‘They were here a while ago. They must have gone out.’
The man pressed the blade harder against Locksy’s cheek. A drop of blood gathered and ran along the metal of the knife. Locksy’s pupils dilated and he winced.
‘You tell those cunts we’re looking for them.’
The man stepped back, sweeping the knife around the room. His eyes were a mixture of disdain and disgust.
‘Fucking wee hoods.’
The four men turned and walked out of the house. When they were gone no one moved. No one spoke. No one put the music back on.
TWELVE
O’Neill stood in the corridor outside CID, pretending to look at the noticeboard. Inside the office he could hear two DCs, Larkin and Kearney, talking to one another.
‘That Laganview has to win some sort of prize,’ Larkin was saying. ‘I mean, it’s complete bullshit. A total waste of time.’
O’Neill heard the sound of a file being tossed down on the desk.
‘Tell me about it,’ Kearney answered. ‘All I can say is, I’m glad we’re off it.’
Wilson had pulled everyone off the case. O’Neill was now working it alone. The squad had been on it for three days, making a show of things, throwing some resources at it. No stone left unturned, Wilson had said. It was good for the TV cameras. Once they lost interest though. .
‘I’ll tell you what,’ Larkin continued. ‘O’Neill must have pissed someone off in a previous life to get landed with this crap. Chasing after some kneecapping, some wee hood that nobody gives a shit about. I mean, it’s one wee frigger we won’t have to spend ten years running around after. Arresting him every six weeks. Watching him yo-yo in and out of jail, until he can walk in here and recognize us all by name.’ Larkin spoke through his nose, doing an impression of a Belfast hood. ‘Fuck you, Kearney. Fuck you, Larkin.’
The other detective laughed.
‘I’m telling you, whoever did this saved us all a shedload of work. You can’t say it, but that’s the truth. Do you remember being in uniform? Getting spat at, told to go fuck yourself, by a bunch of wee cunts that never worked a day in their lives. You just know no one downstairs is losing any sleep over it. It’s one less piece of shit for them to have to deal with.’
O’Neill felt his jaw tighten. He remembered the image of the boy, lying naked on the steel slab of the morgue. Pale, skinny, his ribs protruding. Maybe it was because he didn’t have on his customary uniform — tracksuit and baseball cap. Or maybe it was because he couldn’t answer back, and wasn’t cursing his head off. Or maybe it was because he was on his own. Lying there in the cold, in the disinfectant of the morgue, with nothing but O’Neill, the pathologist and a tray of scalpels for company.
Larkin kept going.
‘It’s almost a week and they still don’t even have a name. Nightmare. Total nightmare. Tell you what, I’m glad I don’t have Laganview hanging round my neck — especially with the Review Boards coming up. Talk about being thrown overboard with no life-vest. This will drag O’Neill to the bottom of the ocean. All I can say is, when it’s my turn to get fucked by the third floor, I hope it’s over something better than a shitty kneecapping. Wilson’s going to do him over this. Mark my words.’
O’Neill’s eyes bored into the noticeboard. Kearney was right. He was nowhere on the case and if it stayed that way, it wouldn’t be long before Wilson came at him. It was almost the perfect crime. No ID, no witnesses, no evidence. It was perfect for Wilson at least. He’d gotten the chance to pose for the cameras, to play the big man, the all-powerful Chief Inspector. Now the spotlight had moved on and it wouldn’t be back. Wilson would be able to hang O’Neill out to dry and no one would so much as notice.
O’Neill headed for the coffee room. He’d heard enough. He poured some coffee into a polystyrene cup and took it outside.
In Musgrave Street car park he leaned against the main building, he lit a cigarette and listened to the midday traffic on the other side of the wall. Larkin had only said what everyone else was thinking. All the money, all the man hours. It was true. The kid was a frigging hood. So what did he matter? He would probably mug his own granny as soon as look at her.
O’Neill had spent the morning reading through the case-files on the other kneecappings that had gone into the Royal since September. Gerard Robinson, ‘Geardy’, father unemployed, mother an alcoholic, kicked out of three schools. Multiple arrests — possession, affray, shoplifting. Michael MacNamee, ‘Mackers’, sixteen, mother with five kids to five different men. She’d been done three times for child benefit fraud. Multiple arrests — GBH, stealing, possession with intent. David MacAtackney, ‘Deags’, father and mother not around, lived with his granny who was disabled and housebound. Multiple arrests — possession, criminal damage, theft of a motor vehicle. They were hoods all right. That was no argument. The world told them to go fuck themselves, so they turned round and told the world to do the same. It was a pretty logical response, O’Neill thought.
In the car park he threw away his cigarette and went back inside. Up in CID, Larkin joked, ‘Ah, DS O’Neill. How’s our great murder investigation getting on today? Anyone in cuffs yet?’
It was standard office banter and Larkin didn’t mean anything. O’Neill snapped though.
‘What the fuck would you know about it?’
Larkin stood up from his chair. ‘What’s your fucking problem?’
Someone cleared their throat in the doorway. Both men turned. It was Ward. The two detectives backed down.
‘DS O’Neill,’ Ward said. ‘Can I have a word with you?’
Four hours later, Ward sat in an unmarked Mondeo watching 16 Tivoli Gardens. The house was a standard piece of Belfast suburbia: three bedrooms, front garden, small garage. Down the side of the house, a five-year-old girl threw tennis balls against the wall, singing a song to herself.
Ward recognized O’Neill’s daughter, despite the changes in her from a year ago. Even now he was here, sitting outside the house, he wasn’t sure about talking to Catherine. He was violating an unwritten rule. Your loyalty lay with other cops. No one else. Not even their family. Ward knew it was Brothers in Arms bullshit, used to hide a multitude of sins. He’d watched peelers get their partners to cover for them, lying to their wives: ‘Pat’s questioning someone. . he had to go to court. . he’s tied up with a suspect.’ Ward wondered what made cops such prolific cheats. O’Neill wasn’t messing around though, he knew that much. He also knew about the flat in Stranmillis and that he hadn’t been home for six months.
Earlier that morning, Ward had stuck his head into CID. It was empty, except for O’Neill, sitting in front of his computer. He’d checked with Doris on the front desk. O’Neill had been in for two hours before his shift. It had been going on for months. First in, last to leave. Anyone else, Ward would have been pleased. Showing some initiative, getting a head start. It wasn’t anyone else though.
O’Neill had done a good job of hiding his personal life from Musgrave Street. The rest of the shift hadn’t noticed a thing. Ward started to wonder if he worked in a station full of blind men. He told himself they were busy, up to their eyeballs in paperwork. He knew though that half the shift couldn’t find a criminal unless he walked into the station, carrying a bloody knife, saying, ‘I killed the bitch.’ With O’Neill it was small things he had picked up on. The same suit. Same three shirts. He looked like shit. O’Neill had even started taking stuff home, reading through police files at night. He looked as if he hadn’t had a proper night’s sleep for months. Ward had been waiting on a sign and the outburst with Larkin was enough to convince him.
Ward had seen it before with other peelers. There were three outcomes. O’Neill would burn out, he’d smack someone, or else he’d end up getting killed. It used to be drink was the way most peelers went. Home alone. Half a bottle of whiskey before they could close their eyes. That wouldn’t be O’Neill. Smacking Larkin though. .