Collusion jli-2

by Stuart Neville

  ‘Never,’ Mooney said. ‘He wouldn’t. He was a soft shite, but he did time in the Maze and Maghaberry. Small-time stuff, he could’ve got off if he’d touted, but he kept quiet and took the sentence. A fella like that doesn’t talk. Speaking of which, I’ve said too much already. I’ll leave you to it.’

  Mooney turned to go, but Lennon called, ‘One more thing.’

  Mooney sighed and turned back. ‘What?’

  ‘Patsy Toner.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘I heard he’s been on bad form too,’ Lennon said. ‘I heard he’s been on the bottle.’

  ‘He likes a drink,’ Mooney said.

  ‘More than he used to?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I heard he’s been scared about something,’ Lennon said. ‘I heard he talks when he’s drunk. You ever overhear anything?’

  Mooney leaned over the bar. ‘Like I said, I’m hard of hearing. Now, do you want that second pint or what?’

  Lennon drained his glass and suppressed a burp. No, I’ve had enough. But thanks.’

  Mooney nodded and walked away.

  * * *

  Thirty minutes later, Lennon sat parked on Eglantine Avenue staring at Marie’s boarded-up windows. Occasionally, small groups of kids in school uniforms walked past, probably heading for the takeaways on the Lisburn Road. Ellen must have started her second year of primary by now.

  Marie only allowed him that one photograph. He hadn’t met her since then, and that had been four years ago. It was no more than he deserved. She had sacrificed so much for him, and he had betrayed her.

  He hadn’t meant to. If anyone had asked him if he was capable of such a thing a week before it happened, he would have said no, absolutely not. He had learned since then never to underestimate a man’s weakness.

  They’d been living in the flat for a year when it all fell apart. Marie’s nesting instinct had gone into overdrive, and every weekend was spent touring shopping centres looking for the perfect cushion cover, or the ideal mirror to go above the fireplace.

  They’d been standing in a furniture store off the Boucher Road for an hour, Marie agonising over a pair of bedside lockers while a sales assistant looked on, when Lennon noticed the shape of her in the light. His mind wandered to the times when she’d clambered on him, the soft ‘oh’ of her mouth at the point of orgasm, the feel of her weight on him. It had been a while. She was saying something and he snapped himself back to the here and now.

  ‘You haven’t heard a thing I just said.’ Her eyes were cold stone.

  ‘I’m sorry, what?’

  ‘Look, if you can’t be bothered listening to me then why did you come?’

  The sales assistant looked at his feet.

  Lennon smiled, his voice soft. ‘I’m sorry, I was just daydreaming. What were you saying?’

  ‘This is important to me.’

  ‘I—’

  ‘This is our home. This is our future together.’

  Lennon stopped smiling. ‘I know. I’m sorry.’

  The sales assistant remembered an important matter that needed his attention elsewhere.

  ‘You’re not sorry,’ she said. ‘You don’t care.’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘No you don’t, or you’d fucking listen. Why am I bothering to run myself ragged over this when you don’t give a shit?’

  ‘Marie, please.’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  He stayed ten steps behind her all the way to the car.

  The irony was that Wendy Carlisle had been the one who’d introduced Lennon to Marie eighteen months before. She was the media officer at Lennon’s station, and a hard-luck girl if ever he’d met one. They became friends, though looking back he couldn’t think why.

  She stumbled from one bad relationship to another, five of them while he knew her, always ending up hurt and bitter. Lennon had tried his luck, but she said she knew his type, she wouldn’t get chewed up and spat out by a user like him. She always smiled when she said it, but anger hid beneath the teasing.

  When Wendy passed a request for an interview on to Lennon, he had no idea it would change the course of his life. He saw something in Marie, recognised the separation from her roots as a reflection of his own situation. He hadn’t meant to fall in love any more than Marie had. Given her family – she was a McKenna, niece of Michael McKenna, for Christ’s sake – he should have gone nowhere near her. Their relationship destroyed what was left of the ties to her kin, and Lennon’s colleagues made a point of pulling him up on it every chance they got. He’d been in line for a move to Special Branch, but at the last moment he was switched to CID. They never said why, but he knew. He was a Catholic cop at a time when such a thing was still a rarity, and now he was mixed up with Michael McKenna’s niece. He didn’t know which was worse: the threats from Republicans, with the Mass cards and bullets that arrived in the post, or the hard stares and silence he met in his workplace.

  As soon as they moved in together, Marie started talking about children. Always at night, when they lay together in the dark. Just thinking out loud, she’d say. Just talking. Nothing serious.

  Serious or not, it terrified him. It wasn’t the idea of sleepless nights or being tied down that frightened him so much. Rather it was the certainty that he would, sooner or later, let the child down. He tried to tell Marie this, to explain it was his own weakness that scared him, but the words never came out right. Every conversation ended with her cold back to him as he silently cursed his clumsy tongue.

  After a while, they didn’t talk about it any more. The stony grey of her eyes cooled, her lips thinned, her laughter dried until it rasped like sandpaper on wood. They should have ended it then, but neither of them had the courage.

  Lennon’s head jerked up to bounce against the Audi’s headrest. Had he been asleep? His head had that sodden feeling, like clay behind his eyes. He looked at his watch. Coming five. When had he last checked the time? An hour, maybe.

  ‘Jesus,’ he said.

  Lennon fired the Audi’s ignition and listened to the diesel clatter and rumble. He blinked the sleep away.

  A man approached on the pavement. Mid-thirties, Lennon guessed. A hard face, lined more by life than age. His right eyelid was red and swollen. His left arm hung stiff and long at his side. He nodded at Lennon as he passed.

  Lennon watched the man’s back in his side mirror. The man disappeared between the parked cars. Lennon opened the Audi’s door and climbed out. He looked up and down Eglantine Avenue.

  No sign of him.

  Lennon settled back into the Audi, his mouth dry. He wanted another pint of Stella, and maybe some company.

  27

  The Traveller kept walking along the side street, his head down. He chanced one look back over his shoulder. No one followed. His Merc was parked on the next street north, the one tethered to Eglantine Avenue by this side street. He didn’t know its name. Belfast was starting to grate on him, with its red-brick houses and cars parked on top of one another. And the people, all smug and smiling now they’d gathered the wit to quit killing each other and start making money instead.

  He reached the Merc and got in. He dialled the number.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, what now?’ Orla asked.

  ‘Jesus, love, don’t bite my face off.’

  ‘Don’t “love” me, you gyppo bastard. I’ll come up there and cut your balls off. Now what do you want?’

  The Traveller sensed it was not an idle threat. Was she on the rag? ‘All right,’ he said. ‘That cop. What did you find out about him?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘’Cause he’s sitting outside that McKenna blade’s flat again. What’s he doing hanging about there? Who is he?’

  ‘That cop’s the least of your worries, believe me,’ she said. ‘He’s Jack Lennon, a detective inspector. A smart cop. He should be higher up the ranks, but he’s been in some bother. He had a sexual harassment charge hanging over him a few years back, some tramp from the
office tried to make a claim against him. The charge didn’t stick, but the reputation did. He’s in debt up to his eyeballs. He’s too friendly with some Loyalists. We’re told he might be taking payment in kind from the brothels, and another cop accused him of trying to pass on a bribe. His superiors are wary of him, think he’s bent. Don’t worry about him.’

  ‘Well, I am worried about him,’ the Traveller said. ‘He’s going to get in the way. I should do something about it.’

  ‘No,’ Orla said. ‘You have a go at a cop, even if he’s bent, you’ll fuck everything up.’

  ‘I’ll do it right,’ the Traveller said. ‘There’ll be nothing to connect him—’

  ‘No, I said. Look, certain people are indulging us by letting you clean up this mess. You tackle a cop, they won’t indulge us any more. You understand?’

  ‘Whatever you say, love,’ the Traveller said.

  Hard silence for a moment, then she said, ‘What about Patsy Toner?’

  ‘I’ll call with him tonight.’

  ‘Good,’ Orla said. ‘You’re stretching my patience. Just do what we’re paying you to do.’

  ‘All right,’ the Traveller said.

  He hung up and pocketed the phone. ‘Grumpy auld pishmire,’ he said. He started the Merc and went looking for Patsy Toner.

  28

  Lennon found him in the Crown Bar of all places. Despite the snugs, the Crown was the last pub in Belfast to drink in if you wanted privacy. Patsy Toner sat at the far end of the bar, staring at the red granite. Lennon could just see him beyond the wood and glass panels that divided the bar up.

  The hubbub of locals and tourists combined to make a hearty rumble of laughter and raised voices. Lennon realised this was the perfect place for a frightened man to drink. Patsy Toner was probably safer here than in any bar in the city.

  Lennon edged his way through the early evening drinkers towards Toner. Holidaymakers and office workers stood in clusters, the tourists with their pints of Guinness, the locals with their WKD and Magners cider.

  He sidled up behind Toner and waved for the barman’s attention. ‘Stella,’ he called over the lawyer’s shoulder.

  Toner turned his head a little to the side, to see who stood so close. Lennon wondered if he’d be recognised. He had interviewed many of Toner’s clients. A good lawyer remembered the names and faces of the cops he met in his work.

  Sure enough, Toner’s shoulders tensed.

  The bartender set the pint on the raised drain tray, letting the foam slop over the rim. Lennon leaned across Toner and put the money in the bartender’s hand. He lifted the pint, but stayed pressed against Toner’s back.

  ‘How’ve you been, Patsy?’ he asked.

  Toner stared ahead. ‘Do I know you?’

  ‘We’ve met in a professional capacity,’ Lennon said.

  Toner turned his head. ‘I don’t remember your name.’

  ‘DI Jack Lennon.’

  Did Toner flinch? The lawyer looked back to his drink. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘A word,’ Lennon said.

  Toner spread his hands flat on the bar. The fingers of his left looked thin and waxy. His shoulders slumped.

  Lennon looked back over his shoulder. ‘There’s a snug free,’ he said. ‘Bring your drink.’

  They sat at a table walled by ornate wood and stained glass. Lennon closed the snug’s door.

  A waitress opened it again, pointed to the sign. ‘Sir, this snug’s reserved.’

  Lennon showed her his ID. ‘I won’t be long.’

  ‘The party should be here any minute,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll get out when they come,’ he said. He smiled. ‘Just a minute or two. You’d be doing me a big favour. Please?’

  She hesitated, then smiled. ‘Okay, I’ll—’

  Lennon closed the door and sat down. He stared at Toner across the table. Toner’s hands shook as he raised his glass.

  ‘How’s it going, Patsy?’ Lennon asked.

  Toner grimaced as he swallowed. His glass clinked on the tabletop. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Just to see how you’re doing these days,’ Lennon said. He took a sip of Stella and leaned forward. ‘I heard you weren’t doing so well. I heard you had something on your mind.’

  Toner forced a laugh. ‘Who told you that?’

  A couple of people,’ Lennon said. ‘Friends of yours.’

  Toner laughed again, this time shrill and jagged. ‘Friends? You’re talking shite. I don’t have any friends. Not any more.’

  ‘No?’ Lennon feigned surprise. ‘You used to be a popular fella. All sorts of friends in all sorts of places.’

  ‘Used to be,’ Toner echoed. He wiped whiskey from his moustache. Two days’ stubble lined his jowls. ‘Friendship’s a funny thing. You think it’s solid, for life, but it can blow away just like that.’

  Lennon nodded. ‘I know what you mean,’ he said, truthfully.

  Toner stared back at him, something turning behind his eyes for a few seconds before dying away. ‘Look, get to the point,’ he said. ‘You’re not here just to pass the time.’

  Lennon laced his fingers together on the tabletop. ‘I heard you’ve been acting strange lately, like you’re scared. I want to know what you’re afraid of.’

  Toner sat back and folded his arms. ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘People,’ Lennon said.

  ‘What did they say?’

  ‘That you’ve gone downhill since Paul McGinty died. That you’re drinking like a fish. That you know more about what happened than you’re letting on, and it’s ripping you to pieces.’

  ‘No.’ Toner shook his head, slow, his eyes unfocused. ‘No, that’s not … It’s not … Who said that?’

  ‘You’ve been talking when you’re drunk,’ Lennon said. You said it’s not over, they’ll come for you, it’s only a matter of time.’

  Toner’s cheeks reddened. ‘Who said that?’

  ‘A friend of yours,’ Lennon said. He thought about taunting the lawyer with the tales Roscoe had told him, that Toner was so scared he couldn’t get it up any more. He decided against it.

  ‘Bollocks,’ Toner said. His eyes glittered.

  ‘Maybe I can help,’ Lennon said.

  ‘Bollocks.’ Toner tried to stand, but his legs couldn’t hold him upright.

  ‘I can help,’ Lennon repeated. ‘We can help. I have contacts in Special Branch. They can protect you.’

  Toner snorted. ‘Protect me? Jesus, I wouldn’t need protecting if it wasn’t for them cunts. You’re not here on official business, are you? If you’d told anyone you were talking to me they’d have warned you off.’

  ‘Who would?’

  ‘Who do you think?’ This time Toner’s legs held him. The table shook as his thighs squeezed past it. Your fucking bosses. Special Branch and the Brits. You want to know what’s happening, talk to them, not me.’

  Lennon reached for his wrist. ‘Patsy, wait.’

  Toner pulled his arm away and opened the door. ‘Talk to your own people, see what they’ll tell you.’

  ‘Marie McKenna,’ Lennon said. ‘Her daughter. My daughter.’

  Toner froze. ‘Jesus, that’s who you are. You’re the cop Marie took up with.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Lennon said.

  The waitress appeared over Toner’s shoulder, a group of young professional types behind her. ‘I need the snug,’ she said.

  Toner ignored her. ‘You want to know where she is?’

  Yes,’ Lennon said.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Toner said. ‘Nobody does. She’s better off out of it. So are you. Don’t go stirring things up. That’s all I’ll tell you, and that’s too much.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ the waitress called.

  ‘Just a second.’ Lennon took a card from his pocket and pressed it into Toner’s hand. ‘If you want to talk.’

  ‘I won’t,’ Toner said, handing the card back. ‘Leave it alone. Will you do that? Leave it alone. It’s best for everyone.’
r />   Lennon lifted Toner’s lapel and tucked the card into his inside pocket. ‘Just in case,’ he said.

  Toner suddenly looked very old. ‘Leave it alone,’ he said. He turned and headed towards the exit.

  Lennon slipped the waitress a fiver and thanked her. He went for the door, taking his time to let Toner melt away. There was no sign of the lawyer when he shouldered his way out onto Great Victoria Street, taxis and cars and buses blaring horns at one another as they fought for space under the shadow of the Europa Hotel.

  He remembered the resolution he’d made last night and checked his watch. It had only just gone six-thirty. He’d forgotten to text his sister, but it would hardly matter. Most likely nobody would bother with visiting his mother on a week-night. If he got a hustle on he could be in Newry before eight, sit with her for an hour, and be back in Belfast by ten.

  Lennon walked towards the car park on the Dublin Road, his mind flicking between a frail old woman, a frightened lawyer, and a little girl who didn’t know his name.

  For the third time in twenty minutes, Lennon told his mother who he was. For the third time, she nodded with only a vague hint of recognition on her face. She fussed with her dressing gown for a moment before looking back up at the wall opposite her bed.

  Every visit was like this, a string of bland exchanges punctuated by bouts of confusion. He came anyway, perhaps not as often as he should, but enough to be noticed. It wasn’t that he begrudged her the time. Rather it was that he hated to see her like this, even though she’d disowned him years ago. He hated that he’d had to wait for her mind to go before he could see her again. She was little more than a shadow of the woman who had giggled like a girl when he and his brother danced with her at weddings and confirmation parties.

  ‘The evenings are fairly drawing in,’ she said, looking to the growing darkness beyond the window. ‘Next thing you know, it’ll be Christmas. Who’s having Christmas this year?’

  ‘Bronagh,’ Lennon said. ‘It’s always Bronagh.’

  Bronagh was the eldest of his three sisters. It was she who had told Lennon to leave and never come back all those years ago.

  The day before Liam went in the ground, Phelim Quinn, who sat on Armagh City and District Council, called at Lennon’s mother’s house. He took the mother aside, expressed his condolences, and reminded her it wouldn’t do any good to talk to the police. Sure, they’d do nothing for them anyway. Liam had paid for his mistakes, and it would be best for everyone to just put it behind them, move on. In a very quiet voice, Lennon’s mother told Quinn to get out. As Quinn walked down the path to the small garden gate, Lennon caught up with him.