At 8.15 he awoke and put his jacket on to go out for milk. As Lynch stuck his head out of the door he noticed there had been a break in the rain. The next shower didn’t seem far away though. Across the street a young girl was struggling to squeeze a buggy out of her front door. When Lynch couldn’t sleep he had watched her silhouette, pacing the floor at all hours of the morning. She was slim with bobbed blonde hair. The make-up did a good job of covering the shadows under her eyes. Lynch hadn’t seen any sign of the father in the two months he’d been in the Markets. He jogged over and held the gate open for her as she steered the pram through.
‘Thanks. It’s like driving a frigging tank, this thing.’
‘How old is the wee one?’
‘Five months.’
‘He’s cute.’
‘He’s a she.’
‘Oh. Sorry.’ Lynch raised his eyebrows. ‘What’s her name?’
‘Ciara.’
The two of them walked in silence for a few yards. She was on her way to the Health Centre. Lynch knew her routine. He knew the routine of almost everyone on the street. He couldn’t help it. Memorizing people, their habits, their movements. The girl went to the Health Centre every Thursday. On Mondays and Fridays her mother came, just after nine, to clean the house and help with the child. There was no father, at least none that had been anywhere near the house. Lynch feigned ignorance.
‘So where yous off to now then?’
‘Health Visitor. Nosy cow. It’s like being under surveillance. If you don’t go and see them, they think you’re killing your own child.’
‘Still,’ Lynch said. ‘It can’t be easy.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘Is her da not around to help out?’
‘Her da’s an arsehole. Frigged off when he found out I was pregnant. Wanted an abortion. And before you start, I’m not like the rest of those wee girls, getting pregnant to get myself a house and all that. I was working before I had her.’
Lynch didn’t reply.
‘Anyway. It’s just as well he frigged off. Couldn’t have handled the lack of sleep. I’m up half the night.’
‘Don’t start me off,’ Lynch said, rolling his eyes. ‘Who would have thought getting a bit of kip could be so difficult?’
‘You tried gin? Works for me every time.’
Lynch laughed. The girl smiled at him sidewards, enjoying a bit of adult company.
‘A right pair of zombies, we must look,’ he joked.
‘Hey, speak for yourself, mate.’
Lynch smiled. It was good to be out walking, talking to someone, doing something normal. He introduced himself. Her name was Marie-Therese. He wondered about asking her if she fancied a cup of tea or something. A cafe somewhere. After she got done with the Health Visitor.
At the end of the street two men leaned against a parked car. As Lynch and the girl approached they got up and stood shoulder-to-shoulder, blocking the pavement. Lynch had never spoken to either of them, but he knew Tierney and Molloy by sight and reputation. The girl started to speak.
‘So what are you-’
‘Listen, love, you head on there. I’ll catch you later.’
The girl looked up and recognized the two men. She immediately stopped talking and put her head down, pushing the buggy onwards. The men parted to let her pass, looking her up and down, like she was something they might eat. Molloy spoke.
‘A bit young for an old fucker like you, don’t you think? Now a good-looking guy like me. .’
Lynch didn’t respond. He kept his hands in his pockets, sizing up Molloy and Tierney. Molloy was the bigger of the two of them. He knew he could put Tierney down pretty quickly, then concentrate on the other one. He couldn’t tell yet if they were holding. If they were it was a different story altogether.
‘Mr McCann has sent for you.’ Molloy gestured at a grey Ford, parked at the kerb. ‘Get in the car.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Lynch said.
He didn’t move. He stared at Molloy, seeing that he was calling the shots.
‘Listen, Clint Eastwood.’ Tierney chipped in. ‘We’re not asking you. Get in the fucking car.’
‘I’ve nothing to say to McCann.’
‘We don’t give a fuck what you’ve got to say.’ Tierney had a mouth on him. Molloy was more deliberate, weighing things up.
Lynch didn’t move. They weren’t holding. If they were, they’d have shown something by now.
‘You might have moved into the Markets with Hughesy,’ Tierney continued, ‘and you might have done your time together. The big heroes. Up in the Maze. The Cause and all that.’
Lynch half-listened to Tierney, keeping his eyes fixed on Molloy.
‘You see, Hughesy’s gone, he’s not here any more. And when he goes, so does your pass for the Markets.’
Lynch had known this was coming. Tierney was doing all the talking, but it was Molloy that counted. He was the one to worry about.
‘You need to come and see Mr McCann,’ Molloy said. ‘Need to have a chat with him. There are no freeloaders here. Everyone has to earn their keep.’
‘I’m retired.’
‘Retired!’ Tierney exclaimed. ‘Away and fuck yourself. Retired? Don’t make me laugh.’
Tierney was a slabber all right, but Lynch had heard the stories and knew he could back it up. Meanwhile, Molloy was trying to do the same thing Lynch had done earlier: figure out if he was carrying.
Lynch took his hands out of his pockets. With his right hand he reached round into the belt at the small of his back. There was nothing there, but Lynch kept his hand hidden, holding on to the leather.
Molloy saw it and his eyes narrowed. He knew the stories, knew that Lynch had several bodies on him. The Lynch Man. The Lyncher. Molloy knew he wouldn’t hesitate, wouldn’t shirk at putting a bullet into either of them. Lynch found himself sliding into character. The passive face, the eyes taking on an empty, hollow stare. Molloy looked at him. He thought he was bluffing, but he couldn’t be sure.
‘Come on, Tierney,’ Molloy said, putting his hand on his partner’s shoulder. ‘This one’ll keep.’
The two men turned and went towards their car. Tierney was still slabbering.
‘I’d go out and buy a lottery ticket if I was you, Lynch. ’Cause I’ll tell you, this must be your lucky day or something.’
The two men got into the car and drove off, leaving Lynch standing by the kerb.
After weeks of anticipation, weeks of waiting, weeks of wondering, it had begun. Lynch sighed, feeling some of the tension flow out of him. It had started. At least he knew that now.
SEVEN
O’Neill sat at his desk in Musgrave Street, hunched over the Laganview file. He flicked through the pages. Paperwork. The holy commandment of police work. Thou shalt not shit without filling out a form. Paperwork covered the cracks. It meant you followed procedure. It was management’s way of keeping an eye on you. Their way of staying in the loop. O’Neill wondered what the world looked like from the third floor. Dunking biscuits into cups of tea, flicking through pages of neatly typed reports.
It had been three days since the body turned up and there was a thick file on Laganview. There were interviews, canvassing reports, a list of site workers, criminal records, known drug dealers, SOCO reports, evidence slips, statements, photographs, lab tests. There was nothing like a body for generating a paper trail. The tree huggers would have a field day, O’Neill thought. He imagined the headline: Murder Bad For Environment.
For all the paperwork though, they still didn’t have a name.
The appeal for information had been repeated on TV throughout Tuesday and Wednesday. The Belfast Telegraph led with the story on Monday night. It had fronted radio bulletins throughout the week. Still they had nothing. It made no sense. Absolutely none.