When Sorrows Come

by Matt McGuire

  He indicated and turned into Castlehill Park. He was struck by how suburban it was, how middle class, how peaceful. These people didn’t have a clue, he thought. Despite himself, he liked it. There were no hoods on the corner, no graffiti, no broken glass. He steered the Mercedes through the dark, slipping between the gatepost and the hedge that fronted the house.

  McCann didn’t see the door of the Volvo open, a hundred yards behind him. He didn’t see the figure, keeping low, gun at his side. He didn’t see him sidle up to the hedge, leaning back, listening.

  McCann turned off the engine, the girl stirring, still drowsy. He got out, went round and opened the passenger door.

  ‘Come on you.’

  ‘I fall asleep,’ she said, the voice playful.

  On the footpath, the shadow reached down and cocked the gun.

  McCann heard the noise, threw the girl aside and dived in front of the Merc.

  Down the street, a diesel engine roared round the corner. There were headlights, the figure at the hedge frozen in the full beam.

  Davy Price heard the Land Rover and knew it was the police. He tossed the gun under a parked car and put his hands up.

  Uniform peelers swarmed the street. Two squared up to Price, levelling their weapons. Two ran past, into the drive. McCann was on the ground, the girlfriend trying to figure out how she’d ended up in a bush.

  As the cops lifted her, she kicked out. ‘Get you hands off me.’

  McCann stood silent, palms against brick, allowing events to unfold.

  On the footpath, one of the uniforms patted Price down. ‘He’s clean.’

  ‘Check the garden and under those cars. He threw something.’

  The younger of the two cops walked round the hedge, pulling his torch and scanning the lawn. Two minutes later, he was, on all fours, looking beneath the cars.

  ‘Bingo,’ he announced, reaching into the darkness, coming out with a Glock.

  ‘Cuff him,’ the older peeler instructed.

  ‘Hang on,’ someone said, stepping from the dark. ‘He’s mine.’

  Price recognized Ward’s voice.

  ‘But, sir …’ the uniform began, proffering the gun.

  ‘You deaf, son?’ Ward said, taking the weapon. ‘He’s with me.’

  Ward frogmarched Price away. He waited until they were out of earshot. ‘Where’s your car?’

  ‘Three streets away.’

  ‘Get in it, drive away and don’t come back.’

  ‘So what? You’re playing by the rules now? McCann gets his day in court, gets to walk again, laughing at us.’

  ‘You’re looking at Attempted Murder here so save me the lecture about rules.’

  Ward marched down the street, feeling uniform watching. ‘You’re getting a second chance. Next time, it won’t be me. And, even if it is, I won’t be doing this.’

  ‘A true believer, Jack. Playing it straight, the brand-new day.’

  Ward stopped walking and handed Price his gun. ‘No more talking.’

  The other man nodded, taking gun. He turned and started to walk. ‘See you, Jack.’

  Ward paused. ‘Hopefully not.’

  When Price turned the corner, he turned back to the house. McCann was being cuffed and walked towards one of the wagons. Ward put his head down, heading back to the scene and the rest of the night’s work.

  THIRTY SIX

  Thursday morning, just gone nine, Musgrave Street was quiet.

  Kearney and Larkin were in CID, shuffling paperwork, resisting the first bite. In Ward’s office, the DI sat with O’Neill and Ronnie MacPherson, the Public Prosecutor.

  ‘So you were right about Mullan then,’ MacPherson said. ‘Wrong place, wrong time.’

  ‘Looks that way,’ O’Neill said.

  ‘Well, thanks for the heads up. You stopped me looking stupid.’

  O’Neill smiled, playing dumb. ‘Not sure what you’re talking about.’

  MacPherson turned to Ward. ‘He’s coming on, Jack. Might make it this one.’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  In custody, Tierney and McCann were in their cells. The younger man paced back and forth, unable to touch the breakfast that had been slid through the hatch half an hour earlier. McCann sat still, his plate clean, looking forward to his chat with Ward.

  Just before ten, the front desk called up. The lawyer had arrived and was talking to his clients.

  Ward asked who it was, listening to the answer before hanging up the phone. MacPherson looked at him.

  ‘Tom Clarke?’

  ‘You got it.’

  MacPherson smiled knowingly. Ward looked at O’Neill.

  ‘Clarke used to work with McCann’s brother. They were partners before he was killed. He’s a piece of work.’

  Ward stood. ‘Right then, let’s go talk to some criminals.’

  Phil Kerr was the Custody Sergeant on duty. When the three men walked in he was booking a fourteen-year old hood. He’d been caught shoplifting and stood in his tracksuit, flanked by two peelers.

  ‘It wasn’t me,’ he squawked.

  The Custody Sergeant looked up. ‘Come again.’

  ‘I said it wasn’t fucking me.’

  The Custody Sergeant caught Ward’s eye. ‘You hear this, Jack.’

  Ward paused.

  ‘The wasn’t fucking me defence.’

  Ward shook his head.

  ‘A classic in its time.’

  Ward put his arm round the kid. ‘Listen, son, it’s no comment. That’s what you say.’

  The hood looked back, unsure what was going on.

  ‘Honestly,’ Ward said, looking at the Sergeant. ‘I don’t know what they’re teaching them these days.’

  He led O’Neill and MacPherson to Interview Room B. As they approached, the door opened and Tom Clarke slithered out. He was in his fifties, receding hairline, expensive suit.

  ‘Detective Inspector Jack Ward,’ he said, like they were old friends. ‘I hope you three weren’t eavesdropping there. You know that’s a violation of my client’s human rights.’

  Ward stared at him, unimpressed and unamused.

  Clarke smiled. ‘That’s what I thought.’ He nodded at MacPherson before turning to O’Neill. ‘Detective Sergeant O’Neill? How’s the shoulder these days? I heard it took a while to heal.’

  Clarke had defended Ivan Puslawski, the Polish bouncer who’d put O’Neill in hospital the year before. Clarke smiled, enjoying his audience, feeding off their hate.

  ‘Yeah, you laugh, Tom,’ Ward said. ‘We’ve got your meal ticket in there. How you going to pay the bills when your goose gets ten years, when the golden eggs stop coming?’

  ‘Please, Detective. My client’s innocent. And besides, this is Belfast. You think there’s only one goose in town?’

  Ward stared.

  ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me. I need to have a word with Mr Tierney before we sit down for the interviews.’

  The solicitor strutted down the corridor, high on self-importance. He opened the door to Interview Room D and stepped inside, closing it behind him. Ward remembered the old joke: You’ve got Hitler, Stalin and a lawyer, and a gun with two bullets. What do you do? Answer – you shoot the lawyer twice, just to make sure.

  He sidled up to the door and looked through the slit at Gerry McCann. He sat at the table facing an empty plastic chair. McCann looked relaxed, like it was all working out. He glanced up at the door and saw Ward’s eyes. McCann tilted his head and nodded.

  In Interview Room D Clarke sat opposite Tierney.

  ‘What took you so long?’

  Clarke didn’t answer.

  ‘I called yesterday and—’

  ‘Shut up.’

  Tierney bristled, like he might throw a punch. ‘What the fu—’

  ‘I said shut up.’

  Tierney stood down, realizing he wasn’t on the street, that this was McCann’s solicitor too.

  ‘Have you said anything?’ Clarke demanded.

  A shake of the head.<
br />
  ‘To anyone?’

  Clarke was patronizing, like he was talking to an idiot.

  ‘I’m not some wee hood you know. I know how it works.’

  ‘I’m going to tell you how it works.’

  Tierney waited.

  ‘You’re going to eat this.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said you’re going to eat this. Tomb Street, McCarthy, the money. You’re going to eat it all.’

  Tierney’s face fell. ‘Where’s McCann? I want to talk to him.’

  ‘Where the fuck do you think I’ve just been?’

  Clarke paused, allowing what he said to hit home.

  ‘None of this touches McCann. You did it on your own. It was a bar fight that got out of hand. We plead manslaughter, you get seven, out in four. Job done.’

  Tierney swallowed. ‘Easy for you to say.’

  ‘No,’ Clarke said. ‘What’s easy for me to say is for you to go your own way, talk to the peelers, throw some names around. You’ll need some legal aid mind, ’cause I won’t be within a hundred miles of you. And if you try to give them McCann you better get a plane ticket, ’cause you’ll be out on the street with every man and his dog knowing that Johnny Tierney’s a tout. Let’s see how bad four years look then?’

  Tierney stared at the lawyer.

  ‘The cops are going to make you an offer. Drop all charges in return for McCann. I just want to know one thing.’ He leaned forward. ‘Am I talking to a dead man?’

  He watched, making sure Tierney heard. The other man shook his head.

  ‘Good. I didn’t think so. These peelers don’t give a shit about you, son. Just remember that.’

  He stood, about to leave.

  Tierney looked sullen. There was nothing to be said, no play to be made, no angle to be worked. He would eat it, all of it, end of story.

  ‘And about the other thing? That wee hood. Did you do it properly?’

  Tierney nodded.

  ‘I hope so. For your sake.’

  Clarke looked at him, unable to understand the hesitation, the disbelief that this was how the game was played.

  Tierney retreated into himself, allowing his face to harden, to settle into the scowl that he’d wear for four years, through the questioning, the trial, the conviction and every day as he walked the corridors of Maghaberry.

  O’Neill and Ward spent the day beating their heads against a brick wall. Locked in a room – the two detectives, the two lawyers, Johnny Tierney. Tierney blanked them, the script already written, his thoughts elsewhere.

  ‘You’re looking at fifteen years,’ O’Neill threatened.

  Tierney shrugged.

  ‘Fifteen.’

  Nothing.

  ‘In Maghaberry.’

  Silence.

  ‘You’ll be forty-two when you get out.’

  Nothing.

  Clarke did his talking for him.

  ‘My client will admit to the manslaughter of Jonathan McCarthy on Tomb Street. It was a drunken brawl, an incident that got out of hand and something my client deeply regrets.’

  O’Neill looked across the table, doubting Tierney could spell ‘regret’.

  ‘What about the money?’

  ‘Those are legitimate funds from bona fide local businesses. My client has nothing to say about them.’

  Some time around four, they stepped out of the room, leaving Tierney with his lawyer. They stood in the car park over a cigarette, MacPherson philosophical.

  ‘He’ll do seven for manslaughter. It’s not bad.’

  ‘It’s not McCann.’ O’Neill said.

  ‘It’s all we’re going to get.’

  ‘What about the money? What about conspiracy? What about murder? Fuck sake, Ronnie, man up will you?’

  MacPherson took the heat, then he looked at Ward. ‘Tell him, would you?’

  Ward was distant. An hour into the interview, he’d stopped listening. He saw how it would play out and knew they’d lost. He turned to O’Neill, watching him fight on.

  ‘He’s right.’

  O’Neill shook his head. It was Marty Toner. He’d carried him for days, imagining the grey tracksuit, the skinny body, in a field somewhere. He pictured the cows standing over him, before turning away and slowly walking off.

  ‘What about the kid? Toner? Who answers for him?’

  Ward wanted to say something but could only think in clichés – stuff about living to fight, about other days, about files still open. He cut himself off, not wanting to be that person.

  ‘What about McCann?’ O’Neill said, still going. ‘He has Pat Kennedy killed and he gets a walk?’

  ‘We don’t know that.’

  ‘Come on. He doesn’t even get court, doesn’t get accused, doesn’t answer a single question.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Ward said, the words bitter. ‘It stinks. The whole thing. Stinks to high heaven. McCarthy’s involvement, Tierney’s indifference, McCann’s arrogance. I get it all right. Don’t think I don’t get it.’ The voice loud, angry now. ‘Pat Kennedy was like a brother, like family. You think I don’t want to walk in there, put McCann against the wall and blow his fucking brains out?’

  Ward was shouting now. At the far side of the car park heads turned, folk wondering, then minding their own business. MacPherson was flustered, knowing he shouldn’t be there. He excused himself and went back inside.

  Ward stared across the car park at the row of white Land Rovers. He lowered his voice. ‘It’s fucked,’ he said. ‘The whole thing. The job, the city, the force.’

  O’Neill let the silence settle. After a while he spoke. ‘So that’s it then.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Ward said, stubbing out his cigarette, heading back inside.

  On his own, O’Neill leaned against the wall. He looked up at the sky, at the dark clouds gathering over the rooftops of the city centre. He sighed, thinking about Tivoli Gardens, about Catherine and Sarah. He was on his way out there too, sidelined, soon to be in the stands. Catherine had moved on, found someone who would treat her better, who would show up on time, bring her flowers. He didn’t begrudge her, she deserved it. And Sarah? It was a slow pain, a gradual emptying, like a ship leaving shore. He’d messed up with Sam and all. She’d wanted someone to laugh with, to cry with, to share things. Why not him? When it came to it he couldn’t do it. He’d nothing to tell her, except stuff from the job, the weird stories and the things that happened. O’Neill wondered if that was all he had now: a series of anecdotes that didn’t add up to anything.

  Ward was right. And in the back of his head he’d always known it.

  The job was fucked.

  O’Neill took a deep drag, stubbed his cigarette out and headed back inside.

  THIRTY SEVEN

  9:30 a.m., Musgrave Street, Press Room. Chief Inspector Charles Wilson, surrounded by microphones. Wilson was extra well-groomed, the hair brushed, shoulder boards shining. Cameras and all, you wanted to look your best.

  ‘Last night we charged a man with manslaughter in connection with the death of Jonathan McCarthy two weeks ago in Tomb Street.’ Wilson spoke slowly, the voice solemn. You didn’t showboat, not in public. ‘Of course, this charge can do nothing to bring back the McCarthys’ son and our thoughts, as always, are with the family. Our only hope is that they find some solace knowing that the police have done all they can in bringing the suspect to justice.’

  ‘Chief Inspector, do you think …’

  At the back of the room, away from the huddle, Ward and O’Neill. The DI grunted and leaned off the wall.

  ‘I’ve heard enough.’

  ‘What time’s Pat Kennedy’s funeral?’ O’Neill asked.

  ‘Service is at ten, then up to Roselawn Cemetery.’

  O’Neill nodded, undecided about going. Regardless, he had a house call to make in the Markets.

  ‘See you later,’ Ward said, leaving the room.

  O’Neill rubbed his face, feeling the fog of half a dozen beers from the night before. He’d sat for two
hours, flicking channels, drinking himself numb.

  Wilson continued with the clichés: ‘… the integrity of the force … the future of the North … a safe place for everyone …’

  O’Neill rolled his eyes – integrity, future. He wondered what it meant. What it really meant? He felt in his pocket, checking for car keys. Wilson didn’t look up as he left the room. His was mid-flow and didn’t skip a beat.

  Petesy was in bed when he heard the front door. His instinct was to run, through the bathroom and out the window. Then he remembered his legs. He reached a hand to his face. His nose was still sore. He hadn’t left the house for days, since Tierney and Molloy had forced their way in and beaten him to a pulp.

  The knocking continued.

  He got up and peered through a crack in the curtain.

  It was a peeler, plain clothes. On the street, two kids stopped riding their bikes and stared. Even at ten years old they could tell.

  Petesy pulled the duvet over his head. More knocking. He rolled out of bed and hobbled down the stairs, leaning on the bannister. When he opened the door, the peeler was back at his car. O’Neill turned when he heard the door and walked back. Petesy’s eyes narrowed, recognizing the face.

  ‘You remember me?’

  ‘Hospital last year, when I got my knees done.’

  O’Neill nodded.

  Petesy stared. The cop looked ill, like he hadn’t slept, like he was about to keel over.

  ‘You know why I’m here?’

  Petesy hesitated, not wanting to say it.

  ‘Marty.’

  Another nod. Petesy’s face fell, like he’d been expecting it.

  ‘He’s gone.’

  ‘Where to?’

  O’Neill shook his head. ‘Just gone.’

  Petesy sniffed and looked away. ‘Yous get Tierney?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Petesy nodded, unconsoled.

  ‘Marty talked about his money. Said it was yours, said you’d know what he meant.’

  Petesy didn’t speak. O’Neill turned and walked towards the car, feeling the fuck-you stare from the ten-year-olds. He didn’t have the energy to glare back.