by Matt McGuire
‘DI Ward. Musgrave Street.’
A suspicious nod. ‘You’re a long way from home, Detective.’
‘He was an ex-colleague.’
‘Yeah. I heard he was police.’
‘Hugh Rafferty called me,’ Ward said, leaving out the part about staying away.
‘Right. Tom Morris,’ he said, offering his hand.
‘So what have we got?’
The traffic officer passed over the clipboard. Ward looked at the pro-forma documents, the same for every RTA. Morris had a neat hand and had taken his time. He probably figured a bunch of cops would be coming behind him.
Ward read off the measurements and the description of the road. ‘No skid marks,’ he said.
‘No.’
‘So he drove straight into a tree.’
‘It happens. Suicides mostly.’
Ward shot a glance.
‘They normally don’t wear seat belts though.’ Morris backtracking. ‘No skid marks, might be brake failure. Or heart attack. Apparently it’s like being stabbed. Folk press down, thinking they’re on the brake. They’re off the road before they know it and it’s bang, lights out.’
Ward glared.
‘Sorry.’
The DI stepped forward, keeping the clipboard. Morris watched him walk towards the Saab. Ward leaned into the car, smelling the Old Spice that Pat had worn ever since he’d known him. He noticed two teeth on the floor.
‘What about the airbags?’ Ward said, studying the car.
‘Never went off. We’ll look at it. Manufacturer’s fault maybe.’
There was blood on the steering wheel from where Kennedy’s head had impacted. He stood for a second, thinking about the state of Pat’s heart. He’d never said anything. Still, he could have been on death’s door and you wouldn’t know. Ward wondered if he could have had a stroke. There one minute, gone the next. The post-mortem would tell.
He walked to the back of the car and looked at the bumper. There was a dent in the middle. Ward stopped and leaned down. How do you damage your rear bumper driving into a tree? He stood up and looked around. What was Kennedy doing here anyway? A rural B road, the middle of nowhere. His house was half an hour away. Ward pictured the Saab being followed. Kennedy spotting the car, pulling off the main road. He imagined someone hitting him from behind, forcing the Saab off the road.
Ward shook his head, handed the clipboard back and walked towards the Mondeo.
Half an hour later he was outside Pat Kennedy’s house. Eileen’s Renault Clio was in the drive, another car behind it, a Ford Focus. Ward looked at the Clio on his way past. It was spotless, immaculate, like Pat’s Saab.
He rang the doorbell and waited, memories coming back of the ‘hat in hands’ he’d done in his career. He remembered the names, the addresses, who it was that answered the door. Ward had known cops that would rather walk into a riot than door knock someone to tell them about their husband, their wife, one of their kids.
A shadow moved behind the door and it opened. Ward looked up, about to speak, but stopped.
Eileen Kennedy stood before him.
‘Jack,’ she said, her eyes filling as she tried to batten the hatches. A tear spilled out, then another. Her shoulders shook and her face crumpled as the woman buried herself into Ward’s chest. He put his arms around her, feeling her shudder with each sob. Ward felt himself start to loosen, but twenty years of policing kicked in and he couldn’t.
The woman gathered herself and stepped back. ‘Would you look at the state of me? Our Pat would have a field day.’
‘He wouldn’t,’ Ward said.
She invited him into the house, showing him to the kitchen where another woman was sitting over a cup of tea. She was in her sixties, short grey hair, combed to the side.
‘This is my sister, Theresa. Theresa, this is Jack. Him and our Pat worked together.’
The woman nodded and smiled. She stood up and reached for her handbag.
‘Listen, I need to get back and get his dinner on. You know what he’s like …’ She smiled apologetically, said she’d call later and headed to the door.
Pat’s widow turned to Ward. ‘Tea?’
‘You got any biscuits?’
The woman laughed. ‘You’re a desperate man, Jack Ward. Let me see what I can do.’
Eileen set about rinsing the pot and boiling the kettle. She took fresh mugs down from the cupboard, working on autopilot. Ward watched, waiting for her to pour before he spoke.
‘Did Pat say we had lunch?’
‘Aye. It was the best form I’ve seen him in in a long time.’
Ward smiled faintly.
‘He was full of beans when he got back. I was waiting on him telling me he wanted to get back on the horse and come out of retirement.’
The DI was happy for her to make fun, glad that there were good memories there to salve the gaping wound that had just opened up in her life.
Eileen smiled ruefully. ‘It doesn’t feel real.’
Ward listened.
‘He just walked out of here three hours ago.’ She pointed to a box on the counter, a chicken pie. ‘That’s his dinner.’
Ward let his eyes fall. ‘Will your sister come back?’
‘Yeah. She only lives down the road.’
He took a breath. ‘Do you know where he was going?’
‘For a walk he said.’
‘And was he feeling all right? You know, no chest pains, dizzy spells, anything like that?’
‘Our Pat, no, he was fine. Sure you know him.’
‘What did the police tell you?’
‘Just that it was a car accident. Didn’t look like there was anyone else involved. He hit a tree apparently. He said there’d be a full investigation but that it was too early to tell. They’re doing the post-mortem tomorrow.’ Her voiced drifted, eyes glancing towards the bin in the corner of the room.
‘What is it?’
‘Ach. It’s nothing, I’m sure.’
Ward raised his eyebrows, insisting. The woman stood and walked to the plastic swing bin. She pushed the lid open and ducked down, her hand inside.
She came up holding torn-up pieces of card. They were pastel pink, covered in flowers.
Ward knew immediately.
‘I found this in the bin last week. I kept it aside, asked him about it. Pat said it was nothing. Just some old Branch guys messing about.’
Ward took the shreds off her and held them in his hand. ‘Was there any more?’
‘Not that I saw.’
He thought about the Stormont Hotel, telling the story about the sympathy cards he’d been sent. Kennedy had listened, drinking it in, not letting on. Ward shook his head, angry but unsurprised.
‘You mind if I take this?’ he said.
‘No. Work away.’
‘Thanks. Listen, I’m going to get on. Belfast – you know what it’s like.’
The woman smiled and walked him to the door.
On the drive back to the city, Ward found himself glancing at the torn card sitting on the passenger seat. As he passed Aldergrove the rain came back on. Below him, Belfast lay shrouded in a thick grey mist. It was after seven and he thought about heading home. At the last minute, he changed his mind, signalled off the motorway and headed for Musgrave Street.
TWENTY
A car backfired and Marty’s eyes snapped open. His first thought, Tierney. His second, run.
He looked round him at the bare floorboards, the dirty mattress, the boarded-up window. It was Stewart Street, the disused house. It was his third night in a row and he knew he was playing with fire. It was only a matter of time before someone saw him, before word got round and they came looking for him.
On the floor next to the mattress lay the Browning, a half-drunk can of Coke and the empty crisp packet from last night’s dinner. He’d slept in his clothes and trainers, just in case. Marty groped his way through to the toilet and took a drink from the tap. At least they hadn’t turned the water off.
/> Back in the bedroom, he checked the crisp packet for leftovers, but he was out of luck. He’d fourteen grand above his ma’s bathroom and here he was, living like a tramp. It would be the Big Issue next.
Marty hadn’t heard any more about Tierney. He knew they were looking for someone but he hadn’t heard his name. It might not mean much. He thought about the peeler the day before, the detective. He remembered O’Neill from last year, when he’d tried to get him to tout about who did Petesy’s knees. He was different to other peelers, to the knuckle draggers in uniform, the ones that got off harassing folk. The cop’s words were still ringing in his ears – ‘everybody touts … that’s how it works … if you want to play with the big boys’.
Marty remembered his three rules – trust no one, don’t do gear, don’t be greedy. They’d worked so far. He’d fourteen grand, which was more than Locksey had, more than Anto. Still, the words went round in his head – ‘everybody touts …’
Marty was on his tod, totally alone. He didn’t trust his crew. Locksey and Anto would sell him out, as soon as they got a better offer. He shook his head. He wanted to speak to someone, someone that could tell him how it worked, what the play was from here.
He picked up his hoody and gave it a sniff. It had been three days since he’d managed to wash and he felt greasy, like he was dirty and, if he didn’t do something soon, he might never get himself clean. Marty rubbed his face, thinking about a shower, some new threads, then he’d decide what to do.
He pocketed the Browning and sidled up to the window. There was a slit of light where the plywood had been nailed to the brick. On the street were a couple of kids, six, maybe seven years old. One was on a bike, trying to pull wheelies.
‘It’s my turn,’ the other one shouted.
His wee mate gave him the finger and pedalled off round the corner.
Marty watched the other one chase after him. He went downstairs to the front window, prising back the plywood and lowering himself into the paved garden. He listened for a second before looking up. Coast clear. He put his hood up and set off.
At number fourteen a shadow moved behind the net curtains. Marty had his head down and didn’t notice. When he got to the corner he turned into Cromac Street and broke into a slow jog.
At JJB Sports he bought a grey tracksuit, identical to his old one. There were no colours, no logos, no distinguishing marks. He bought spare socks and underwear thinking of a place he could stash them for later. The security guard followed him round, eyeing him suspiciously. It was ten in the morning and any wee hood about at this hour was up to no good. Marty felt the eyes on him and wanted to nick something, just to stick it to him. He fought the urge and walked to the counter, pulling out the fifty quid that was left over from dealing on Monday night.
Afterwards he walked to the City Hall and got a bus along the Shore Road to the Grove Baths. No one knew him there and it was too early for any young ones to be up. The bus went along York Street, skirting the New Lodge before a mural announced they’d entered Loyalist Tigers Bay. Kerbstones were painted red, white and blue. There were Union Jacks from every second lamp post. At the back of the bus, Marty pulled his hood up and slid further into his seat.
At the Grove, he paid for a swim and made his way to the men’s changing room. There was a father there, getting his wee boy changed. He was late twenties and had a Glasgow Rangers tattoo at the top of his arm. The kid looked to be two maybe three.
‘Come on, stop messing.’
Every time the da tried to get his underpants on the kid pulled his legs back and laughed.
‘Stop fucking about.’
‘I want a snack.’
‘Get dressed.’
‘No. Snack.’
‘Stevie, come on, stop messing.’
After a few minutes the da conceded and handed over the bag of Wotsits.
Marty went to the corner and started to undress. He wondered if his own da had ever brought him to the swimmers. He looked at the boy with his wet hair, legs not touching the floor, crisps everywhere.
‘Fuck’s sake,’ the da moaned. ‘Would you look at the state of you.’
Marty watched them leave, the father holding the door while the boy passed under his arm. An old boy came from the pool. He was in black Speedos, just finished his lengths. He looked at Marty.
‘All right son?’
‘Dead on.’
‘Few lengths?’
‘Aye,’ Marty said, pretending he could swim.
He’d always had nightmares about drowning. He used to dream he was at the pool, only it was quiet, like he was the only one there. He’d look at the water, wanting to get in but too scared. Then a hand would push him in the back and he’d tumble in, arms flailing. He’d come up, gasping for air, then go under. He’d sink to the bottom, a look on his face of resignation, confirmation, like this was always coming. There was no one else in the dream, no one to reach for him, no one to notice, no one to give a shit.
Marty looked at the door to the pool and thought about walking through it, about jumping in, allowing himself to sink. Apparently drowning wasn’t too bad. The initial pain, the body giving up, you just drifted away. There’d be no more Tierney, no more peelers, no more looking over his shoulder. The corner of his mouth went up and Marty almost smiled.
‘Enjoy it,’ the old boy said, dressed now, heading for the door.
On his own, Marty looked again at the pool door.
‘Stop being a fruit,’ he whispered.
He made himself think about the TV programme a few months ago. People buying houses, young ones, not much older than him. He pictured having a place of his own. Petesy would come round and they’d play ‘FIFA Soccer’ on the PlayStation, just like the old days. He’d get a car. Something flash, blacked-out windows, so no one could see. They would drive about, him and Petesy, looking at things.
Marty stripped off and headed for the showers. The water was warm and he turned it as hot as he could stand. He pumped the soap dispenser, working the lather over his pale body. He stood there for twenty minutes, imagining the water stripping away the worry and fear from the last three days.
Marty thought about the house and the car. It was good. Something to look forward to, something to aim at.
He’d never thought of himself as a criminal. Dealing was what he did, like being a postie or a brickie or something. With this job you used your head. You’d a chance to make some real dough. He thought about the cops running round trying to arrest hoods. Or worse the Provies, baseball-batting people they caught selling dope. He wondered how come they never went after the customers? The students in Queen’s who spent their whole lives skinning up and smoking their brains out. Or the Lisburn Road crowd, their Beemers and their BlackBerrys, snorting coke and talking shite till five in the morning. It was fucked up. Like folk had no idea what to do, so they just picked on the hoods, ’cause no one gave a shit about them, and you could arrest a few tracksuits, throw them in Hydebank and pretend you were doing something about it.
After the shower, he got dressed, allowing his imagination to run away – no more Holy Lands, no more freezing your balls off, no more being treated like you were a piece of shit. The Tierneys of this world – that was where it was at, that was where you wanted to be.
Marty pictured himself with a girl. She’d be older, in her twenties, not some wee slut that would let you ride her for a few tokes on a spliff. She’d be smart like Petesy. He could talk to her, tell her stuff. They’d make plans, go away somewhere, on a plane even, somewhere sunny. She’d know where the money came from but wouldn’t care. She’d understand it was supply and demand, that he was playing the cards he’d been dealt.
Marty found himself getting dried and slowly smiling to himself.
He put his hood up as he walked out of the Grove leisure centre. The cold air bit his skin and it felt good, like he was on his feet again, another round in him.
He had his old clothes in plastic bag and stuffed them into the f
irst bin he saw. Nearby a pensioner eyed him suspiciously while his dog pissed against a shopfront.
Marty waited at the bus stop, wondering whether Petesy had gone into the Tech that morning. He thought back to the night that he’d been done. The two men taking it in turns to smash his knees, Tierney watching, orchestrating things. Petesy had screamed, begged them to stop. Afterwards, he lay there crying, the tears and snot covering his face like a two-year-old.
Marty had got off the ground and gone over to him. ‘It’s OK, Petesy. I’m here.’
‘Go away,’ he’d moaned, crying.
‘Nah. Listen, it’ll be all right, the ambulance is coming.’
‘Leave me alone.’
‘Nah, wise up now.’
Petesy had turned away, his voice low. ‘Just go away.’
Marty heard the sirens and saw the blue lights of the ambulance pulling on to the waste ground. There was a peeler wagon behind it so he ran to the fence and hid there. He’d watched them lift Petesy on to a stretcher and load him into the ambulance. He felt his nose start to run and then there were tears, running down his face.
Waiting at the bus stop, Marty sniffed and rubbed his sleeve under his nose. He looked up, saw a payphone across the street. The handset smelled like cigarette smoke and stale breath. He dropped a pound into the slot and dialled the number he’d memorized from the day before. It rang twice before it was picked up at the other end and a voice said, ‘DS O’Neill.’
TWENTY ONE
Ward walked into Musgrave Street feeling like he hadn’t slept. After seeing Pat Kennedy’s wife he’d come in and spent six hours trawling through everything they had on McCann. Criminal record, case files, interview notes. Hard work in lieu of honest emotion. He’d gone home at midnight, exhausted and bleary-eyed.
Doris was on the front desk, an overweight woman in her fifties. Her husband had been RUC, survived a gun attack by the Provos, only to die of cancer six months later. Doris was civilian support staff and she’d been at Musgrave Street longer than the furniture.
‘Morning, Jack.’
‘Doris.’
‘You misbehaving again?’
