by Matt McGuire
O’Neill sighed, knowing that answers rarely fell from the sky. He looked at Kearney. ‘Does Wilson know yet?’
Kearney shook his head.
‘Make sure it stays that way. I’ll go and get our boy Mullan, bring him in, you look at the CCTV, see if you can find him on Tomb Street, if he’s anywhere near McCarthy. Brief me when I get back.’
At the building site for Victoria Square the foreman led O’Neill to an enormous crater – thirty feet deep, the length of a football pitch. It reminded O’Neill of a mass grave, like Auschwitz, Cambodia, one of them places. It was like they were trying to bury the Troubles, entomb it all under some giant shopping centre.
‘Some size,’ the foreman said, joining O’Neill.
Victoria Square was costing £400 million. The big brands were coming, it was a headline news – Ted Baker, Calvin Klein, Tommy Hilfiger. O’Neill pictured the gangs of hoods, the shoplifting bonanza. The billboard declared ‘the biggest property development ever in Northern Ireland’. It was a ‘cathedral to consumerism’ complete with its own glass dome. He wondered if anyone saw the irony.
‘That’s him there,’ the foreman said, pointing to a red hard hat and yellow safety vest. ‘Ronan Mullan.’
O’Neill stood for a moment, watching the man in his twenties, busy splitting breeze blocks with a sledgehammer. He was five foot ten, well built, a tattoo crawling up the side of his neck.
‘What’s he done now?’ the foreman asked, mildly interested.
‘Have a guess?’ O’Neill said, fishing.
‘I wouldn’t know. Drinking? Drugs? Fighting? These guys are all the same, all balloon heads.’
‘You had problems with him before?’
‘No. He reckons he’s a hard lad though. Then again, they all do.’
O’Neill weaved through the site, feeling the eyes on him, the staring. Folk recognized the suit, the haircut, the walk. He liked the attention, liked that they were looking, that they saw he was on deck.
Mullan straightened as he approached and looked at him, face serious. He was covered in dust and had a black eye that was purple going yellow.
‘Ronan Mullan?’
O’Neill got a blank stare, like he didn’t recognize his own name. He showed his warrant card.
‘I need to talk to you.’
Mullan stood his ground, performing for the onlookers. ‘I’m working here.’
‘Not any more.’
Back at Musgrave Street, O’Neill put him in an interview room. He left him to stew for an hour while he sat with Kearney, looking through the CCTV.
They had shots of Mullan entering the club, at the cloakroom, at the bar. He talked to Sally Curran at one stage, standing beside her, shouting over the music. She made aggressive hand gestures. Mullan tried to hold her arm, but she snapped it away and strode off.
‘Doesn’t look good,’ Kearney said, enjoying it.
O’Neill’s eyes narrowed. ‘Any sign of him near McCarthy?’
‘No. Not that I can see.’
‘Is he off camera any length of time?’
‘Drifts in and out. There are blind spots all over the place.’
O’Neill walked to the interview room, put his hand on the door, then pulled back; he’d give him another hour.
It was eleven by the time he walked through and sat down. He’d brought Ward, knowing the DI liked to see things for himself.
The interview room was plain, a two-way mirror down one side, a tape recorder and video camera set up in the corner. Mullan was sitting on a hard plastic chair, arms on the table. Ward hovered in the background, allowing O’Neill to make the running.
‘You never asked.’
‘Huh?’ Mullan said.
‘The whole way, on the site, in the car, back to the station – you never asked.’
‘Asked what?’
‘No, Ronan, asked why,’ O’Neill said. ‘Why are we bringing you in? Why do we want to talk to you? Why do we want you? Normally, guys are curious, but not you. It’s like you already know, like this isn’t a surprise. You’ve been picturing in in your head.’
Mullan stared, feigning boredom.
‘Sorry?’ O’Neill said.
A glare.
‘Nothing you want to ask us?’ O’Neill said.
Silence.
‘OK. I’ll ask you a question, just to get us going. Where were you Saturday night?’
‘Why you wanna know?’
‘Where were you?’
‘Why?’
O’Neill stared at him and waited.
‘I was out.’
‘Where?’
‘In the town.’
‘Where?’
‘Robinsons, McHugh’s, Milk.’
O’Neill didn’t like that he’d volunteered to being in the club. ‘Who were you with?’
‘Mates.’
‘Who?’
‘Devils, Hound Dog.’
‘Who?’
‘Paddy Devlin and Micky Hind.’
‘And what time did you get to Milk?’
‘Dunno.’
‘What time did you leave?’
‘Dunno.’
Mullan smiled. O’Neill glared.
‘We were on it all day. We were blocked.’
‘Did you leave on your own?’
‘Dunno.’
O’Neill’s eyes narrowed. ‘What happened to your eye?’
‘Walked into a door.’
‘Really?’
‘Aye.’
‘When was that?’
‘Dunno.’
‘Tell me about Sally Curran.’
‘What about her?’
‘You still seeing her?’
‘Might be.’
‘You know where she was Saturday?’
‘No,’ he said, lying.
O’Neill stared.
‘Out somewhere.’
More staring.
‘I’m not her keeper.’
‘What do you know about Jonathan McCarthy?’
Mullan paused, looked away. ‘He’s dead.’
‘How’d you know?’
‘I saw the news.’
‘You know him and Sally were friends?’
A shrug.
‘Listen,’ O’Neill said, raising his voice. ‘A guy’s dead, he was a friend of your girlfriend, at the same club as you Saturday, and you’re not in the least bit interested.’
‘He was a wanker. What do you want me to say? Now he’s a dead wanker.’
‘A wanker how?’
‘Kind of guy who goes round trying to nick people’s birds. Talking all sorts of shit. How he wants to go on holiday with them, Miami Beach, Las Vegas, crap like that.’
‘So he was hitting on your bird then?’
‘Never said that.’
Mullan’s eyes shifted, the pieces falling into place.
‘Am I under arrest here?’
‘We haven’t decided.’
‘Lawyer,’ he said, folding his arms.
O’Neill looked up at Ward who was standing behind Mullan, leaning on the wall. The DI looked at the back of the suspect’s head. O’Neill tried to make out his expression, to read his thoughts, but couldn’t.
Afterwards, Wilson was waiting for them in CID. He’d been watching the interview from the next room.
‘Well?’
O’Neill broke it down for him: the DNA match on the victim’s clothing, the flatmate’s statement, the connection with the girlfriend. Then there was the argument with her in the club, plus Mullan’s previous and his family background. Wilson didn’t need any more.
‘Get the Public Prosecutor round. We’ve enough to charge him.’
O’Neill could see the Chief Inspector’s mind whirling – the good PR, the quick result, the speedy justice. He let out a sigh.
‘Problem, detective?’
O’Neill looked round the room. Kearney, Larkin, Ward; all there, all listening. The Chief Inspector had given him a direct order. O’Neill took a breath.
>
‘We don’t have—’
‘We’ve a few loose ends,’ Ward said, interrupting. ‘Be good to tie them up first.’
Wilson looked at the DI.
‘It’s a day’s work. We want to check the footage, make sure we have it watertight before we send it up the line. Mullan’s not going anywhere.’
Wilson looked at O’Neill, then at Ward, knowing he’d nowhere to go. ‘Twenty-four hours. Then I want to see a charge. You understand?’
The two detectives nodded and Wilson left, heading back the third floor.
O’Neill sent Kearney and Larkin to Mullan’s home to conduct a search. They were to recover the clothes he was wearing on Saturday night. He sat at his desk for the rest of the afternoon, typing up the interview, pulling files on both of Mullan’s alibis, Patrick Devlin and Michael Hind. He wasn’t surprised to see they’d been arrested for the fight outside The M Club earlier in the year. Devlin was the class act: charges for possession, assault, criminal damage. In May, he had put a brick through a pub window after being chucked out, steaming.
After six, Kearney and Larkin returned with an evidence bag of Mullan’s clothes.
‘How’d you go?’ O’Neill asked.
‘That was a barrel of laughs.’
‘You get a cup of tea?’
‘Not exactly.’
O’Neill gloved up and went through the bag. There was a pair of jeans, a pink Lacoste shirt and a black leather jacket. In the jeans pocket was an empty fag packet and an old raffle ticket. O’Neill looked at the number – 162.
‘Don’t think he won anything,’ Kearney said. ‘Maybe a stretch in Maghaberry.’
O’Neill didn’t say anything as he put the clothes back and sealed the bag.
‘I’m away to feed my rabbit,’ he said, heading outside.
In the car park he lit up, watching the nightshift about to roll out. They congregated at the back of wagons, sharing jokes, ribbing one another. Behind him the station door opened and Sam Jennings stepped out into the orange floodlights. O’Neill looked up, making eye contact. Sam smiled. He wanted to know if she’d seen his call, if she was working next weekend, if she fancied …
‘Oi, Jennings,’ her partner, Brian Stout shouted, across the car park. ‘Let’s go.’
Sam raised her eyebrows as she hurried past. He watched her lithe runner’s body, saw her adjust her gear before stepping up into the Land Rover. The armoured door shut behind her. As the wagon pulled out through the gates, O’Neill stubbed his cigarette against the wall and headed back into the nick.
He passed Wilson on the stairs, coat on, heading for home. He thought about a comment – What’s for tea? Taking the wife out? – but held back and offered the customary ‘Sir’.
Ward came looking for him and found him in CID.
‘Twenty-four hours then,’ O’Neill said, tossing Mullan’s folder on the desk.
‘Yeah,’ Ward said. ‘I know. Here, listen, are you in tomorrow morning?’
‘Sure.’
‘I need you for a job. Ten o’clock.’
O’Neill waited, expecting more. Ward didn’t speak.
‘Why the mystery?’
‘It’s nothing. I’ll come find you.’
O’Neill nodded and headed back to the CCTV cupboard.
The footage from the club was still loaded up when he sat down. He had a lingering feeling. It was too easy, too obvious, the whole thing.
After two hours he looked at his watch. Eight o’clock – Sarah’s bedtime. He thought about his daughter, the way she used to lie in bed, begging for one more story. He wondered what Catherine had read tonight. When she was three, it was The Gruffalo, always The Gruffalo. She would laugh and ask him if he had purple prickles all over his back.
In the darkness of the cupboard, O’Neill allowed himself a faint smile before turning back to the screen. He pressed play on the control panel and tried to tune in. After ten minutes, he sat back and put his pen down. It was no use; he’d been at it three hours and his eyes were burning. He reached forward and paused the tape, thinking about what he’d get from the Chinese on the way home. He reached for the power button to switch off the monitors but paused, his hand mid-air.
O’Neill stared at the screen. In the corner of the shot was a mirror, which allowed you to see a blind spot near the dance floor. A figure stood next to a pillar, hidden from the camera, but visible in the mirror. It was a boy, late teens, shaved head, hoop earring. He was watching someone, pretending not to, but glancing every few seconds.
O’Neill moved the mouse zooming in, cleaning the image. The picture sharpened and he sat back in his chair allowing himself a wry smile.
‘Marty Toner,’ he said. ‘Well, well.’
He knew Toner from Laganview last year. He was a small-time dealer from the Markets whose mate had been kneecapped. O’Neill closed his eyes, waiting for it to come back – Kenneally … Kirwin … Kennedy, that was it, Peter Kennedy. O’Neill had tracked Marty Toner down and questioned him about both his mate and the kneecapped corpse they found on Laganview the week before. There was no joy. Marty Toner knew what was good for him and had kept his mouth shut.
O’Neill stood and stretched.
‘Marty Toner,’ he said. ‘Long time no see.’
CID was empty when he stepped out of the CCTV cupboard. The shift had turned and Kearney and Larkin had gone home. He was still buzzing after recognizing and remembering Toner. It felt like a compliment, a reminder that he knew the street, that he had a handle on names and faces.
O’Neill sat at his chair. The radio buzzed in the background, control calling out jobs, uniform responding. He sighed, thinking back over the interview with Ronan Mullan. He was casual, cocky even, arrogant. It wasn’t how you did it, not if you were involved. You kept quiet and watched, waiting to see what the police had. If you opened your mouth at all it was to say two words – ‘No comment’. That was the game and everyone knew it.
The evidence bag with Mullan’s clothes was still in the corner, waiting to be sent to the lab. O’Neill put it on the desk, gloved up and took out the jacket. The raffle ticket was sealed in its own bag. Number 162. He shook his head; Kearney had been wrong. It wasn’t a raffle ticket, it was from a cloakroom.
O’Neill went back into the CCTV and rewound the footage. He watched Jonathan McCarthy enter the club, hand his jacket to Lauren Matthews who was lining up at the cloakroom. She handed over the two coats, taking a pair of tickets in return. She walked off in the direction of the bar. O’Neill sat back, allowing the tape to run. It was seven minutes before another person came to check their coat in. He gave a small grunt of satisfaction as the figure of Ronan Mullan appeared and passed a brown leather jacket to the attendant.
‘That’s your DNA transfer.’
Mullan’s barrister would go look for it and, when he found it, he’d blow the charge out of the water. O’Neill’s face softened. Wilson would have to wait for his headline and his quick clearance. He was looking forward to telling him in the morning and thought about quoting Ward, about following the evidence. It might be pushing it.
CID was still deserted when O’Neill returned for his coat. It was after eleven and he had his hand on the light switch. Suddenly the radio in the corner emitted the distress signal. A voice came through, female, panicked.
‘This is 32-88, officer down, Madrid Street. Repeat officer down.’
O’Neill recognized Sam’s voice and felt the ground fall from beneath him.
He ran.
People burst from offices, joining the stampede. Tyres peeled in the car park, the station emptying. O’Neill took the stairs, three at a time. He was in the Mondeo and out the gate. Lights flashing, siren wailing. On the radio he heard Sam.
‘Get back,’ she shouted. ‘Get back.’
O’Neill crossed Queen’s Bridge doing sixty. Traffic swerved, diving for cover. He tore through the gears, engine roaring. He skidded into Madrid Street. A sea of peelers poured from Land Rovers, batons dra
wn. At the far end, a crowd had gathered. Teenagers, hoods up, scarves over faces. The debris was flying – stones, coins, golf balls.
O’Neill scanned faces, desperate to see Sam. He ducked between vehicles, ignoring the clatter of stones, the duty Sergeant ordering the troops. A bottle exploded ten feet away and he suddenly realized he was wearing his suit. He took cover behind a wagon, looked for Sam, needing to see her, to know she was OK.
On the footpath, two officers dragged a limp uniform back from the line. Shouts of ‘Make a space’, ‘coming through’, ‘Officer injured’. O’Neill saw the blonde ponytail, the dark blood seeping from underneath her cap.
He ducked and ran towards them, then took hold of Sam’s uniform, helping pull her to safety. Her eyes swirled, her face afraid. She looked up, recognizing his face. There was a faint smile, then a wince.
‘She was hit on the head,’ someone said. ‘They got Brian Stout and all.’
Round the corner, they lay Sam in the back of a Land Rover. O’Neill stepped away, pacing as they examined her. Slowly, Sam gathered herself. After a few minutes she sat up, holding a compress to the cut on her head. Her first words were ‘Where’s Brian?’
‘It’s all right. We got him out of there.’
‘Is he OK?’
‘They’re looking at him now.’
‘Bastards jumped us. Four on two. Some bogus call to get us down here. It was just an excuse.’
O’Neill stood back, feeling the adrenaline begin to dissipate. He walked to the corner of Madrid Street and watched as the battle lines were drawn for another night. There were a dozen Land Rovers across the street, cops donning riot gear, ritualized confrontation. He turned back and watched Sam regain her composure. She wouldn’t want to seem soft in front of the lads. He wanted to go over, put his arm round her, take her home. Sam resumed her street face, the eyes fixed, the jaw set. O’Neill felt something he’d not felt before, not for Catherine, not for anyone he’d ever been with. He didn’t know what it was, but couldn’t stop staring. Sam looked out from the back of the wagon, the blood drying at her temple.
‘Where’s my riot gear?’ she said.
The duty Sergeant, John Robinson, approached the back of the wagon.
‘How you doing, Jennings?’
‘Fine, sir. Just a scratch. Ready to go.’
