by Matt McGuire
‘They’re coming at three.’
‘Who landed it?’ O’Neill said casually.
‘Ronnie MacPherson.’
He shrugged, one solicitor as bad as another.
‘See you up there.’
O’Neill closed the car door, leaving Ward on his own, staring out at Musgrave Street car park.
Kearney and Larkin were in CID when O’Neill walked in. They pulled their feet from their desks and busied themselves.
‘Flat out then,’ he said.
O’Neill pulled a black notebook from his drawer. In the back was a list of phone numbers. He ran his finger down, searching, finding what he was looking for.
Kearney stood up from his desk. ‘I’m away to drain the weasel.’
O’Neill watched him leave the room before picking up a case file and handing it to Larkin.
‘Run this up to the Chief’s office, would you?’
Larkin took the folder, asking what his last slave died of.
‘Laziness,’ he said, watching the detective leave the room.
O’Neill reached for the phone and dialled the number.
‘Public Prosecutor’s Office.’
‘Ronnie MacPherson, please.’
‘Can I ask who’s calling?’
‘DS O’Neill. Musgrave Street.’
The phone went silent for ten seconds before a middle-aged Scottish voice picked up. ‘Detective,’ MacPherson said. ‘It couldn’t wait until three o’clock?’
‘I don’t think so.’
The solicitor picked up the tone. ‘Go on.’
‘Not here. Meet me in Bewley’s, ten minutes.’
***
O’Neill sat at a table watching pensioners slurp tea and gossip about their neighbours. It was almost two and lunch was tailing off as folk headed back to work. Bewley’s was near Musgrave Street, but far enough so as not to be seen.
O’Neill watched as Ronnie MacPherson shuffled between tables. He was in his forties with wire-frame glass and a mop of dishevelled hair. MacPherson looked doddery but knew criminal law like no one else in the PPS. He slid into the chair, dumping the case file on the table.
‘A busy man,’ O’Neill said.
‘In this game? You kidding? So what’s with Bewley’s and all the cloak and dagger?’
O’Neill looked at MacPherson, still only half sure. ‘I’m going to help you dodge a bullet.’
It took five minutes to brief him on Tomb Street, to talk about Mullan, his previous, his motive for going after McCarthy. O’Neill spoke about the DNA, about the footage of the cloakroom, the jackets beside one another.
‘You told Wilson?’
‘Doesn’t care. We’ll have our charge and our clearance. It’ll be your problem then.’
MacPherson sat back from the table. ‘So it goes all the way to court only to be thrown out at the last minute. Doesn’t make my boss look good. Doesn’t make me look good.’
‘What about stalling this afternoon?’ O’Neill said. ‘Say you want to look at the evidence, review the footage from the club, buy us some more time.’
MacPherson nodded. ‘The Chief Inspector won’t be happy.’
‘He’ll get over it.’
MacPherson thought for a second. ‘Why you doing this?’
O’Neill smiled. ‘Ours is not to reason why …’
MacPherson laughed.
O’Neill looked at his watch. ‘I need to get back. See you around.’
SIXTEEN
Petesy dreamed he was holding Sinead Quinn’s hand. They were lying on his bed, still in their clothes, for the moment anyway. His granny was out at the bingo and they’d the house to themselves. Petesy leaned forward and started kissing the girl. She arched her back, coming up to meet him. He ran his hand through her hair, cradling her head, feeling the curve of her neck. Sinead pulled away from him, putting her hands to her waist, pulling her top off before lying down and raising an eyebrow. Petesy leaned over, his hand on her stomach, moving upwards, working his way—
Downstairs a fist pounded on the door.
Petesy opened his eyes and looked round his room.
‘Fuck sake,’ he said, realizing he’d been asleep, that there was no Sinead Quinn, no top off, no raised eyebrow.
Bang, bang, bang – again, as if the house was on fire.
Petesy knelt on the bed, noticing the boner in his boxers. Below he could see Marty on the porch, hammering at the door. He had his hood up, and was looking up and down the street, like one of them meerkats.
Petesy came downstairs and turned the bolt.
‘All right, calm do—’
Marty was in.
‘What took you so long?’ he snapped, pushing Petesy aside and snibbing the door. He marched into the living room and sidled up to the window. He looked through the net curtains, craning his neck to see both ends of the street.
Petesy screwed his face up.
‘What’s going …’
Marty was past him, bounding up the stairs, two at a time.
‘I’ve no classes this morning,’ Petesy called. ‘In case you’re … checking up.’ His voice faded, realizing Marty wasn’t listening.
Upstairs, he found his mate in the bathroom, stripped to the waist, head beneath the tap. Marty straightened and looked in the mirror. His eyes were two slits, like he hadn’t slept. Petesy had climbed the stairs too fast and his knees were throbbing. He headed to his bedroom to sit, Marty following.
‘What’s going on then?’
Marty marched in and handed him a pair of brown envelopes.
‘What’s this?’
‘Application forms.’
‘For what?’
‘Passports.’
Marty was up at the window, looking up and down the street before pulling the curtains closed. He went back to the bathroom, squinting at the alley that ran along the back. He moved frenetically, unable to stand still.
‘Come on,’ Marty said, marching back into the bedroom.
‘Come on what?’
‘Start writing.’
‘Passport applications for who?’
‘Me and you.’
‘Where we going?’
‘Enough of the Anne Robinson. Just fill them out.’
Petesy sighed, opened an envelope and pulled out a form. He grabbed his canvas bag from the floor and scrambled for a biro.
Marty seemed to slow when he saw his mate getting on with it. He looked out between the crack in the curtains again, before going to the bathroom and rechecking the back.
Petesy looked at the form, thinking about Marty back at school. When they were ten he’d pronounced reading and writing ‘a load of shit’ and threw a box of pencils at Miss Delaney so that she would send him to the headmaster’s office. Petesy had never asked but he was sure his mate couldn’t read.
‘Middle name?’
‘Francis.’
Petesy wanted to joke, but thought better.
‘Date of birth?’
‘Thirteenth of November 1988.’
‘Address?’
‘Use here.’
Petesy kept his head down and continued writing. His granny hated Marty and would do her nut if she found out. He figured he’d be able to get the post before she saw anything with ‘Martin Toner’ written across the front. As he worked his way down the page his mate unwound a bit, going from manic to just plain wired. Every thirty seconds he was up at the window, peering up and down the street.
Marty sat on the bed and lit a cigarette. Petesy’s granny didn’t allow smoking, but he didn’t say anything, figuring he could take the bollocking when she got home. Petesy continued to fill in the form.
‘So what’s going on?’
Marty looked at the smouldering cigarette. ‘You not heard?’
‘Heard what?’
‘Everyone knows.’
‘I haven’t been out the front door yet.’
Marty took a long drag, pulling smoke into his lungs and holding it. Finally he exhaled
. ‘Someone tried to do Tierney last night.’
‘Tried?’ Petesy said.
Marty shook his head. ‘I fucked up.’
‘How?’
‘It wasn’t my fault. The fucking gun … piece of shit.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ Petesy whispered. ‘What did you do?’
‘You mean, what did I not do?’ Marty paused, feeling like it was some sick joke.
‘It was perfect. I’d sussed it all out, picked my spot. It was dark, quiet, I’d three getaway routes. I waited across from his house, his ma’s place, where he always goes after a few pints. Two frigging hours, sitting there, getting pissed on. No one saw me. The whole time, just watching, waiting. I’d nicked this gun last year from some house off the Ravenhill. The guy was into military history. He had books and posters and old uniforms, a swastika even. Anyway, he had this Browning 9mm that looked pretty new.’
Marty offered the fag to Petesy who shook his head.
‘Anyway, Tierney rocked up the back of one. Got dropped off, the car rolled out and I’m across the street, hood up, scarf round the face, everything. Then I’m six feet away, point blank, can’t miss. He tried to say something and I just point the gun at him and pull the trigger. Fucking thing jams. Can you believe it? Anyway, he comes at me and I just bolted. Some guy at the top of the street tried to nab me, got the hood down, but I got away and took off through the Holy Lands.’
Petesy shook his head. ‘What did I say to you? What did you think you were going to do like?’
Marty stared at him, eyes boring into his skull.
‘Did you think getting Tierney was going to fix my knees?’
Petesy allowed his voice to trail off. He imagined Marty, giving himself a story, wanting to be the big lad, the hero, the great avenger. It was all bullshit.
‘Did they see your face?’
‘Yeah,’ Marty said, before hesitating. ‘No.’ Another pause. ‘Ach, I don’t know.’
Petesy had never seen Marty this tight before.
‘So what’s the plan?’ he asked.
‘I’m outta here. Screw Belfast, screw Northern Ireland, screw everything.’
‘Where you going?’
‘I dunno. Ibiza maybe, or Thailand, or America.’
‘You’ve really thought this through then.’
‘Up yours, Petesy. In case you haven’t noticed I been kinda busy.’
Petesy turned back to the forms on his desk. ‘Look, have you had a think about it? Do you know which one you might go for?’
‘No.’
‘Well, America would be hardest, 11 September and all. They clamped down apparently. Micky Trainer’s cousin was coaching football over there and got deported for not having the right visa.’
‘I’ve got money. I don’t need to coach anything,’ Marty snapped.
‘I’m just saying like.’
‘Ibiza then. We’ll drop some pills, party for a few months, then come back when it’s all blown over.’
‘You think it’ll blow over? You think Tierney’ll just forget? Let slide the fact that you tried to blow his head off?
Marty sat for a moment. ‘Whose side you on anyway?’
‘Look, I’m just saying. Anyway, do you know if that guy really saw your face? ’Cause if he didn’t …’
‘How am I supposed to know what he saw?’
‘Well, your name’s not out there for a start, is it?’
Marty nodded, reluctantly agreeing.
‘It would do to lie low,’ Marty said, stubbing the cigarette out on his trainer. ‘What do you say, our Peter? You fancy a wee trip? Hit Ibiza. A few margaritas, a few señoritas?’
‘Sure,’ Petesy said, turning back to the form in an effort to hide his doubt.
‘Good lad,’ Marty said. ‘Me and you, Petesy, Butch and Sundance.’
Petesy started writing, refusing to look up. Marty checked the windows, front and back, before hovering in the doorway to the bedroom.
‘You eaten anything?’ Petesy said.
‘Nah.’
‘Wait here.’
Petesy went downstairs and returned with a box of Rice Krispies and a carton of milk. ‘Get fired in.’
Marty was on his third bowl by the time Petesy got to the final page of the form.
‘Here, you know this takes six weeks?’
‘What?’
‘I’m telling you. It says here.’
Marty leaned forward and sighed. ‘I’m done then. How you supposed to hide for six weeks?’
The room fell silent. Petesy was unsure whether to ask Marty to sign the declaration at the bottom of the form. He couldn’t bring himself to tell his mate about needing a witness, someone to sign the form, to verify it was legit. Marty sat still, cradling the empty bowl. After a while he set it aside and stretched out on the bed.
Petesy noticed his friend’s eyes slowly closing. He wondered had he slept at all the night before.
‘Marty.’
Nothing.
The duvet was lying in a heap at the bottom of the bed. Petesy picked it up and laid it over his mate.
Marty gave a faint smile, eyes still closed. ‘Don’t be getting in here, you fruit.’
Petesy sat back at the desk and looked at the other form. Every few minutes he got up and looked out the window, just to be sure.
Marty slept for an hour, until the postman pushed the mail through the door and woke him. The clink of the letterbox jerked him awake. He was bolt upright before he realized where he was.
‘Easy,’ Petesy said from his lookout at the window.
Marty smiled and put his head back on the pillow. ‘How the forms going?’
‘Done.’
Marty forced a smile and closed his eyes, wondering what a margarita tasted like.
SEVENTEEN
Ronnie MacPherson came into Musgrave Street and played it to a T. He was cautious, sceptical. He reminded them that DNA wasn’t enough. Juries didn’t like convicting on the forensics; they needed witnesses, probable cause, a story that made sense. MacPherson said he’d have to go to his boss, they’d need more evidence.
In the corner of the room Wilson fumed quietly. When MacPherson was gone, he glared at O’Neill.
‘Lawyers,’ the detective said, head shaking. ‘What can you do?’
Wilson, eyes narrow, lips pursed.
‘Lawyers,’ he echoed, unconvinced. ‘A clever guy that MacPherson, pretty well informed.’ He paused, picturing the headlines, the calls from the Telegraph, the questions about the lack of progress on the case. He’d already rung the Chief Constable the night before, told him they were home and dry.
‘Know something, O’Neill,’ Wilson said. ‘If I smell you within a hundred yards of this … I will send you to the back of beyond. Aughnacloy, Lisnaskea, Cookstown. You take your pick, son. You’ll be arresting sheep the rest of your career. Belfast will be a distant memory. You’ll dream about the days when wee hoods from the Markets spat at you and called you an effing peeler.’
O’Neill offered an innocent shrug and walked out of the Chief Inspector’s office.
When he returned to CID, Larkin was at his desk.
‘What do seven-year-old girls like?’ he said.
Larkin raised an eyebrow.
‘Daughter’s birthday.’
‘Oh,’ he said, robbed of his punchline. ‘I dunno. Barbies and shit.’
‘They still sell them?’
A shrug. ‘There’s a massive toy place at the Abbey Centre. Got everything. One of the wee girls there’ll help you.’
O’Neill worked late, going over Tomb Street, back from the start. He looked at his mobile, thinking about Sam. He didn’t want to hound her and knew she’d probably be rough after the knock on the head.
Uniform were on the street with Martin Toner’s photograph and orders to lift him on sight. O’Neill read over McCarthy’s bank statements and credit card bills, looking at lifestyle. They’d seized a laptop and the IT boys cracked the security on it. There were ph
otos, emails, a search history devoted to Liverpool FC and semi-naked girls. There was work stuff too, business accounts for local companies, names like Speedy Wash, Paradise Tanning, a dozen others. O’Neill made a list and went to the map, looking for connections.
At dinnertime he went outside for a smoke. O’Neill stood in the car park, close to the wall. He thought about Ward in the George, squaring up to Gerry McCann. When he came back in, he went into police records and pulled the file on the murder of the solicitor, McCann’s brother.
5 October 1991. 88 Osbourne Park, South Belfast. Michael McCann arrived home from work at 7.23 p.m. Two gunmen attacked him, firing a total of sixteen shots, all from close range. The victim was struck twelve times – legs, torso, head. He died at the scene. A silver Ford Escort used in the attack was later found burnt out at the bottom of the Shankill Road.
O’Neill scanned the report, looking at the follow-up. Pat Kennedy had led the investigation with David Price providing backup. Ward was a peripheral figure. New to Special Branch. His name appeared on a few of the interviews but not much more. O’Neill remembered Wilson’s warning about Special Branch and how they played by their own rules. He remembered Gerry McCann’s face from the bar earlier, his unswerving belief that the police were involved in his brother’s death.
O’Neill got back just after ten. He lay on the sofa, flicking channels, searching for anything that wasn’t a cooking show or home improvement.
A knock at the door startled him awake. The TV was still on. He looked at his watch, almost twelve. He slid up to the window and peered out, keeping himself out of sight.
Sam Jennings stood outside, hands in pockets, rocking on her feet.
O’Neill moved quickly, clearing the coffee table of empty bottles and the remains of a chicken chow mein. He ran his hand through his hair and smelled his armpits, grabbing a can of deodorant and giving a quick blast before opening the door.
Sam looked up at him, her face pale, a small graze on her forehead. She looked tired and shaken, like she hadn’t slept.
O’Neill stood aside and she stepped into the hall. He closed the door behind her thinking about what to say.
‘You want coffee?’
She shook her head. They stood in the hall, both of them looking at one another. O’Neill was about to speak, ask how was she, what the doctor said …
