The investigation had been dropped. Out of nowhere, the neighbour retracted the complaint. Ward sat at his desk, thumbing through old notebooks, trying not to get sidetracked by the names and memories that leered out of the pages.
Next door, O’Neill continued to circle Laganview. The more he looked at the file, the less he believed it was a straight-up punishment beating. Punishment beatings were a warning, a signal that drug dealing wasn’t tolerated. A dead body was one way. Better though was a living, breathing victim. A daily testimony, in 3-D Technicolor. If the young ones saw their mate hobbling round on a pair of walking sticks, taking painkillers for the rest of his life, they would know what was coming to them. A punishment beating was about control. A way of making sure the hoods knew who was in charge. If you were dealing for someone and thought about ripping him off, there were going to be consequences. It wasn’t a crime of passion. Things didn’t get out of hand. O’Neill heard of incidents where they even called the ambulance, waiting until they heard the sirens before doing the guy’s knees.
He thought about Wilson’s warning. About not calling this a punishment beating. The political ramifications. The need to be careful. The Chief Inspector might get his wish, after all.
O’Neill sighed and prised himself up from his desk. He went outside to the car park. Two white Land Rovers sat in the shadow of the station wall. He lit a cigarette. Three uniforms stood by the back of one of the Land Rovers, sharing a story.
The door from the lock-up opened and Sam Jennings walked out. She had her hat pulled down, her short blonde ponytail peeking out the back.
‘Hey, John,’ she said. ‘Or should I say, Detective Sergeant O’Neill?’
‘That’s right.’ O’Neill lifted three fingers, tapping imaginary stripes on his shoulder. ‘You need to stand up when I walk in the room.’
‘Hah. You forget I knew you when you didn’t know your radio from your pepper spray.’
‘Fair point.’
Jennings glanced over at the three male uniforms at the back of the wagon. She saw her shift stretching out in front of her. Stuck in the Land Rover, taking a ribbing for chatting up CID. From what she could tell, Musgrave Street was a boys’ club. She felt as if she was being watched, that the guys on her shift were still waiting to see if she could cut it when things turned rough. It had been the same in Dungannon. A load of lads waiting to see if she wasn’t another empty uniform. The PSNI playing politics, filling another bullshit equality quota.
‘So how’s Musgrave Street working out?’ O’Neill asked. ‘You got a good shift?’
Jennings raised her eyebrows sceptically. ‘I’ll let you know. There are a few cowboys round here, I’ll tell you that for nothing. Guys who think they’re hard lads, that they can do whatever they want.’
‘Yeah? Just keep your head down. And anyway, what was wrong with Dungannon? Last I heard, you were entering boxing competitions.’
‘Listen. It’s official. Dungannon’s been pacified. I thought I’d come to the big smoke. Show you boys how it’s done.’
‘And how are the Belfast streets treating you?’
‘Yeah. They’re lovely. Spent most of yesterday being told to fuck off by twelve year olds.’
Uniform had been ordered to stop and question any young ones within a three-mile radius of Laganview.
‘Yeah, that was my fault,’ O’Neill answered. ‘The Belfast hood though — there’s a lot of spirit there.’
‘Is that what they’re calling it these days?’
O’Neill felt the memories coming back from Police College. Sam was quick. She had an answer for everything and plenty of street smarts. She glanced over again at the Land Rover.
‘And what about you? How is. .’ Sam hung over the name, not quite able to remember.
‘Catherine?’ O’Neill hesitated for a second. ‘Bit of choppy water there.’
‘Sorry to hear that. You have a wee girl, don’t you?’
A loud whistle came from the Land Rover across the car park.
‘I’ve got to go, John. Listen, we should catch up though. .’
She was off before O’Neill had time to answer.
He watched as they piled into the back of the Land Rover, swinging the doors shut behind them. The engine fired to life and the wagon reversed out of its space. Inside, Jennings looked out from behind a small rectangle of blacked-out glass. She watched as O’Neill took a final drag from his cigarette, tossed it aside and walked back into the station.
EIGHT
Marty stared at the blonde in her underwear. She looked straight into his eyes and pouted invitingly. He reached out towards her.
Suddenly Petesy grabbed him and yanked him down, behind the magazine rack.
‘Petesy, what the fuck?’
‘Shut up,’ Petesy whispered. ‘Fucking Johnny Tierney just walked past.’
In front of the Spar, Tierney stopped and took out twenty Regal Kingsize. He lit one and walked on. Marty and Petesy crept up to the display of birthday cards. They peered out over pictures of cats, dogs and orang-utans, in various states of confusion. Tierney was across the street, outside Tony Loughrin’s house. He had his hands cupped against the window, trying to see inside.
‘What does he want at Locksy’s?’ Petesy asked.
‘How the fuck should I know?’
Locksy had been in the same year as them at school. He had been obsessed with Man United, and when they had a kick-about he would provide a running commentary. ‘Giggsy to Keane, Keane to Cantona, Cantona shoots!’ He’d been dealing for Tierney for three months now.
Marty pulled Petesy outside and they made a run for it, going down an entry beside the Spar and along a back street.
Ten seconds later Tierney had Locksy by a combination of earring and ear. The fifteen year old groaned. His nose was broken and a red patch of blood was spreading down the front of his coveted Man United away strip. Tierney twisted the earring. Locksy screamed. He had opened the door, half-asleep, and been greeted by a punch in the face. The teenager had been in bed, recovering from the weekend. He knew not to answer the door, but he’d been dead to the world, and thought it was only Micky.
‘Where’s my money, you wee cunt?’
Locksy couldn’t speak, only yelp. His ear was on fire and felt as if it was being ripped from the side of his head.
‘Aaaah, Tierney! Wise up. My fucking ear.’
‘Your ear is the least of your fucking worries. Where’s my two hundred quid, you wee cunt? And don’t have me to ask twice.’
Tierney towered over the scrawny teenager trembling in his boxer shorts and white T-shirt. He picked Locksy up by the ear and marched him upstairs. Tierney knew what he was doing. Two hundred quid or not, he knew whatever happened to Locksy would make the rounds of the estate. People had short memories: they needed to keep being reminded that he wasn’t to be fucked with. It was about the two hundred quid, but it was about more than that. Cunts talk. At the moment they were talking about how Locksy’d taken the piss out of him, sold his gear and spent his money. That would change. It was one thing he was sure of.
In the bedroom Locksy grabbed a pair of tracksuit bottoms from the foot of his bed. He had no idea how much was left. He had been on his way to see Tierney when he bumped into Micky. It was Friday night and they had meant to check in once they’d taken the pills, but the Es had kicked in and they’d ended up forgetting.
Locksy pulled a roll of crumpled notes out of the pocket, wincing at the size of it. He was well short and he knew it. Tierney held the money and counted it silently. As he flipped the last note, he punched Locksy round the head.
‘A hundred and thirty quid? What do I look like? The fucking Northern Bank?’
He then punched Locksy in the stomach, sending the teenager to the floor.