by Matt McGuire
He prised open the purse, looking at the 50p and the couple of coppers. He pictured her at the bar, counting it, sighing when it wasn’t enough. He reached into his pocket and took out a roll of notes, then peeled off two twenties and put them in her purse. It would keep her oiled for a day or two. She wouldn’t know who, wouldn’t know when, wouldn’t know why. It didn’t matter though. Money was money and the guy at the offy didn’t care where it came from.
Marty slipped down the stairs. At the back door he paused, looking round the mess in the kitchen. He felt like he’d lost something and instinctively tapped his pockets – mobile, money, gun. It was all there. He shrugged the feeling off and locked the back door, climbing the wall and dropping down on the other side.
SIX
It was half eleven in Musgrave Street. Ward was at his desk, reading over the interview notes from the McCarthy family, thinking about the mother and father. He pictured the dinner table, the da holding court, the kids sitting there. No interest in rugby, your da a millionaire, how did you measure up? Phrases floated round his head – ‘off the rails’, ‘proving yourself’, ‘fathers and sons’. The family seemed strange when he called with O‘Neill. Then again, most folk didn’t rehearse being woken in the dead of night by a peeler with his hat in his hands.
The Chief Inspector had come looking for Ward that morning. Wilson was flustered and annoyed. The Belfast Telegraph had been on the phone first thing, wanting a comment. McCarthy would make front page, unless they got something better, of course. Ward wondered what something better might look like.
He set the interview notes aside, thinking about the stabbing and the kid they’d arrested on Saturday night. Ward shook his head. Slagged my trainers. It was like there was something out there, like the whole city had been let off the leash, everyone feeling entitled, like they were owed something and had nothing to lose.
Keenan, the manager of the club, had slid into Musgrave Street at five to nine. He’d brought the CCTV, the staff list and the till roll from Saturday night. O’Neill was in CID, working his way through it now, looking for names, for connections, trying to piece together a story.
Ward’s mobile trembled in his pocket. Pat Kennedy.
‘I’m outside.’
‘Gimme two minutes.’
On the stairs Ward passed Wilson. He wondered what the Chief Inspector would say if he knew he was having lunch with one of his old mates from Special Branch. Kennedy was in his sixties now, retired five years. His kids were grown up and across the water. He lived up the coast with his missus, Eileen. When Ward’s own wife had died, Pat and Eileen had adopted him. Sunday lunches, Christmas Day. Afterwards, him and Pat would slink off to the bar while the kids argued over their new toys.
Outside, Kennedy was parked on Victoria Street in a brand new Saab.
‘Nice wheels,’ Ward said, lowering himself in.
Kennedy had driven rally cars, back in his twenties.
‘You getting the itch again?’
‘You kidding. She’d kill me.’
Pat Kennedy had deep-set eyes, dark brown, almost black. They stared at the world – unmoved, unconvinced, unimpressed. Pat had spent half his life in interview rooms with men who wanted to kill him. It changed how you saw things. He’d put half the Belfast Brigade behind bars: Michael Hannah, Barry McKeown, you name it. That was before the Peace Process, before the politicians started handing out ‘Get Out of Jail Free’ cards.
In the passenger seat, Ward rubbed his eyes and tried to smother a yawn. He’d been up till two in the morning, thinking about the sympathy cards, about the threats, about who it might be and how they’d come at him.
Kennedy slipped the car into gear and pulled away from the kerb.
‘You look like shit,’ he said.
‘Says George Clooney there.’
Kennedy smiled, waiting for Ward to speak.
Nothing.
‘So what’s up?’ he asked.
‘I’m hungry,’ Ward said.
‘Aye,’ he said sarcastically. ‘What else?’
Silence.
‘Cancer?’
‘For lunch?’ Ward said, still dodging.
‘The ticker?’
‘That too.’
Kennedy smiled, realizing the blinds were down. ‘What happened, your boyfriend break up with you?’
‘You know there’s only you.’
‘You say that to all the fellas.’
Both men laughed. Ward enjoyed it with Kennedy, like old times, like it was the two of them again, driving to some job, taking on the world.
‘Speaking of cancer,’ Ward said, ‘you seen Davy?’
David Price was another former Branch man. He was Pat Kennedy’s best mate, since they’d grown up together on the Newtownards Road. Davy was diagnosed with testicular cancer eight years ago, but he went under the knife and beat it.
In the car Kennedy indicated and changed lanes.
‘He’s in Iraq now, doing security work. He’s still mustard.’
The Saab rounded the gothic tower of the Albert clock, skirting Customs House, running parallel to the Lagan before crossing Queen’s Bridge. Ward looked up at a crane as it swung its arm over another building site. More development – Obel Tower, like a giant shard, stabbed into the city.
‘How’s Tomb Street?’ Kennedy asked. He’d seen the appeal for information on the TV the day before.
‘Early days.’
Kennedy smiled, knowing what that meant. ‘Some wee hood?’
‘Nah. This one’s a citizen.’
‘Didn’t think there were any of them left. Who’s up front?’
‘O’Neill.’
‘How’s he doing?’
‘He’s working it.’
Kennedy nodded.
‘We had this kid on Saturday,’ Ward said. ‘Sixteen, stabbed someone. You know why? Guy slagged off his trainers.’
Kennedy shrugged, like nothing could surprise him.
‘I mean seriously. At least there used to be reasons. The Brits and the Provos, the Prods and the Taigs. These days it’s a free-for-all. And the kids out there … they’re off their nut.’
‘Tell me about it,’ Kennedy said. ‘Why you think I moved to the middle of nowhere?’
The Saab drove into east Belfast, skirting Ballymacarret and the Union Jacks that still fluttered from lamp posts. Two guys were painting a mural across the gable end of a house, a two-storey Titanic sailing up Belfast Lough. The next house featured the Somme, with a ten-foot picture of the Queen smiling from across the road.
‘So Tomb Street,’ Kennedy said.
‘The kid is called McCarthy. Early twenties, took a hiding, guy jumped on his head.’
Kennedy listened, nodding.
‘You know the McCarthy Mortgage Shops?’ Ward said.
‘Aye.’
‘That’s the da.’
Raised eyebrows. ‘Wilson’ll be wetting his knickers.’
‘He was in my office this morning, twice.’
‘Is the son into anything?’
‘Doesn’t look like it.’
‘I’ve heard that before.’
On the Newtownards Road the car passed Stormont. Ward looked up the long straight drive to the white columned building, nestled amid manicured lawns. Kennedy caught the glance.
‘You know the problem with parliaments, Jack? Full of politicians.’
‘Aye. Like the man says, no matter who you vote for, the government always gets in.’
The Saab pulled into the car park of Stormont Hotel. The bar was empty and they sat at the back out of habit. The barman dragged himself from the television screen to take their order. Ward went for the stew, Kennedy the chilli. They waited until he was gone before speaking again.
‘So how’s retirement?’ Ward said.
Kennedy shrugged. ‘The garden centre, the golf course. What can you say?’
Ward sensed the boredom and the dullness, ordinary life not measuring up. It was ironic; peelers spen
t years working nightshift, working weekends, dreaming about some normal life that the rest of the world got to live.
‘The missus is doing her nut. Says I’m under her feet, keeps sending out me for milk. The security guard at Tesco thinks I’m a shoplifter.’
Ward laughed.
‘She wants to go on holiday again. Some cruise round the Holy Land, the pyramids, Jerusalem. I’m trying to get her to take her sister.’
Kennedy had been pining for months. He missed the job, missed the lads, missed the banter. He missed the scumbags, lying through their teeth, trying to keep themselves out of the clinker. He even missed the bosses, sniffing round, looking out for their careers and the next photo opportunity. He wanted nothing more than to suit up and get after someone.
‘Would you look at that?’ Kennedy said, nodding at the TV.
It was the lunchtime news. A man in an Armani suit walked round a boxing gym accompanied by a reporter. In the background were scrawny kids skipping, thwacking punchbags, trying to ignore the cameras. The two men watched, shaking their heads.
‘Gerry McCann,’ Ward said.
McCann had been involved during the Troubles, a Provo from South Belfast. When the Peace Process broke out he’d gone legit, setting up businesses – hairdressers, car washes, tanning salons. He’d eight on the go and was turning a good profit. The police had questioned him last year in connection with the murder of Joe Lynch, a former volunteer they found in an alley with a bullet in his head. McCann had smiled knowingly as he declared himself a legitimate businessman.
‘That the same thing as a legitimate target?’ Ward had said.
On TV, McCann strutted round the gym in his Armani suit. He tried to look humble as he handed over a cheque for ten grand.
‘Used to box here when I was a wee lad,’ he told the reporter, ‘and it’s good to be able to give something back. This’ll get the gym some pads, new gloves, a lick of paint.’
Ward shook his head. ‘Gerry McCann, the great philanthropist.’
‘How did we never manage to put him away?’
‘He’d a good lawyer.’
‘The brother?’
McCann’s brother, Michael, had been a solicitor. He was a diehard Republican, the whole family were. Michael knew every loophole, every technicality, every way to beat the system. Even the peelers were unanimous – if you ever got arrested for something, then you wanted Michael McCann defending you.
‘The Loyalists did the world a favour when they stiffed him,’ Kennedy said quietly.
Michael McCann had been murdered outside his home in Belfast. Two men had watched him pull into his drive, approached the car and opened fire. Sixteen bullets, pointblank range. There’d been an investigation and allegations of collusion, Special Branch feeding intelligence to the gunmen. Kennedy was in charge at the time but nothing was ever proved.
On the TV, McCann shared a joke with the reporter. In the background was another face Ward recognized – Johnny Tierney. He was younger, late twenties, one of McCann’s boys. He’d been the number one ranked amateur in his day, a lefty with a vicious jab. The Boxing Board banned him after he was caught bare knuckle fighting and almost killed a guy.
Ward and Kennedy turned from the TV as their food arrived.
‘Honestly,’ Kennedy said, the waiter gone. ‘This place is going to the dogs. I was walking through the town the other day and you know who I saw? Peter McGinn.’
McGinn was a Provo who had killed two cops. He’d been sent down for twenty years and served four, let out through the Peace Process.
‘Bastard’s sitting there, in Bewley’s, a cup of tea and a cream bun. Fucker looks at me and nods, like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.’
Ward listened as Kennedy spoke, like it was some sick joke.
‘You see them about the town, just watching, waiting. I’m telling you, leopards don’t change their spots. Trust me on that. And justice? Don’t start me. There’s no such thing. I mean look at the state of us. You hold the line for thirty years, get threatened, shot at, blown up. Think of the guys we lost – Tom O’Loan, Peter Downey, Terry Hughes, Paul Briggs, Phil McNamara … Gone, all them. And what was it for? So the government could waltz along and let these guys out. And what do they do to us? Throw us a few bob, thanks, lads, take it easy, mind how you go. Justice? Don’t make me laugh. The Provies were right you know. The only justice worth speaking about comes from the barrel of a gun.’
‘Come on. You don’t really—’
‘Don’t really believe it? Try me. You talk to some of the boys, ask them what they think. Ask if they reckon they’ve been sold out. You see what they say.’ Kennedy shook his head. ‘Twenty-five years, you thought you’d seen everything.’
A silence fell between them. Ward lifted his glass and took a drink.
‘Anyway,’ Kennedy said, the sting out of him, ‘tell me about this cancer then. Where is it? Your balls?’
Ward smiled faintly and shook his head.
‘Come on, you look like death warmed up, son. Tell Uncle Pat.’
Ward shrugged. ‘It’s nothing.’
‘So tell me then.’
‘I’m getting death threats.’
‘Means you’re doing the job right.’
Ward shook his head. Kennedy waited.
‘This is different.’
He explained about the sympathy cards, the messages, the regularity. Kennedy nodded, the face deadpan.
‘Any thoughts?’
Ward shook his head. ‘It’s nothing. I mean, how many times in your career did someone threaten to do you?’
‘I stopped counting.’
‘Me too. And it’s like you said, they’re out walking the streets, bored, looking for things to do, ways to occupy themselves.’
‘What have you got at the house?’ Kennedy asked.
‘Glock. Shotgun. Dog.’
‘Good. ’Cause you know if anything’s going to happen, that’s where they’ll come.’
‘A nice thought.’
‘It’s probably some arsehole messing about.’
‘Sure,’ Ward said, both men smelling the lie.
After a few minutes, they pushed their plates aside, Kennedy’s clean, Ward’s full.
In the car on the way back they didn’t speak. Kennedy talked about how shit Liverpool were, trying to smooth the cracks with something vaguely normal.
‘So what do you do all day then?’ Ward asked.
‘Read. Sort the car. Try not to drink.’ Kennedy reached into the glove box ‘Here, try this.’
He tossed a book on Ward’s lap. Ernest Hemingway, The Old Man and the Sea. The cover showed waves rising like cliffs, beneath them a tiny row boat and a lone sailor.
‘You calling me an old man?’ Ward said.
Kennedy smiled. ‘If the shoe fits …’
Back at Musgrave Street, Ward got out of the car. ‘Give Eileen my best, will you.’
‘Sure. And here, if you fancy a jaunt round the Med …?’
Ward smiled. ‘Seasick, mate. Send me a postcard.’
He closed the door and watched Kennedy drive off, turning the corner into Victoria Street. Ward glanced up at the lookout post embedded in the station wall. He nodded at the small window of bulletproof glass. A few seconds later, the buzzer sounded and he disappeared through the armoured steel door.
SEVEN
O’Neill was in the CCTV cupboard at Musgrave Street, reviewing the footage from the nightclub. The room was dark and functional, a long desk, a bank of screens. It smelled like stale crisps and Old Spice.
There was a knock and the door opened, the corridor strip lights suddenly blinding. A silhouette appeared, a voice, DC Kearney.
‘Chief Inspector wants to see you.’
O’Neill waited.
‘He was looking for Ward. Said you’d do.’
‘Story of my life.’
O’Neill stopped the tape and headed upstairs. The third floor was Senior Management, the Monday-to-Friday crew, the n
ine-to-fivers. He stood outside the Chief Inspector’s door and knocked. There was the usual pause, Wilson reminding you of his rank.
Finally a voice. ‘Come in.’
The office was oak panelled, large, the same size as CID, which housed six desks. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves covered the back wall. There was a university degree, framed photographs – Wilson with Bill Clinton, Wilson with Tony Blair, all smiles and handshakes.
The Chief Inspector was writing something and didn’t look up. He was in full uniform – white shirt, dark tie, shoulder boards with three silver diamonds. He had a side parting and clear skin, like a teenager with grey hair.
Wilson signed his name with a flourish and looked up.
‘Where are we with Tomb Street? The murder?’
O’Neill liked the ‘we’, as if the Chief was involved, as if he hadn’t spent the weekend at the golf course or whatever it was he did while the rest of them were on nightshift.
‘Not a murder yet, sir. Suspicious Dea—’
‘Don’t start me, O’Neill, I’m not in the mood. I’ve got the Belfast Telegraph, Radio Ulster and UTV Live all breathing down my neck. The Chief Constable’s been on the phone twice this morning and I’ve got the son of an important local businessman lying on a slab in the city coroner’s. Realize, O’Neill, Richard McCarthy’s got profile. You know what that means? CID needs to make sure they get it right, that this gets one hundred per cent of our effort. Do you understand?’
‘Everyone gets one hundred per cent of our—’
‘Save it for the promotion boards.’ Wilson looked out the window, ignoring O’Neill for a moment.
‘I suppose you saw the Sunday Life yesterday.’
‘No, sir,’ O’Neill lied, wanting the Chief to relive his lousy report card.
‘Organized crime, ex-paramilitaries, streets not safe. Listen, the McCarthy kid’s going to be a story. You need to make sure it’s the right story. Quick turn around, someone in cuffs, someone to charge.’
‘With all due respect—’
‘I don’t want to hear it, O’Neill. I don’t want an excuse, I want a suspect, you hear me?’
O’Neill wondered who was writing Wilson’s lines for him. He felt like telling him offenders didn’t walk into the nick, clutching a knife shouting, ‘I killed the bitch.’ Wilson wouldn’t care though. Like he said, he didn’t want explanations, didn’t want excuses. He wanted his good news story, his clearance rate, his crime stats. Get a charge, that was all, the conviction was someone else’s problem. Find a suspect and convince the Public Prosecutor to saddle up. Job done, box ticked, move on.
