‘Bastard cunt of a motherfucking whore’s son,’ he said.
30
Fegan sat in the darkness of a cheap motel room near Newark Airport, breathing hard. Had the phone really rung? He reached for it and thumbed a button.
No calls. He returned it to the bedside locker and lay back down on top of the blankets. The pillow was damp with sweat. He had dreamed of fire, of a little girl swallowed by black smoke as her screams turned to the sound of a phone ringing. Her name was Ellen McKenna and she would be almost six by now. Only months ago, Fegan had carried her past the bodies of men he had killed. She had closed her eyes and pressed her wet face against his neck, just like he told her to. Her skin had been hot against his.
The last time he’d seen her, she waved at him from the back of her mother’s car at Dundalk Port. It seemed a lifetime ago. He had told Marie McKenna to call the cheap mobile phone he carried with him if she was ever in danger. That phone had not left his side since. He rubbed his left shoulder with the heel of his right hand. The scar itched, like baby spiders burrowing beneath the shiny pink skin.
Fegan considered the dream. Could dreams break into the waking hours? He had come to understand the thin borders between this place and others. That was why dreams of fire and burning girls terrified him, made his gut tighten and his legs slip from under him.
Ellen’s mother never featured in these dreams. Fegan sometimes struggled to remember what Marie McKenna looked like. He remembered her on the dock, warning him to stay away, but her face had dissolved into something unreal. Like a person he had only imagined, who had never actually existed. When his phone rang, which he knew it would, she would be real again. He dreaded the moment.
But if – when – she called, he would go. He had sworn he would make her and Ellen safe. He had spilled so much blood in his life, but his greatest sin had been to drag Marie and Ellen into the violence that always seemed to gravitate to him. He had brought death to their door; he would do anything to prevent it crossing their threshold.
The room shook as a plane passed overhead. The call would come soon, he was sure of that. After that phone call, he would go to the airport and buy a ticket to Belfast. He would fly home to the city he thought he’d never see again and finish what he’d started. much blood in his life, but his greatest sin had been to drag Marie and Ellen into the violence that always seemed to gravitate to him. He had brought death to their door; he would do anything to prevent it crossing their threshold.
The room shook as a plane passed overhead. The call would come soon, he was sure of that. After that phone call, he would go to the airport and buy a ticket to Belfast. He would fly home to the city he thought he’d never see again and finish what he’d started.
31
‘What were you doing at Jonathan Nesbitt’s house yesterday?’ DCI Gordon asked, his hands folded on top of his desk.
Dan Hewitt stood silent in the corner.
Lennon looked at each of them in turn. ‘Just asking a few questions,’ he said.
‘About what?’ Gordon asked.
Lennon scrambled for some reply. Before he could come up with one, Gordon said, ‘I sent you home yesterday to get some rest, not to go harassing a decent man like Jonathan Nesbitt.’
‘It was only a few questions,’ Lennon said.
‘Pertaining to what?’ Gordon didn’t wait for an answer. ‘You go knocking on people’s doors, flashing your badge, your questions had better be relevant to an investigation I’m supervising. Were they?’
Lennon shifted in his seat. ‘Not directly.’
‘Not directly.’ Gordon pursed his lips. ‘Which is another way of saying “not at all”.’
Hewitt cleared his throat. ‘Look, we know why you went to Mr Nesbitt’s house, and we know what sort of questions you asked. Mr Nesbitt reported it to his contact in Special Branch yesterday afternoon. My colleagues weren’t best pleased. Not for the first time, I had to do some sweet-talking on your behalf.’
‘You owe DCI Hewitt your gratitude,’ Gordon said. ‘I was ready for dropping you from my team, but he’s convinced me to let it go. But you’re on thin ice, understand?’
Lennon sighed and nodded.
Gordon leaned forward. ‘Understand?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Lennon said.
Gordon’s face softened. ‘Look, you’re an excellent police officer. You should be a DCI by now, heading up your own MIT. Behave yourself, and you’ve got a good career ahead of you. Don’t get sidetracked by personal agendas.’
Lennon couldn’t hold his gaze. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said.
‘Good. Now, go on. Chase up the forensics on our friend Mr Quigley, there’s a good fella.’
Lennon stood and went for the door. As he walked down the corridor, Hewitt caught up with him.
‘I need a word,’ Hewitt said.
Lennon stopped. ‘What?’
‘Listen, Jack, I did you a big favour today.’ Hewitt kept his voice low and even. ‘You might never know how big.’
‘Well, I owe you,’ Lennon said, walking away.
‘I’m about to do you another one,’ Hewitt called after him.
Lennon turned. ‘Yeah? And what’s that?’
Hewitt walked past him and opened the door to the copy room. He looked inside, then beckoned Lennon to follow him in.
Lennon entered the room. ‘So what’s the favour?’
‘Me telling you to leave it alone, that’s what.’
Lennon smiled in spite of himself. ‘Funny, you’re the second person to tell me that since yesterday.’
Hewitt’s face fell. ‘Who else said it?’
Lennon put his hands in his pockets. A little bird.’
‘Jesus, Jack, tell me you’ll leave it alone, please.’ Hewitt took a step closer. ‘You know Special Branch doesn’t piss about. They’ll fuck you over soon as look at you.’
‘They? By they, you mean we. Right?’
‘Don’t put me in this position, Jack. I stuck my neck out for you today, and it wasn’t the first time. I’ve been a good friend to you, whether you think so or not. I’m being a friend to you now. Leave it alone.’
Lennon’s hands made fists inside his pockets. ‘For Christ’s sake, this is my daughter we’re talking about. She’s been missing along with her mother for months now. I know Marie was mixed up in that feud,the McGinty business, and no one’s seen her since. How do you expect me to leave it?’
Hewitt paced the floor as he considered. He stopped, nodded. ‘All right. I’ll tell you one thing, and one thing only. But promise me you’ll leave it alone.’
Lennon took his hands out of his pockets and flexed his fingers. ‘Tell me what?’
‘Promise me.’
‘I can’t.’
Hewitt stared hard at Lennon. ‘Promise me.’
Lennon’s shoulders slumped and he leaned against the photocopier. ‘Fuck,’ he said. ‘All right.’
Hewitt took a breath. ‘You’re right, Marie was mixed up in that feud.’
‘Jesus,’ Lennon said.
Hewitt held his hands up. ‘But only on the periphery,’ he said. ‘Not directly. She moved away just as a precaution. I don’t know where she is, but—’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Jack, I—’
‘You’re C3, Special Branch, for Christ’s sake, so don’t tell me you don’t know where she is.’
‘She’s safe,’ Hewitt said. ‘Marie McKenna and her little girl – your little girl – are safe. That’s all I can tell you. They’re safe. Okay?’
‘Where are they?’
‘They’re safe,’ Hewitt repeated. ‘That’s all you need to know.’
‘Christ,’ Lennon said. He went to swipe a stack of paper off the top of the copier, but thought better of it. Instead, he clasped his hands at the back of his neck and inhaled.
Hewitt said, ‘There’s one more thing.’
Lennon exhaled and his head went light. ‘What?’
‘It doesn’t mean
anything.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t want you making something of this. It’s just a coincidence.’
Lennon’s hands dropped from behind his neck. ‘What? Fucking tell me.’
‘The lawyer, Patsy Toner.’
Lennon’s heart went cold. He let his face go slack, prepared to show no reaction to whatever Hewitt was about to tell him. ‘What about him?’
‘He has a flat off the Springfield Road. A woman was assaulted in his building around eleven last night. An intruder broke her nose. She doesn’t remember anything about it. Toner’s door was kicked in. He’s missing.’
Lennon wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘I know you were asking questions about him,’ Hewitt said. ‘Tom Mooney at McKenna’s bar is an informer. He told one of my colleagues you were asking after Patsy Toner.’
Lennon thought about denying it, knew there was no point. ‘That’s right.’
Hewitt raised a finger. ‘Well, don’t go asking after him any more. Whatever happened at his flat has nothing to do with you, and nothing to do with Marie McKenna, understand? Patsy Toner is mixed up with all sorts of bad people. Whatever trouble he’s in is his own and no one else’s. The only reason I’m telling you this is so you don’t find out off someone else and go chasing some bloody conspiracy that isn’t there. Now, for God’s sake, leave it alone.’
Lennon studied Hewitt’s face, his grey eyes, the lines around his mouth. He tried to remember if he’d ever really liked him, even back at Garnerville.
‘Tell me you’ll leave it alone,’ Hewitt said. ‘Please.’
Lennon swallowed, nodded. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll leave it alone.’
32
The Traveller took a seat at the bar. There was plenty of choice; he was the only one here. Apart from the barman, Tom Mooney.
Mooney put down his newspaper. ‘How’re ya?’ he said, his head tilted, his eyes taking in every detail.
‘I’m grand,’ the Traveller said. He gave Mooney a wide smile.
‘That’s a bad-looking eye you’ve got there,’ Mooney said.
The Traveller’s fingers went to the heat above his cheek, stopped just short of touching the inflamed eyelid. ‘Infection,’ he said. ‘Stings like a fucker.’
‘You should see a doctor.’
‘Probably should. Probably won’t.’
Mooney stared for a second or two. ‘What can I get you?’
‘Pint of Smithwick’s,’ the Traveller said.
Mooney took a glass to the pump. The beer swirled cream and brown as it poured. He placed the drink on the bar. The Traveller put a ten next to it.
‘You’ve not been in here before,’ Mooney said as he wiped the bar with a damp cloth. ‘We get mostly regulars here, a pretty tight crowd. Not a lot of passers-by just drop in, if you know what I mean.’ He looked up. ‘Unless they’re after something, that is.’
The Traveller smiled. ‘Is that right?’
‘That’s right,’ Mooney said. He didn’t drop his gaze when the Traveller returned it. Bit of fight in him, by the look of his stance.
‘You think I’m after something?’
Mooney’s hands slipped beneath the bar counter, where the Traveller couldn’t see them. He wondered what the barman had under there. A baseball bat, most likely.
‘Yeah, I sort of got that notion,’ Mooney said. ‘Tell me straight what you want, and we’ll see how we go. I’ve had enough fucking about to do me for a right while, and I’m not in the mood for any more today. All right?’
The Traveller nodded. ‘All right. I’m looking for Patsy Toner. He drinks here sometimes.’
Mooney straightened. He tried to hide his surprise at the Traveller’s words, but failed. ‘He hasn’t been in here for a while.’
‘No? Where else does he drink?’
‘Different places,’ Mooney said.
‘There’s a lot of different places,’ the Traveller said.
‘This is the only place I pull pints in,’ Mooney said. ‘Can’t tell you much about anywhere else.’
The Traveller watched a thin film of perspiration form on Mooney’s forehead, the tensing of his forearms, the clenching of his jaw. ‘I’m not the only one’s been asking for him, am I?’
Mooney said nothing, just stared back.
‘Was it a cop?’ the Traveller asked.
‘Drink up,’ Mooney said. ‘Door’s over there.’
‘Big broad fella,’ the Traveller said, feeling a warm trickle down his cheek. ‘Sandy-coloured hair. Nice suit.’
Mooney grimaced. ‘Jesus, your eye.’
The Traveller pulled a tissue from the bundle in his jacket pocket. He mopped the wetness from his cheek. It left a mix of pale yellow and red on the paper. He sniffed and something cloying and tangy slipped down the back of his throat. ‘Give us some water, will you?’
Mooney hesitated, then filled a tumbler. The Traveller soaked a wad of tissue and dabbed his eye, wincing at the sting. The sodden paper came apart as he worked.
Mooney produced a bar towel from somewhere. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘It’s clean.’
The Traveller dipped a corner of the towel into the water and again dabbed his eye. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Listen, you seem like a decent sort of a fella. You say you don’t know where Patsy Toner is, no problem. But tell me straight: was there a cop in here asking after him?’
‘Yeah,’ Mooney said. ‘And I told him as much as I told you. Fair enough?’
The Traveller folded the towel as he studied the barman. Working in a place like this, he wouldn’t, couldn’t tell the cops anything substantial, even if Patsy Toner should happen to turn up dead. He must have kept some fierce secrets in his time. ‘Fair enough,’ the Traveller said. He indicated the towel. ‘Can I have this?’
Mooney shrugged.
‘And I was never in here, and I never asked you anything about Patsy Toner, right?’
Mooney said, ‘Like I told that cop, I hear nothing, I see nothing. Now, you going to finish that pint or what?’
The Traveller was about to answer when his mobile rang. Instead, he said, ‘See you around.’
He left the bar and answered the phone as he walked to his car.
‘You made an awful bollocks of things last night,’ Orla O’Kane said.
‘He got—’
‘I’m not interested in why you made a bollocks of it, I just want to know what you’re going to do about it.’
The Traveller unlocked the Merc and got in. ‘I’m going to kill the hairy-lipped wee fucker, that’s what.’
‘Make sure you do it today,’ Orla said. ‘Things are moving along, now. There’ll be a development within the next forty-eight hours, and you better be ready to do the needful.’
‘What sort of development?’ the Traveller asked.
‘You’ll know soon enough. Now for Christ’s sake, sort Patsy Toner out. And just to make life a little easier for you, I’m going to tell you where to find him.’
33
‘The Sydenham International,’ Patsy Toner said.
‘By the City Airport?’ Lennon asked.
‘That’s it,’ Toner said.
‘Give me half an hour,’ Lennon said.
The Sydenham International Hotel hadn’t aged well. It hadn’t been able to keep up with the wave of shiny new establishments that had mushroomed all over Belfast during the last few years, and its days were surely numbered now there were some decent hotels by the airport.
Lennon entered the dowdy reception area. The owners had done their best to spruce the place up, but failed. He peered into the dimly lit bar and saw Toner hunched over a glass in the darkest corner. Lennon took his time, let the lawyer sweat. He got himself a pint of Stella at the bar. The barmaid, who was just a little too old for her exposed bellybutton ring and fake tan, didn’t return his smile.
He crossed to Toner’s table. The lawyer had dark rings under his eyes and a sour odour about him. ‘What’s up?’ Lennon
asked.
‘I need a smoke,’ Toner said. Lennon followed him out through a pair of patio doors to what passed for a beer garden: a patch of potholed tarmac and a couple of picnic tables with tattered parasols, along with a few buckets of sand for cigarette ends.
Toner placed his drink on a table and sat on the attached bench. He took a packet of Embassy Regal out of his pocket and offered one to Lennon. Lennon rarely smoked, even when he drank, but he took one just to get the lawyer on his side. He sat down opposite.
Toner sparked up with a cheap lighter and did the same for Lennon, smoke clouding the space between them. Lennon noticed Toner’s left hand again; waxy and thin, like it had been locked in a cast, the muscles atrophied.
‘Someone tried to kill me last night,’ the lawyer said.
‘I know,’ Lennon said.
‘At my flat,’ Toner said, his hands and voice shaking. ‘Someone tried to shoot me.’
‘I know,’ Lennon said again, but this time it was a lie. He had guessed as much about the attempt from what Hewitt had told him, but he didn’t know about any shooting.
‘You ever had a gun pointed at you?’ Toner asked. ‘You ever been shot at?’
‘Yes,’ Lennon said. ‘A few times. But then you should know that, shouldn’t you, Patsy?’
‘What?’
Lennon inhaled nicotine, let it sizzle through his brain. ‘Years ago, I was only a few months on the job, still a probationer.’ He exhaled a thin wisp of blue, wishing Toner smoked something heavier, like Marlboros or Camels. ‘Before the ceasefires. I was on a patrol in the city centre, just off Royal Avenue. Some of your lot ambushed us. Two of my friends died. I took a bullet in the shoulder, just under the armoured vest.’
‘My lot?’ Toner smiled under his moustache. ‘Nobody’s my lot. Not any more.’
‘Well, back then they were. Three boys were lifted for it within twenty-four hours. I was there to testify on the first day of the trial, but I never got a chance. You had the case thrown out on a technicality. The searches weren’t sound, so that was that. Two decent young men dead, I get a nice big scar to show for it, and three pieces of shit walk free. They probably killed again. How much did you make out of that case?’
‘I remember you now,’ Toner said. ‘You got a commendation or something for that, didn’t you? There was another survivor. You saved him.’
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