lagan the other week?’

  ‘That one. Yous are still after that?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Marty gave a short laugh. ‘That one’s a mystery.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Nobody knows.’

  ‘What do you mean, nobody knows?’

  ‘I mean nobody knows.’

  ‘OK. Forget who did him. Who’s the kid?’

  ‘I just told you. Nobody knows.’

  The teenager could have been lying but O’Neill didn’t think so. He’d thrown the comment away as if it was the least interesting thing he’d ever said.

  As they neared the centre of Belfast Toner slumped down in the car seat, pulling his hat low over his face. O’Neill turned off the main road, drivin
g under the bridge that used to lead to Central Station. It was deserted and dark. He slowed the car. The wheels hadn’t fully stopped before the door was open and Toner was gone. O’Neill looked in his rearview mirror, trying to pick out a shape in the darkness, but it was too late. The kid had already disappeared.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Lynch had been shadowing for two days now, watching, waiting. He knew O’Neill inside and out, almost better than he knew himself. As soon as he saw the photograph, Lynch had clocked him for one of the cops who had followed him out of The George. The other one must have been Ward.

  O’Neill had been on an early shift, eight to six, though he wasn’t leaving Musgrave Street before nine. Lynch saw straight away why McCann wanted him dead. He was a peeler with no life. He worked, he slept. That was it. Not the kind of person you wanted sniffing round, asking questions. Fat and lazy, you could work with. Someone who could turn a blind eye, who could take a hint, who could be told. Lynch could see that wasn’t O’Neill.

  The last two nights, after a ten-hour shift, he had driven round to May Street and parked up. For four hours he had sat and watched the comings and goings at The George. Lynch wondered how much he knew about McCann’s operation. He was there though, so he must know something.

  The following morning in Stranmillis, O’Neill left for work just after seven. Thirty minutes later, Lynch dandered round the back, picked the lock and broke into the flat. At the front door lay a pile of unopened mail. On the top lay a brown A4 envelope with an entire book of stamps plastered to its front. Someone wanted to make sure that arrived, Lynch thought, stepping over the post.

  Inside the place looked as if O’Neill had just moved in and was waiting on his stuff arriving. On the mantelpiece an opened electricity bill said he’d been there five months. The kitchen cupboards were bare apart from coffee, baked beans, a packet of digestives. On the counter sat a loaf of bread, a week out of date.