by Matt McGuire
Sam stepped forward and put her face against his. She kissed him, a sense of desperation, of hunger, of need. He put his hand to the back of her head. Sam pulled away, wincing.
‘Stitches, remember.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’ Sam sniffed. ‘Chow mein?’
‘Afraid so.’
Sam smiled, taking a step back and shedding her coat. It fell to the floor. She didn’t pick it up but instead turned and walked towards the bedroom.
Afterwards, they lay together, their legs intertwined. At last Sam spoke.
‘That was easier than I’d thought.’
‘Were you expecting resistance?’
‘Not really.’
She lay there, O’Neill behind, arms round her.
‘So you gonna ask what happened?’ she said.
‘Last night?’
‘No. I mean with us.’
O’Neill didn’t speak.
‘Like where I went? Why I never called you?’
‘I figured you had your reasons.’
O’Neill could smell her hair, the cleanliness of her shampoo. It brought him back to her apartment, to a year ago and the few nights he’d stayed.
‘And what about now?’ Sam said. ‘You want to know why I’m here?’
‘I figure you have your reasons.’
O’Neill thought about Madrid Street, knowing it had rattled her. He wondered if that was the only reason she had come, or if there was more.
Sam unwrapped his arms and wriggled free, sliding out of bed.
‘Is that it then?’ he teased. ‘Got what you wanted?’
‘Yip,’ she said, smiling. ‘Kitchen. Water.’
O’Neill watched her walk out, her slender hips and square shoulders. From the kitchen came the sound of cupboards being opened, a tap running until the water was cold. She came back with a glass and offered him some.
‘I’d sack the maid if I were you.’
‘Too late. She walked out.’
Sam laughed and took the water back. ‘So tell me, Detective, what have you been doing for twelve months?’
‘You know me,’ he said. ‘Different bird every night.’
‘Aye, you wish. Your divorce through?’
‘Why? You about to propose?’
‘Unlikely, sailor. She take half?’
‘Pretty much. Still, half of nothing …’
Sam lay back, breath held as her head touched the pillow. ‘A divorced detective. Talk about a cliché. All you need is a drink problem.’
‘I’m working on it.’
Silence fell.
After a while O’Neill spoke. ‘What about you then?’
‘What about me?
‘Fellas?’
‘Maybe. Why do you want to know?’
‘I’m a detective. Can’t help myself.’
Sam smiled, deciding whether to tell. ‘A solicitor, a footballer and a barman.’
‘Sounds like the start of a joke.’
‘Aye, a bad one.’
They lay listening to the night outside. Taxis tooted horns, cars climbed the hill, drunk students on their way into town. Sam ran her hand across O’Neill’s chest, lingering over the holy medal that hung round his neck.
‘Who’s this then?’
‘St Michael.’
‘You’re a bit old to be an altar boy.’
O’Neill didn’t speak.
‘One of God’s good soldiers,’ she teased.
‘If you say so.’
They lay for a while, each of them lost in their thoughts.
‘Last night,’ Sam said. ‘It could have been really bad.’
She paused, remembering how close she’d been. The four on two, her partner going down, the distress call. After A & E she’d gone home and tried to sleep. She’d managed three hours, waking at eight with a migraine, unable to get off.
Lying there, Sam hesitated, unsure about telling him, about letting him in. She sniffed and felt a tear welling up, but forced it down.
‘I was scared.’
‘Nothing wrong with that.’
‘I mean really scared. I though it was Game Over.’
O’Neill heard her sniff but didn’t look at her.
‘We had this talk,’ she said, ‘back at Police College, for female cops. Dawn Bradley was a Chief Inspector, ex RUC, shot by the Provos in the late eighties. I was expecting all sisterhood and solidarity, you know, the usual stuff. She closes the door and stares us down. I don’t care what it is, she says, I don’t care what you’re dealing with – a dead pensioner, a dead child, a dead baby – you do not cry. You hear me? YOU-DO-NOT-CRY. One of the lads cries, he gets a pat on the back. The big hero, what a heart, cares so much. If you cry, that’s it. Your credibility’s gone. For ever.’
Sam fell quiet, the story hanging over them. O’Neill felt like he should speak, that he should share something, open up, tell her about last night, about the panic he’d felt when he heard the distress call, the relief when he saw her, what he felt watching her in the back of the wagon. She needed to hear it, needed to hear something, needed more than just a friend, a colleague she could sleep with when the fancy took her. He paused for a second, searching.
‘How’s Brian Stout?’ he said, the best he could do.
‘Cuts and bruises. Nothing major.’
Sam closed her eyes and lay still. He thought she’d fallen asleep until her voice came out of the darkness.
‘When did you know?’ she said.
‘Know what?’
‘That you wanted to be a peeler?’
‘Dunno,’ he said, dodging it. ‘You?’
‘I was ten. We were living in this semi in Knockbreda. There was a family next door. The Morrisons. I used to play with their daughter, Carrie. Then suddenly my mother wouldn’t let me. It was the da. You could feel him, looking at you, you know? No one in the street liked him, he might have been inside at one stage, I’m not sure. Anyway, he was fond of the bevvy and used to knock Carrie’s mum about. One night my mum called the cops. They dragged him out, kicking and screaming. He threatened all sorts. There was this one peeler, a woman, she strode across the garden and helped wrestle him to the floor. When they finally got him in the wagon she came back to get her hat after it had been knocked off. I was at my bedroom window. I remember she pulled her hat down, real low, almost covering her eyes. She looked at me and nodded, like that was that, job done.’
O’Neill smiled. Sam adjusted her legs beneath the duvet.
‘I wanted to be her. To do what she’d just done.’
O’Neill lay in the dark, not moving.
‘Your turn,’ she said, poking him with an elbow.
He paused for a second, moaning quietly, like he was drifting off.
‘Did you hear any of that?’ she said, playfully angry.
‘Mmmmmm.’
‘Honest to God.’
O’Neill kept his eyes closed. ‘Hats … gardens … mmm.’
In the dark Sam slid further below the covers, nestling against him, allowing herself a quiet smile.
O’Neill was woken by a sound and looked up to see Sam getting dressed in the dark. He propped himself on one elbow, still groggy.
‘What time is it?’
‘Half five,’ she said.
He allowed his head to collapse on to the pillow. ‘You want a shower or something?’
‘You joking. In that bathroom?’
Sam was dressed in two minutes. She grabbed the glass of water and drained it before leaning over and kissing him on the mouth.
He reached up for her but she’d pulled away and was moving towards the door.
‘I’ll see you later.’
O’Neill fought the urge to ask what her plan was, tomorrow, the next day, the weekend. Instead he lay still, smelling her hair on the pillow, listening as the front door opened and closed.
He stayed in bed among Sam’s smell, the fragrance of her skin that lingered on the pillow beside him. An
idea struck him and O’Neill swung out of bed and headed for the shower.
It was 6.42 a.m. when O’Neill thundered on Peter Craig’s apartment door. He’d waited outside, catching the main door as another tenant was leaving.
Craig answered in his boxers and a T-shirt, still half asleep.
‘Sorry, Peter,’ he lied. ‘Did I wake you?’
‘Eh, yeah.’
‘Listen, I was just passing and something popped into my head and I wanted to stop in. Do you have a minute?’
O’Neill walked into the flat, not waiting to be asked. Craig stepped aside, still in a daze, barely thinking. He waited while Craig went to the bedroom to put on a pair of jeans.
‘Listen,’ O’Neill shouted. ‘This has been niggling away at me and I just wanted to clear it up before moving on.’
Craig came out, eyes bleary.
‘Drugs.’
‘Drugs?’ the flatmate said, like it was a new concept.
‘Look, you don’t need to worry. These days everyone is doing something. A bit of blow, the odd E, a wee line of coke.’
Craig shook his head.
‘Come on,’ O’Neill joked. ‘You’re telling me you and Jonathan McCarthy have never been offered? A wee try. To see what it was like.’
Craig raised his eyebrows and shook his head. ‘No, not us, just not into it.’
‘’Cause you know we’re about to get the pathologist report back. You ever seen one of those?’
‘No.’
‘Amazing things. They can tell you what your last meal was. How much you had to drink. If there was anything else in your system …’
He let the thought hang. Craig held firm, shaking his head.
‘Me and Johnny, we just drank.’
‘You guys were best mates right?’
‘Aye.’
‘Lived together.’
‘Aye.’
‘Went out a lot.’
‘Aye.’
‘So if he was doing anything you’d definitely know about it?’
‘Yeah. But like I said, it was just drinking.’
O’Neill sighed, looking round the flat in mock confusion. ‘You see, I’ve been in a lot of flats, guys in their twenties, young fellas. And I’ve never seen a place as tidy as this.’
‘We liked it that way.’
‘Really.’
‘Yeah.’
‘So it’s not like you were tidying up, trying to hide anything when you knew we’d be coming round?’
‘Why would I do that?’
O’Neill produced his mobile phone and started scrolling through his numbers.
‘Tell me, Peter, you ever seen a police dog in action?’
Craig shook his head, less sure of himself.
‘They’re amazing. Even if there’s been the tiniest amount of something, even if folk have cleaned, hoovered, wiped things down, disinfected, they’ll still get it.’
O’Neill paused and looked up from his phone, giving Craig a chance to speak.
Silence.
He pretended to press the call button and put the handset to his ear.
‘Paul. DS O’Neill here. Where are you at just now?’
A pause.
‘The Ravenhill? Great. Listen I’m at Bell Towers, top of the Ormeau. I need you over here with Tommy?’ O’Neill paused. ‘Right. See you in a few minutes.’
He looked up at Craig, a serious expression on his face.
‘You see, Peter. Lying to a police officer is a serious offence. So is obstructing an investigation. We’re talking jail time.’
Craig looked pale, like he wasn’t feeling well.
‘You ever been to Maghaberry?’
Silence.
‘Not a nice place. You can fight though, right?’
O’Neill paused.
‘It’s the stabbings you gotta watch out for. Them boys hunt in packs. One squares up to you, his mate’s behind you … tea-bagging they call it. ’Cause they put so many holes in you that’s what you end up looking like.’ O’Neill shook his head. ‘Nice middle-class boy like you. In with all those hoods. Tigers Bay, Turf Lodge, the Shankill Road. All of them looking at you. You can feel the hatred – your money, your grammar school, your university degree … I wouldn’t like to say they’d come after you, but you know, human nature and all.’
O’Neill’s phone rang. Ward.
He lifted it to his ear and answered.
‘You downstairs, Paul. Dog ready? I’ll come down and let you in.’
‘Listen,’ Craig said, suddenly desperate. ‘We might have done a wee bit.’
‘A wee bit of what?’
‘Just coke.’ Craig fell silent and looked away.
‘Keep talking,’ O’Neill said.
‘I don’t know anything else.’
‘Where did you get it?’
‘I dunno. Johnny always got it.’
‘Always?’
Craig realized his mistake. ‘Just once or twice I mean. At the weekends.’
O’Neill stared at him, letting the silence do the work. The boy looked away, unable to take it.
‘So why did you lie?’
‘Because of his mum and dad. I didn’t want them knowing. With Johnny being dead and all.’
‘What else have you lied about?’
‘Nothing, I swear.’
‘Who did you score off?’
‘I dunno.’
O’Neill glared.
‘Honestly, I don’t.’
‘How long you been doing it?’
‘Saturday was the second time.’
O’Neill didn’t believe him. ‘You have any gear in the flat now?’
Craig shook his head. ‘No. We used it all Saturday.’
‘You’re going to need to make a statement. Come down to the station later.’
Craig nodded like the world was about to land on him. O’Neill turned and headed for the door.
‘What about the dog then?’ Craig said, suddenly remembering.
‘Give him a biscuit when he gets here.’
EIGHTEEN
It was two days and uniform hadn’t seen Toner anywhere. O’Neill pulled the file from the computer, wondering how hard they’d been looking.
He read the kid’s record, details coming back – the addresses, the convictions, the serial offending. He was a small-time dealer from the Markets. His mate had got his knees done the year before and O’Neill had picked him up as a possible witness. He’d pressed him about punishment beatings, dangling revenge, getting your own back, sticking it to those bastards. Toner looked at the bait, gave it a sniff and walked away. O’Neill didn’t blame him. It was the smart play and, in his shoes, he’d have done the same.
On paper Marty Toner had the classic juvenile record. Shoplifting, theft, burglary. Consumerism and commerce. Possession of a class B, possession with intent, onwards and upwards. Next stop would be Hydebank, then Maghaberry where he’d be in with the big boys.
O’Neill read the list of convictions, pausing at the bottom.
Nothing for 2005. The last twelve months.
He checked if a page was missing, or if Toner had been locked up. He hadn’t. There were two possibilities – either he’d gone straight or he’d gone serious. O’Neill knew which he’d put his money on.
At the top of the file was an address. O’Neill wrote it down and grabbed his coat.
Outside a grey sky emptied itself on to grey buildings, while grey faces hustled in out of the rain. Brollies were up, heads pulled into collars.
On the drive over, O’Neill tried Catherine’s mobile. He needed to find out about Sarah’s birthday and check about the present. The call went through to answerphone but he hung up. He thought about calling Sam but it didn’t feel right immediately after trying Catherine.
The bell was broken at Toner’s house. O’Neill pounded on the door and, after a minute, a woman appeared. It was after eleven and she was in her bathrobe, her eyes black where her mascara had run while she slept.
; ‘Mrs Toner?’
‘Who’s asking?’
‘DS O’Neill. Musgrave Street.’
‘Oh aye?’
‘I’m looking for your son.’
‘What’s he done now?’
O’Neill could smell the drink-sweats off her. She looked rough, the shakes in the post.
‘When was the last time you saw him?’
She shrugged, uninterested.
‘Mrs Toner …’
The woman glared at him, thinking about her bed. ‘I’ve no idea where the wee shit is. Now if you don’t mind …’
She slammed the door, leaving O’Neill on the step. He pulled out a card and thought about putting it through the letterbox, before shaking his head.
In the car, O’Neill got out his mobile and started calling. He heard Ward – you’re only as good as your informants. He tried mothers, daughters, girlfriends, everyone he had. They all had sons, boyfriends, brothers, all of them out there, all going buck mad. Sometimes he was the only person who knew where they were. After twenty minutes, he learned Marty was riding a ‘wee slut’ called Becky Walters who lived off the Ravenhill.
O’Neill ran the name and got an address. He had a Land Rover meet him at the location and sent two peelers round the back, in case he tried to bolt.
Becky Walters was sixteen, and answered the door holding a cigarette, trying to act casual. After a minute protesting he wasn’t there, Martin Toner walked down the stairs and gently pushed her aside. O’Neill figured he’d checked the back and seen the uniforms in the entry. Toner looked older than he remembered, his eyes tired, his face weathered.
On the way to Musgrave Street the boy didn’t speak. He stared out the car window, at the rain teeming down, the city streets rolling by.
At the station O’Neill put him in a cell and went to see Ward, explaining about the CCTV. The DI remembered Toner from Laganview. Both them agreed it was a shot in the dark, but figured what the hell.
Interview Room 2 was bare but for a wooden desk and three plastic chairs. O’Neill ignored the recording equipment and took a seat opposite Toner.
Across the table Marty slumped in his chair, already retreating inwards. O’Neill watched him act out the inconvenience, the mild disdain at having his day interrupted. He sat opposite and opened Toner’s file, making a pretence of ignoring him. Ward hovered in the background, leaning against the wall.
