The old man gazed into the distance. ‘My own daughter, for Christ’s sake.’
Orla got to her knees, balled up the tissues, and placed them on the tray. She stood, carried the tray to the door, and left the room. Her ear whined as the tears burned her eyes. She threw the tray at the wall, and watched the last drops of soup and orange juice streak the wallpaper before the plastic clattered to the floor.
25
The Doyles’ men had scattered as soon as they heard the sirens coming. Fegan had everything he needed in a sports bag and was walking west along Hester Street when the blue and red lights flickered on the buildings behind him. He’d turned south on Forsyth Street and kept walking until he reached the ferry terminal. He and the commuters making their way home from their night shifts ignored one another as the boat slipped across the bay to Staten Island. He disembarked and kept walking. He collapsed once with visions of child-eating fire and smoke. He screamed at the dawn before picking himself up and moving on, sweat coursing over his body.
Fegan wasn’t sure enough to admit it to himself, but somewhere deep in his gut he knew he was going home. The phone in his pocket had dried blood between the keys, its screen was cracked, but it still worked. He often dreamed of it ringing. He was never sure if he felt terror or relief at its clamour, but he had a notion the answer wasn’t far off.
26
Lennon parked his Audi on the side street by McKenna’s bar. Traffic passed along the Springfield Road just a few yards ahead. He wondered if he dared do this. His hand rested on the door handle for thirty long seconds before he decided. The decision made, he got out, locked the car, and walked to the pub’s entrance. The handful of afternoon drinkers fell silent when he entered. This was not the kind of place that welcomed strangers. He returned their stares in turn and walked to the bar.
‘Pint of Stella,’ he said.
The barman took a glass and filled it with foam. He set it in front of Lennon.
‘Big head on that,’ Lennon said.
The barman brought the glass back to the tap and topped it up.
Lennon took out his wallet and put a five-pound note on the bar. The beer was cold enough to sting his throat. The barman put the change in front of him.
‘You’re Tom Mooney,’ Lennon said.
‘That’s right,’ Mooney said. ‘Who are you?’
Lennon opened his wallet, subtle, shielded by his hands.
Mooney’s shoulders slumped. ‘What do you want?’
Lennon stowed the wallet away. ‘You know Marie McKenna?’
‘Of course I do,’ Mooney said. ‘Her father used to own this place.’
‘No he didn’t,’ Lennon said. ‘Her uncle owned it. Her father’s name was on the licence, but Michael McKenna owned this place.’
‘Not any more,’ Mooney said.
No,’ Lennon said. ‘Funny thing, that, what happened to Michael. Then that business with Paul McGinty on that farm in Middletown.’
‘It was a bad doing,’ Mooney said.
‘Yeah,’ Lennon said. ‘You ever hear anything of Marie these days?’
‘She moved away,’ Mooney said. ‘That’s all I heard.’
‘Any idea where she went?’
‘Haven’t a baldy notion,’ Mooney said.
‘None at all?’ Lennon asked. ‘No rumours? No whispers?’
Mooney leaned close. ‘I’m hard of hearing,’ he said. ‘I can’t hear whispers.’
Lennon gave Mooney a smile. ‘It’s personal business,’ he said. Nothing official. She’s not in trouble. I just need to talk to her about something. Did she leave any word where she was going?’
Not a peep,’ Mooney said, his face softening. Not even her ma knows where she is. Marie just phoned her up one morning, said she was away, and that was that. You know her father had a stroke a couple of weeks back?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Yep. He’s in the Royal now. I went over to see him. Paralysed down one side, his mouth’s hanging open, can’t talk. Fucking pitiful. Some of Marie’s ones were giving off ’cause she didn’t come back to see him. If you want my opinion, she got scared over that feud and just packed up and got out. Can’t blame her, really.’
‘No,’ Lennon said. ‘Can’t blame her.’
‘Anything else?’ Mooney asked.
‘One thing. You were one of the last people saw Michael McKenna alive,’ Lennon said. ‘He left here with some drunk, dropped him home, and went to the docks to get his brains blown out. The reports say he phoned you from there just before it happened.’
‘I cooperated,’ Mooney said. ‘I gave my statements. It’s all on record. If you want to know anything, just look it up. Now drink up and get out.’
Lennon took a swig of gassy beer. ‘I want another Stella,’ he said.
‘You haven’t finished that one yet,’ Mooney said.
‘I’m planning ahead,’ Lennon said. ‘The inquiry said the Lithuanians got McKenna and that sparked it off. Is that what you think happened?’
‘I gave my statements,’ Mooney said.
‘That’s not what I asked.’
‘It’s all I’m saying.’
‘You know about Declan Quigley,’ Lennon said.
‘Aye,’ Mooney said. ‘Another bad doing. I heard some kid did it. Is that right?’
Lennon ignored the question, asked one of his own. ‘He ever drink here?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘How’d he been lately?’
‘How do you mean?’ Mooney asked.
‘What sort of form was he in? Was he depressed? Nervous? Angry?’
‘All three,’ Mooney said. ‘He got a bad scare when McGinty was killed.’
‘Did he ever talk about it?’
‘Never,’ Mooney said. ‘He wouldn’t. He was a soft shite, but he did time in the Maze and Maghaberry. Small-time stuff, he could’ve got off if he’d touted, but he kept quiet and took the sentence. A fella like that doesn’t talk. Speaking of which, I’ve said too much already. I’ll leave you to it.’
Mooney turned to go, but Lennon called, ‘One more thing.’
Mooney sighed and turned back. ‘What?’
‘Patsy Toner.’
‘What about him?’
‘I heard he’s been on bad form too,’ Lennon said. ‘I heard he’s been on the bottle.’
‘He likes a drink,’ Mooney said.
‘More than he used to?’
‘Maybe.’
‘I heard he’s been scared about something,’ Lennon said. ‘I heard he talks when he’s drunk. You ever overhear anything?’
Mooney leaned over the bar. ‘Like I said, I’m hard of hearing. Now, do you want that second pint or what?’
Lennon drained his glass and suppressed a burp. No, I’ve had enough. But thanks.’
Mooney nodded and walked away.
*
Thirty minutes later, Lennon sat parked on Eglantine Avenue staring at Marie’s boarded-up windows. Occasionally, small groups of kids in school uniforms walked past, probably heading for the takeaways on the Lisburn Road. Ellen must have started her second year of primary by now.
Marie only allowed him that one photograph. He hadn’t met her since then, and that had been four years ago. It was no more than he deserved. She had sacrificed so much for him, and he had betrayed her.
He hadn’t meant to. If anyone had asked him if he was capable of such a thing a week before it happened, he would have said no, absolutely not. He had learned since then never to underestimate a man’s weakness.
They’d been living in the flat for a year when it all fell apart. Marie’s nesting instinct had gone into overdrive, and every weekend was spent touring shopping centres looking for the perfect cushion cover, or the ideal mirror to go above the fireplace.
They’d been standing in a furniture store off the Boucher Road for an hour, Marie agonising over a pair of bedside lockers while a sales assistant looked on, when Lennon noticed the shape of her in the light. His mi
nd wandered to the times when she’d clambered on him, the soft ‘oh’ of her mouth at the point of orgasm, the feel of her weight on him. It had been a while. She was saying something and he snapped himself back to the here and now.
‘You haven’t heard a thing I just said.’ Her eyes were cold stone.
‘I’m sorry, what?’
‘Look, if you can’t be bothered listening to me then why did you come?’
The sales assistant looked at his feet.
Lennon smiled, his voice soft. ‘I’m sorry, I was just daydreaming. What were you saying?’
‘This is important to me.’
‘I—’
‘This is our home. This is our future together.’
Lennon stopped smiling. ‘I know. I’m sorry.’
The sales assistant remembered an important matter that needed his attention elsewhere.
‘You’re not sorry,’ she said. ‘You don’t care.’
‘Of course I do.’
‘No you don’t, or you’d fucking listen. Why am I bothering to run myself ragged over this when you don’t give a shit?’
‘Marie, please.’
‘Fuck you.’
He stayed ten steps behind her all the way to the car.
The irony was that Wendy Carlisle had been the one who’d introduced Lennon to Marie eighteen months before. She was the media officer at Lennon’s station, and a hard-luck girl if ever he’d met one. They became friends, though looking back he couldn’t think why.
She stumbled from one bad relationship to another, five of them while he knew her, always ending up hurt and bitter. Lennon had tried his luck, but she said she knew his type, she wouldn’t get chewed up and spat out by a user like him. She always smiled when she said it, but anger hid beneath the teasing.
When Wendy passed a request for an interview on to Lennon, he had no idea it would change the course of his life. He saw something in Marie, recognised the separation from her roots as a reflection of his own situation. He hadn’t meant to fall in love any more than Marie had. Given her family – she was a McKenna, niece of Michael McKenna, for Christ’s sake – he should have gone nowhere near her. Their relationship destroyed what was left of the ties to her kin, and Lennon’s colleagues made a point of pulling him up on it every chance they got. He’d been in line for a move to Special Branch, but at the last moment he was switched to CID. They never said why, but he knew. He was a Catholic cop at a time when such a thing was still a rarity, and now he was mixed up with Michael McKenna’s niece. He didn’t know which was worse: the threats from Republicans, with the Mass cards and bullets that arrived in the post, or the hard stares and silence he met in his workplace.
As soon as they moved in together, Marie started talking about children. Always at night, when they lay together in the dark. Just thinking out loud, she’d say. Just talking. Nothing serious.
Serious or not, it terrified him. It wasn’t the idea of sleepless nights or being tied down that frightened him so much. Rather it was the certainty that he would, sooner or later, let the child down. He tried to tell Marie this, to explain it was his own weakness that scared him, but the words never came out right. Every conversation ended with her cold back to him as he silently cursed his clumsy tongue.
After a while, they didn’t talk about it any more. The stony grey of her eyes cooled, her lips thinned, her laughter dried until it rasped like sandpaper on wood. They should have ended it then, but neither of them had the courage.
Lennon’s head jerked up to bounce against the Audi’s headrest. Had he been asleep? His head had that sodden feeling, like clay behind his eyes. He looked at his watch. Coming five. When had he last checked the time? An hour, maybe.
‘Jesus,’ he said.
Lennon fired the Audi’s ignition and listened to the diesel clatter and rumble. He blinked the sleep away.
A man approached on the pavement. Mid-thirties, Lennon guessed. A hard face, lined more by life than age. His right eyelid was red and swollen. His left arm hung stiff and long at his side. He nodded at Lennon as he passed.
Lennon watched the man’s back in his side mirror. The man disappeared between the parked cars. Lennon opened the Audi’s door and climbed out. He looked up and down Eglantine Avenue.
No sign of him.
Lennon settled back into the Audi, his mouth dry. He wanted another pint of Stella, and maybe some company.
27
The Traveller kept walking along the side street, his head down. He chanced one look back over his shoulder. No one followed. His Merc was parked on the next street north, the one tethered to Eglantine Avenue by this side street. He didn’t know its name. Belfast was starting to grate on him, with its red-brick houses and cars parked on top of one another. And the people, all smug and smiling now they’d gathered the wit to quit killing each other and start making money instead.
He reached the Merc and got in. He dialled the number.
‘For fuck’s sake, what now?’ Orla asked.
‘Jesus, love, don’t bite my face off.’
‘Don’t “love” me, you gyppo bastard. I’ll come up there and cut your balls off. Now what do you want?’
The Traveller sensed it was not an idle threat. Was she on the rag? ‘All right,’ he said. ‘That cop. What did you find out about him?’
‘Why?’
‘’Cause he’s sitting outside that McKenna blade’s flat again. What’s he doing hanging about there? Who is he?’
‘That cop’s the least of your worries, believe me,’ she said. ‘He’s Jack Lennon, a detective inspector. A smart cop. He should be higher up the ranks, but he’s been in some bother. He had a sexual harassment charge hanging over him a few years back, some tramp from the office tried to make a claim against him. The charge didn’t stick, but the reputation did. He’s in debt up to his eyeballs. He’s too friendly with some Loyalists. We’re told he might be taking payment in kind from the brothels, and another cop accused him of trying to pass on a bribe. His superiors are wary of him, think he’s bent. Don’t worry about him.’
‘Well, I am worried about him,’ the Traveller said. ‘He’s going to get in the way. I should do something about it.’
‘No,’ Orla said. ‘You have a go at a cop, even if he’s bent, you’ll fuck everything up.’
‘I’ll do it right,’ the Traveller said. ‘There’ll be nothing to connect him—’
‘No, I said. Look, certain people are indulging us by letting you clean up this mess. You tackle a cop, they won’t indulge us any more. You understand?’
‘Whatever you say, love,’ the Traveller said.
Hard silence for a moment, then she said, ‘What about Patsy Toner?’
‘I’ll call with him tonight.’
‘Good,’ Orla said. ‘You’re stretching my patience. Just do what we’re paying you to do.’
‘All right,’ the Traveller said.
He hung up and pocketed the phone. ‘Grumpy auld pishmire,’ he said. He started the Merc and went looking for Patsy Toner.
28
Lennon found him in the Crown Bar of all places. Despite the snugs, the Crown was the last pub in Belfast to drink in if you wanted privacy. Patsy Toner sat at the far end of the bar, staring at the red granite. Lennon could just see him beyond the wood and glass panels that divided the bar up.
The hubbub of locals and tourists combined to make a hearty rumble of laughter and raised voices. Lennon realised this was the perfect place for a frightened man to drink. Patsy Toner was probably safer here than in any bar in the city.
Lennon edged his way through the early evening drinkers towards Toner. Holidaymakers and office workers stood in clusters, the tourists with their pints of Guinness, the locals with their WKD and Magners cider.
He sidled up behind Toner and waved for the barman’s attention. ‘Stella,’ he called over the lawyer’s shoulder.
Toner turned his head a little to the side, to see who stood so close. Lennon wondered if he’d be recog
nised. He had interviewed many of Toner’s clients. A good lawyer remembered the names and faces of the cops he met in his work.
Sure enough, Toner’s shoulders tensed.
The bartender set the pint on the raised drain tray, letting the foam slop over the rim. Lennon leaned across Toner and put the money in the bartender’s hand. He lifted the pint, but stayed pressed against Toner’s back.
‘How’ve you been, Patsy?’ he asked.
Toner stared ahead. ‘Do I know you?’
‘We’ve met in a professional capacity,’ Lennon said.
Toner turned his head. ‘I don’t remember your name.’
‘DI Jack Lennon.’
Did Toner flinch? The lawyer looked back to his drink. ‘What do you want?’
‘A word,’ Lennon said.
Toner spread his hands flat on the bar. The fingers of his left looked thin and waxy. His shoulders slumped.
Lennon looked back over his shoulder. ‘There’s a snug free,’ he said. ‘Bring your drink.’
They sat at a table walled by ornate wood and stained glass. Lennon closed the snug’s door.
A waitress opened it again, pointed to the sign. ‘Sir, this snug’s reserved.’
Lennon showed her his ID. ‘I won’t be long.’
‘The party should be here any minute,’ she said.
‘I’ll get out when they come,’ he said. He smiled. ‘Just a minute or two. You’d be doing me a big favour. Please?’
She hesitated, then smiled. ‘Okay, I’ll—’
Lennon closed the door and sat down. He stared at Toner across the table. Toner’s hands shook as he raised his glass.
‘How’s it going, Patsy?’ Lennon asked.
Toner grimaced as he swallowed. His glass clinked on the tabletop. ‘What do you want?’
‘Just to see how you’re doing these days,’ Lennon said. He took a sip of Stella and leaned forward. ‘I heard you weren’t doing so well. I heard you had something on your mind.’
Toner forced a laugh. ‘Who told you that?’
A couple of people,’ Lennon said. ‘Friends of yours.’
Toner laughed again, this time shrill and jagged. ‘Friends? You’re talking shite. I don’t have any friends. Not any more.’
‘No?’ Lennon feigned surprise. ‘You used to be a popular fella. All sorts of friends in all sorts of places.’
Collusion Page 13
