When Sorrows Come

by Matt McGuire

  ‘Go fast, Sergeant,’ Wilson warned. ‘But go careful. Anything comes up … anything embarrassing …’

  ‘We follow the evidence, sir.’

  ‘Save me the Ward impression, would you?’

  O’Neill shut down, donning his street face, waiting to be dismissed.

  ‘You need to understand something, O’Neill. So far, you’ve led a pretty charmed life round here. The Laganview collar, Sergeant’s promotion, Ward watching your back. Well, the DI’s retiring next year and if I were you, I’d think about who my friends are going to be when he’s gone.’

  O’Neill, stone-faced.

  ‘Transfers happen all the time, you know. A cop could easily find himself in Bally-go-backwards – chasing sheep rustlers, refereeing farmers who have fallen out with one another. Real high-end stuff.’

  A silence fell between them, Wilson watching to see if he’d made a dent.

  ‘Has a bit of a following does the old DI among the younger lads. The mystique of Special Branch. Well, you take it from me, Ward’s no altar boy. Nobody came out of that unit without some dirt on them.’

  O’Neill listened, his expression blank. Wilson watched him for a moment before going back to the paperwork on his desk.

  ‘You can go,’ he said finally, without looking up.

  Ward was in CID waiting for O’Neill. There were going to interview McCarthy’s flatmate Peter Craig. He lived in Bell Towers, a new development at the top of the Ormeau Road. The DI let go of a yawn.

  ‘Partying on a school night?’ O’Neill said.

  ‘I wish.’

  O’Neill thought about Wilson’s speech, trying to guess what he’d been insinuating, wondering if he should tell Ward.

  ‘Right,’ the DI said. ‘Let’s go.’

  On the way to the car park, O’Neill dialled Tivoli Gardens. Catherine answered on the third ring. He could hear Sarah in the background.

  ‘It’s me.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Can I talk to Sarah?’

  ‘She has her swimming lesson. We’re halfway out the door.’ Catherine put her hand over the receiver and shouted, ‘Not that one, the other one.’

  ‘Look, I just wanted to talk to her.’

  ‘We’re already late … Coat now, come on.’

  ‘I’m her father you know.’

  ‘Listen, you were her father yesterday, remember, when you stood her up. And last weekend, when you bailed on the movies. And the time before that—’

  ‘Look, that’s not—’

  ‘We’ve gotta go, John.’

  The line went dead. O’Neill stared at the handset, Ward looking at him across the roof of the car.

  ‘Happy families?’

  ‘Yeah. Something like that.’

  It was half one and the Ormeau Road was busy. Office girls hurried back to their desks, mobile in one hand, latte in the other. Yummy mummies pushed £500 prams around the old Romanian woman, crouched on the pavement, selling the Big Issue.

  O’Neill caught sight of a blonde ponytail disappearing into the Spar. He thought about Sam, the way she’d lingered in the car park the day before. She didn’t have to and could have easily kept her head down and walked into the nick. He allowed himself to think back to the night he knocked on her door, after eleven, her raised eyebrow, like she’d always known he was coming. He thought about the Saturday mornings at St Clement’s on Botanic Avenue. They’d drunk coffee and read the papers, their bodies still tingling from the sex an hour earlier. He thought about phoning her now, asking to meet up, somewhere outside work, away from the job, somewhere they could talk.

  The address was coming up on the left and O’Neill turned his mind back to Tomb Street. The victim had lived in Bell Towers, a new development, in what used to be the Good Shepherd Convent. The car slowed at the gated entrance.

  ‘Property,’ Ward said cynically, ‘the new religion.’

  Above them the building reached for the sky, five floors of red brick crowned with a pitched slate roof. O’Neill located McCarthy’s name on the intercom.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Peter Craig.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘CID.’

  There was a pause before the gate slowly swung open.

  Craig stood in the corridor, waiting for them. He was dressed for work – dark suit, hair slicked, eyes puffy.

  Inside, the apartment smelled of fresh paint and newly laid carpet. The walls were white, with large abstract paintings dotted around. It reminded O’Neill of one of Sarah’s early efforts, only worse. An open staircase led up to the mezzanine and the bedrooms. The place was neat, tidy, like it had just been cleaned.

  O’Neill walked in, looking around him.

  ‘Some place you have,’ he said, all matey.

  ‘Yeah, thanks.’

  ‘How long you guys been in here?’

  ‘Just six months.’

  ‘Wow. This is great. How much were these going for again?’

  ‘They started at one thirty, ours was one fifty, because of the finishings and all.’

  ‘Worth it though, eh?’ O’Neill said, playing along.

  ‘Yeah, we thought so.’

  O’Neill sat on the sofa, Craig opposite.

  ‘So how are you doing then?’ he said, keeping up the old pals routine.

  ‘Pretty shit.’

  ‘Yeah, I can imagine.’

  ‘Feel like it’s my fault. Like I’m his mate, you know. You’re supposed to keep an eye on your friends, look out for them.’

  ‘Things happen. You can’t always be there.’

  Craig turned his mouth down, like it was little consolation.

  ‘The best thing you can do is help us catch who did this.’ Craig nodded.

  ‘Let’s start with Saturday then, talk us through the night, as much detail as you can remember.’

  ‘We started off here about seven, got a carryout, had that girl from Johnny’s work over and her flatmate. We were just drinking, listening to music, having a laugh. Then we headed into town. Got a taxi.’

  ‘What time do you think that was?’

  ‘About ten, half ten. We were pretty blocked.’

  ‘We were just at Milk, you know, the club, having a good time. We were dancing, drinking, doing a few shots. Johnny has had a thing about Sally Curran for a while, the girl he works with. I’m riding shotgun, looking after her mate. She’s a bit of a sourpuss, some postgrad from Queen’s, all hairy legs and principles. Anyway, it must have been almost two and I turned around and looked for Johnny but he wasn’t there. I thought he was in a corner somewhere, off with Sally or something. Then she came back from the toilets. I thought he’d had a whitey or something, gone outside, or just bailed and headed home.’

  ‘Is that normal?’

  ‘Look, if you’d been drinking what we’d been drinking …’

  O’Neil raised his eyebrows, interested, impressed. ‘Pretty wrecked then?’

  ‘Beer, flaming sambucas, Jäger Bombs. We were off our faces. I got a taxi up the road and crashed out. His bedroom door was closed so I figured Johnny was in his bed. Never thought to check.’

  Craig paused, staring into space.

  ‘Some frigging mate, eh?’

  O’Neill sat silently, waiting to see where he would go. Craig just shook his head.

  ‘Was there any trouble at the club?’ Ward said, taking over.

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘Were yous talking to anyone you didn’t know?’

  ‘Nah.’

  ‘Would anyone might have wanted to hurt Jonathan?’

  ‘Nah. Johnny was a good guy. Knew everybody. I’m telling you, you’d walk into a bar and folk would be all Johnny, what about you?’

  ‘What about the girls?’

  ‘Johnny’s had a thing about your woman Sally. They started their traineeships at the same time. She’s from up the Falls originally. Her fella’s from the Springfield Road, Milo or Mullo or something. He works on that buildi
ng site, Victoria Square. Johnny reckoned he was a bad lad from some of the stories she’d told him.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe the crowd he runs with …’

  ‘And what about drugs?’ O’Neill said, stepping in again.

  ‘I honestly don’t know the guy.’

  ‘And you boys?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Look, we’re not daft. These days, everyone’s doing a bit of something.’ O’Neill said it casually, like he was chatting about the weather. ‘We really don’t care. We just want to get who did this.’

  ‘Seriously, nah, not us. The drink’s enough. At least the way we do it. Johnny was the same.’

  O’Neill nodded and watched.

  ‘Listen, we need to have a look around. Go into Jonathan’s room. We might need to take a few things back to the station with us.’

  ‘Sure, go on ahead.’

  O’Neill went to the car to get evidence bags, leaving Ward to chat. When he came back the DI was in the bedroom, already gloved. A king-size bed owned the middle of the room. There was an en suite bathroom, walk-in wardrobes, a desk with a laptop and a stack of magazines – GQ, Esquire, Men’s Health. O’Neill bagged the computer and set it on the bed. He took his notepad out and moved to the cupboards. There were jeans and shirts and sweaters, all on hangers. O’Neill looked at the labels – Calvin Klein, Diesel, G-Star. It was like a department store. He counted the clothes, taking note of brands and how many of each there were.

  ‘Hundred pound a pair,’ he told Ward, pointing at a pair of jeans.

  On the desk were photos – the two flatmates, partying in the tropics. There was sunshine, cocktails, palm trees. Girls in bikinis, lads in board shorts.

  ‘Portstewart?’ Ward said sarcastically.

  ‘Donegal surely.’

  In the desk drawers was a car key for an Audi A3. O’Neill lifted it. There was McCarthy’s old post, a couple of bills, some bank statements. He scanned the columns before putting them in the evidence bag.

  Downstairs Craig was on the sofa.

  ‘Some good photos up there.’

  ‘Yeah, last summer, we went to Miami Beach.’

  ‘I might have to start saving. Listen, we’re gonna take a few things with us here. And we’ll need to talk to you again, probably this week.’

  The two detectives walked back to the car in silence. O’Neill put the evidence bag in the boot before climbing behind the wheel and slamming the door shut. Ward was in the passenger seat, staring out at the grey afternoon.

  ‘What do you reckon?’ O’Neill said.

  ‘He’s full of shit.’

  O’Neill nodded in agreement. ‘Yip. Full of shit.’

  He started the car and pulled on to the Ormeau Road, heading back to the station.

  At Musgrave Street the Press Briefing Room was packed. Reporters were squashed into rows of plastic chairs, pens hovering, Dictaphones at the ready. There were TV cameras at the back, local news only, the big boys not interested. Wilson stood at the podium, like a headmaster addressing an assembly. Behind his head, the new badge of the PSNI.

  O’Neill and Ward slipped into the back row to watch the performance.

  The Chief Inspector cleared his throat, calling the room to attention. He was stately, polished, reassuring. The death of Jonathan McCarthy was a tragedy. No stone would be left unturned. Perpetrators would be brought to justice. It was calm, assertive, what people liked to hear. Wilson affected a serious concern, like he didn’t want to be standing there, having to talk about something like Tomb Street. It was an unsavoury job, that’s right, but someone had to do it. O’Neill saw the confidence and the command of the room. He felt like he was watching an actor.

  He closed his eyes and was back at the McCarthy house, in the father’s study, talking to the parents. He looked round the room with its collection of trophies, the rugby caps, the framed shirts. He watched the da again, his clothes struggling to cover his prop’s build. He listened to him, the anger, the disappointment, the sense that the son didn’t measure up.

  O’Neill opened his eyes and pictured his own da, rolling in from the Chester with a skin full on him. He’d inherited a building company and taken ten years to piss it away. It was someone else’s fault, always was – the customers, the suppliers, the bank manager. O’Neill would hear him rattling round the kitchen, looking for more drink. He would creep down the stairs and stand by the door.

  ‘The O’Neills, son,’ his da slurring. ‘We were the Kings of Ulster. That was us. We were something, a big noise … all those red hands (hiccup) … on the walls like...’

  His father would sway, pointing the finger, turning nasty.

  ‘I see yous looking at me, you and your ma. We’ll let me ask you something – what are you gonna amount to, eh, son? Nothing. Wait till you see. Sweet fuck all.’

  O’Neill would slide upstairs to bed, leaving the auld boy nursing his wounds.

  In Musgrave Street Wilson called the press conference to a close, throwing out another sound bite about police commitment, the new Northern Ireland and the bright tomorrow they were all working towards together.

  Walking out, O’Neill turned to the DI. ‘What do you reckon?’

  Ward smiled wryly. ‘Full of shit.’

  O’Neill snorted quietly, and followed the DI upstairs.

  EIGHT

  It was dark out, almost eight and the streets were dead.

  Marty Toner crouched in the shadow of the alley, staying back, out of the glare of the street lights. He’d been there an hour, staring at 46 Rutland Street, Tierney’s ma’s place.

  That afternoon he’d done the circuit, using a BMX nicked from a garden off the Ravenhill Road. Tierney slept in three different spots – Stewart Street, Cooke Street, Rutland Street. The girlfriend, the bit on the side, the mother. He was smart and trusted no one, constantly changing it up, never the same house two nights on the trot. Marty spent the day weighing each location up, thinking about hiding places, escape routes, the potential for witnesses.

  He needed to do Tierney and slip away without anyone seeing him. He’d thought about a silencer for the Browning, like something off James Bond, but knew he was dreaming. Marty had stashed the gun round the back of the Maxol, worried about the peelers doing a random stop and search and finding it.

  Behind the wheelie bin in the entry, he made a decision – Rutland Street.

  Once a week, sometimes twice, Tierney stayed with his ma. He used it as a stash house for whatever gear or money he happened to be holding that week. Marty considered stealing it, making the whole thing look like robbery. It was stupid though; too risky, too greedy, too much arsing about. No, it had to be simple – come from nowhere, put a bullet in him, then vamoose.

  Rutland Street wasn’t perfect but it was the best of the bunch. He could lie out of sight, wait for Tierney to show. The front door was twenty yards. Marty would come out of the dark, be there in seconds, gun at his side. He thought about what he’d say – ‘This is for Petesy’, ‘Your turn dickhead’, something like that. He shook his head, reminding himself this wasn’t Hollywood and he wasn’t Bruce Willis or one of them other clowns. Plus what if Tierney didn’t die, or at least lived long enough to speak to someone, to finger him for it. Like everything else, Marty thought, the best idea was to keep your mouth shut and your head down.

  He looked at his phone. It was getting on for nine, time to go. Marty jogged to the far end of the entry where it led into Balfour Avenue. He lifted the BMX from between two bins, pulled up his hood and headed out into the night.

  ‘This is a load of balls.’

  Locksey stared at the scratch card, coin in hand, shaking his head. Marty sat opposite on an upturned milk crate, smoking a fag. They were round the back of the Maxol, waiting. Every two minutes Marty looked at his watch and shook his head.

  ‘Three cherries, fuck sake, never four.’ Locksey said, tossing the card. ‘It’s like they dangle the carrot, just so
they can snatch it away.’

  Marty was half listening, his mind back at Rutland Street, rehearsing things, running over options.

  Locksey looked towards the main road, his head swivelling.

  ‘Where the fuck are they?’

  They’d been there twenty minutes and there was no sign of the gear. No girl pushing a pram, no kid on his bike, no taxi slowing, waving them over. Marty took a deep draw against the cold and looked at his phone – 9.22.

  ‘It’s bad business,’ Locksey said. ‘Folk are waiting to score, get their night going. We don’t show they’ll just go somewhere else.’

  ‘Calm down and shut up,’ Marty said.

  He’d had the crew eight months – him, Locksey and Wee Anto. Locksey was on the money, Wee Anto the gear. Marty touched nothing, something he’d learned from watching Tierney. You sat back and watched, let others take the risk.

  ‘Here,’ he said, flicking the lit cigarette at Locksey.

  ‘And where the fuck’s Wee Anto? He some kind of part-timer?’

  Anto was at the same place he always was – the Golden Fry, feeding the puggie.

  ‘It’s ball freezing out here,’ Locksey said, eyes narrow, teeth gritted. ‘Bet Tierney’s not out in this. Probably at home, sipping a beer, getting his knob sucked.’

  Anto rounded the corner. Fourteen years old and full of swagger.

  ‘A’right, dickheads.’

  Marty watched the two of them every weekend, blowing everything they made. With Locksey it was clothes – Diesel, Firetrap, Lacoste. You never saw him without a label. What Wee Anto didn’t gamble he spent on his Xbox. ‘Call of Duty’, ‘Grand Theft Auto’, ‘Gears of War’ – the more violence, the better.

  The three heads turned as a black Porsche purred into the garage and sidled up to a petrol pump. A young guy in his twenties got out and started filling up. In the passenger seat was a girl with long blonde hair and high cheekbones, pouting as she applied lipgloss in the mirror.