Dark Dawn (18 page)

‘You’re kidding me. It’s like this the whole way down the street?’

‘Four city-centre streets. A dozen cameras. There is not a single clear shot on any of them.’

Hessian pulled up a blurred profile. ‘It’s the best I’ve got.’

With the black hat and the collar of his coat up high he could have been anyone.

‘He knows exactly what he’s doing. He doesn’t want Molloy to see him but he also doesn’t want us to see him. Where did Molloy come out of?’

‘A nightclub called Mint. It’s on the edge of the Cathedral Quarter.’

Hessian produced up a piece of footage from outside the club. It showed two stocky doormen with shaved heads checking IDs. The clock in the corner of the screen read 11:28.

‘This is three hours earlier. Can you see him?’ Hessian asked.

‘No.’

‘Doorway across the street. Forty yards along.’

O’Neill looked. He couldn’t see anything. Hessian rewound the tape to 11:24 and the slight figure walked backwards out of the doorway. Again, he was at the wrong angle for the CCTV. The hat was pulled tight and you couldn’t make out his face.

Hessian spoke. ‘Four hours. Never moves. He just stands there, watching, waiting.’

It was after nine and O’Neill decided to put a call into the Cathedral Quarter, to pay a visit to Mint. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been in a nightclub. Since joining the PSNI he had stopped drinking in the city centre. You couldn’t go anywhere without clocking a couple of guys you’d arrested. The problem was they normally clocked you as well. They’d be looking over, talking to their mates and you wouldn’t know what might be waiting for you outside.

From the cobbled street he heard the dull thud of dance music coming through the thick walls. The club was part of the Belfast regeneration. An area of old warehouses between the docks and St Anne’s Cathedral had been restyled with bars, restaurants and designer shops. A large neon sign flashed
MINT
in 4-foot yellow letters, a dollar sign forming the dot over the ‘i’. On the door, two bouncers stood guard. They had shaved heads and no necks and would have passed for a couple of rugby props. The doormen were smartly dressed in black suits and long overcoats.

Inside, the bar was a plush mix of dark wood and leather furniture. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling and O’Neill felt as if he’d walked into an MTV video. Men in Armani suits sat on sculpted chairs, while women with fake tans sipped cocktails on bar stools. House music piped into the bar from the club upstairs, making folk shout into one another’s ears.

‘Whatever happened to a quiet pint?’ O’Neill muttered to himself.

He lifted the menu from the bar. Champagne by the bottle.
Moët
– £76.
Veuve Clicquot
– £92. An attractive brunette set a napkin on the bar in front of him.

‘Beer?’ he asked.

She turned to reveal a fridge full of imported beers. O’Neill didn’t recognize any of them.

‘One of those will do,’ he said dismissively.

The girl opened the bottle and set it down, announcing, ‘Four-seventy,’ without batting an eyelid. O’Neill laughed, glad that he wasn’t buying a round. His change came back on a round silver disk and was left sitting.

Along the bar a couple of men in their fifties filled champagne glasses for two giggling blondes in short, sparkly dresses. The men looked twice their age. One of them was boasting about taking a Maserati for a test drive. The blondes listened intently, eyes wide, pretending to be impressed. O’Neill doubted they’d know a Maserati if it ran over them in the street. Still, the guys were full of shit and so were the birds. They were welcome to each other.

O’Neill left his beer and went to the gents’. The room was like something from a luxury hotel: floor-to-ceiling mirrors, sculpted glass sinks, automated taps. He stepped up to the polished chrome urinal. As he finished he heard a long drawn-out snort from a closed cubicle behind him.

A few seconds later, a man in a Hugo Boss suit opened the door and stepped out. O’Neill looked at him over his shoulder. Hugo Boss stared back as if he owned the place. He took a step forward, pulling himself up to his full height.

‘Got a problem, mate?’

O’Neill turned round and pulled out his warrant card.

‘CID, dickhead. But by the sounds of things, I’d say you are the one with the problem.’

Hugo Boss swallowed hard, immediately backing down.

‘Sorry. I didn’t mean . . .’

O’Neill didn’t have the energy to bust him. He’d be booking him in for hours and it would take him away from Laganview. He fed Hugo Boss his lines.

‘You’ve got a cold. That’s what you’re telling me?’

‘Er . . . yeah. That’s it. Haven’t been well.’

‘An early night then, probably the best thing for you, don’t you reckon?’

The man nodded.

‘So when I come out of here, I don’t want to see you . . .’

Hugo Boss nodded vigorously. O’Neill turned his back and began rinsing his hands at one of the sinks. The suit backed his way towards the door and out.

O’Neill went back to the bar. His bottle of beer was sitting where he had left it but he ignored it and headed back to Musgrave Street.

O’Neill had spent most of the night buried in Laganview. At 4 a.m. he had gone back to the cupboard and looked over the tapes of Sean Molloy getting done on Cromac Street. Who would want to send Molloy a message? And why do him there? Why not somewhere quiet, more out of the way? And why wouldn’t you just kill him?

At 7 a.m. he stood in the car park smoking. A Land Rover pulled into one of the parking bays and three uniforms jumped down. The passenger door opened and Sam Jennings lowered herself to the ground. She saw O’Neill and hung back as the group walked across the car park. She let the door to the station close before she spoke.

‘You coming off a nightshift, Sarge?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Same here.’ Jennings paused and glanced over her shoulder. ‘Fancy buying a girl breakfast?’

O’Neill paused, momentarily taken aback. ‘Sure. Wellington Park Hotel. They do a mean fry. Or muesli, if that’s what floats your boat. About half an hour?’

‘Sounds good.’ Jennings smiled, walking into the station to catch up with her shift.

Forty minutes later, O’Neill sat in the restaurant of the Wellington Park Hotel. He’d been at school with the manager who recognized him as soon as he walked in.

‘No problem. Sit where you like. I’ll send one of the girls over.’

O’Neill sat at the back so he could look out over the room. Walking through, he had automatically scanned the faces at each table. It was mostly tourists and businessmen. As he waited he tried to remember when all the habits had started. Catherine used to get annoyed.

‘I don’t want to hide in the back, John, every time we go out for dinner.’

It was a weekday and the place was only half-f. Folk were getting stuck into bowls of cornflakes and cooked breakfasts. O’Neill always liked coming off a nightshift and watching people start their days. That feeling of tiredness. It was a reminder that he moved through a different world from those around him. His eyes were heavy and he knew Sam would be feeling something similar.

He watched her arrive. She wore a pair of jeans and tight red top. Sam looked different out of uniform, less attractive maybe. O’Neill had always thought women’s fashion was a waste of time. A uniform, any uniform, did it for him. He saw Sam do a quick sweep of the room as she weaved her way through the tables. They ordered coffee. He caught himself checking her left hand as she picked up the menu. There was no ring.

O’Neill had chosen seats out of earshot of the rest of the room. They made small talk. Police College. Dungannon. Belfast. She laughed about her fractured cheekbone.

‘I might have stamped on his balls a few times afterwards. He was pretty high-pitched by the time we interviewed him, I’ll tell you that for nothing.’

Sam asked about CID, the move out of uniform, Laganview. O’Neill felt at ease talking to her. He didn’t need to pretend, to lie, to put on some kind of performance.

She asked about Catherine. He told her the truth.

‘It was the shifts that did it. Or maybe it was always going to happen. Maybe we were too young. Maybe Sarah came along too soon. Fuck, I don’t know. I didn’t fit in at the dinner parties with the rest of the husbands. I mean, have you ever spoken to a banker for two hours? Fuck me, it’s hard going.’

Sam laughed.

‘What about James? The fella you had back at Police College.’ Sam was surprised. O’Neill had remembered the name from all those years ago.

‘Hightailed it. Said he’d had enough war stories. Said I was married to the job. I mean, it’s all right for a man to have a career, to love what he does. But a woman? We’re supposed to be secretaries. Make you your dinner, type your frigging letters . . .’

O’Neill felt Sam starting to get her back up.

‘All right. Easy there, sister. And what about after him?’

‘Don’t start me on the others.’

O’Neill had forgotten how natural Sam’s smile was. The way her eyes flashed to life when she was telling a story. She asked him where he was living and he explained about the flat in Stranmillis.

‘God, you’re one sad case. Sitting up there, living off Chinese takeaways. Does the man in the shop know you by name? I’ll bet he does.’

‘Don’t be slagging off Mr Wong. He’s been a tower of strength through all this.’

They both laughed. O’Neill asked about Sam’s shift. He was curious and, given how Laganview was going, a little nostalgic for his own days in uniform. He wanted to hear stories, jokes from back in the wagon, the kind of stuff no one ever believed, unless they’d actually been there.

Sam hesitated. ‘It’s fine.’

‘Who’s your Sergeant?’

‘Donnelly.’

‘What do you make of him?’

‘There are worse ones out there.’ Sam sighed, looking out the window into the car park. ‘The shift’s all right.’

‘That is not the most ringing endorsement I’ve ever heard.’

‘Ach, I’m tired. I’ve only been with them a few weeks. They’re pretty tight, been together a good few years. I’m the new face. We’re all sussing each other out. It’ll take a while.’

O’Neill looked across the table, raising his eyebrows. He didn’t buy it. Sam had great instincts, always had. He’d seen it in Police College. She glanced sidewards, wondering whether to tell him.

‘Who have you got? Peters, Morrow, Savage, McAllister . . .’

‘Thompson and Cleary. Between us, they’re a bit of a law unto themselves. They go drinking together most weekends. Men’s men, you know. Think they know everything. Not afraid to put the boot into someone. Tossing them over in the back of the wagon.’

‘You sure you’re not just annoyed because you’re not in the gang yet?’

‘Screw the gang, John. I don’t give a shit about the gang. But you know when you just have a feeling? Like something’s not all it’s cracked up to be?’

‘Yeah. I know what you mean.’

O’Neill didn’t push it. He made a mental note to go back there next time he saw Sam. He could tell she didn’t want to go any further, not now anyway, and probably felt like she’d overstepped the mark. It was a secret though. And she’d wanted to tell him, to bring him closer, to show she trusted him.

‘How long is it since we came out of Police College, John?’

‘Six years, four months, nine days.’

Sam smiled. She had forgotten that things stuck with O’Neill.

‘Is it everything you thought it would be? The job, I mean.’

O’Neill’s eyes narrowed. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe it’s just me. Maybe it’s the new station. Or the shift. I mean, don’t you ever wish you had a normal job, like everyone else? Clock in, clock out. Go home. Get on with the rest of your life. Sometimes I look at people coming out of offices at five o’clock and I wonder . . .’

‘You wonder what?’

‘I don’t know. I wonder about the job.’

‘Let me tell you. This – this here – this isn’t a
normal job.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What we do. I mean, it might look like a normal job. You do a shift, get a wage, collect a pension. But that’s where the similarity ends. A normal job is sitting at a desk, typing emails, answering phone calls. Pulling pints, serving lunches, waiting tables. Conference calls, sales visits, team meetings. The peelers?’ O’Neill raised his eyebrows. ‘What we do?’ He slowly shook his head. ‘Checking beneath your car in the morning, just in case someone’s left a bomb under it. Chasing down some burglar who assaults pensioners, then ties them up and cleans them out. Nicking some husband who beats his wife, watching her drop the charges for the fifth time in a row. Parades. Standing in a riot, having stones thrown at you from both sides. Interviewing a forty-year-old man, asking why he raped a nine year old and posted the footage on the internet. The theft, the fraud, the assault. The abuse, the violence, the hatred. That’s what
we
do. We do it. Nobody else. And because we do it, the rest of them out there can sleep in their beds at night. This might be many things, but I can tell you one thing. There’s nothing normal about it.’

Sam could see it in O’Neill’s eyes. He had had the same look in Police College. His face had weathered, there were a few grey hairs, a few lines round the eyes. But that look was still there. O’Neill paused and took a drink of his coffee.

‘Why did you join up, John? Can you remember that far back?’

O’Neill exhaled slowly, his eyes in the distance.

‘There was a guy in our year at school. We were eleven, but he must have been held back somewhere along the way, because he was a year older. He was a big lad, from up the Ardoyne. His da was involved and was doing time somewhere. Maghaberry. The Maze. No one really knew.’

‘You going to tell me this kid stole people’s lunch-money, and no one would do anything about it?’

‘No,’ O’Neill said, smiling at the schoolyard cliché. ‘It wasn’t that obvious. It was just when we played football. No one wanted to tackle him. To embarrass him. Run the risk of annoying him. He could do what he wanted.’

‘So you joined up . . .’

‘I don’t know. I just knew it wasn’t right. There are people out there who do whatever they please, and nobody ever wants to put a tackle into them. It’s the same everywhere. It’s the same at Catherine’s work, at Musgrave Street, the same on the street. People just taking things and nobody dares to say anything.’