‘I get another?’
‘Bingo. Sisyphus, son. That’s who you are.’
‘Sissy who?’
Ward laughed as he walked away. ‘Never worry. You just keep rolling that boulder. Shit. We might even make a detective out of you one of these days.’
O’Neill looked down at the lifeless body. Six years on and somewhere along the way, somewhere amid the sights and the smells, the interviews and the bullshit, the paperwork and the procedure, they had made a detective out of him. Of that much O’Neill was sure.
As he waited for DI Ward, O’Neill drew an aerial sketch of Laganview on his notepad. The site was a rectangle, 40 by 100 yards or so, hugging the bank of the river. Three apartment blocks filled what used to be the old Sirocco steelworks. Late to the party, Belfast was getting the same makeover that Glasgow, Newcastle and Liverpool got in the 1990s. Old factories were becoming apartment blocks. Disused dockyards were transformed into high-end lofts. It was a building epidemic. The Belfast skyline was dotted with cranes, swinging their arms over the city in a mass benediction. Progress meant property. The Cathedral Quarter. The Titanic Quarter. The Gasworks. The Troubles were over. There was money to be made.
Laganview looked across the river towards the 50-foot high curves of the Waterfront Hall. Next door stood the Hilton Hotel and the white limestone of Belfast City Court House. The apartments rubbed shoulders with the Short Strand and the Markets, working-class areas, where rows of terrace houses formed a maze of side-streets and alleyways. During the Troubles they were a no-go area for police, a breeding ground for militant Republicans. Kerbstones were still painted green, white and gold. Gable ends featured 20-foot murals. Slogans in Irish. O’Neill imagined buyers walking round Laganview, looking down on the streets below. The salesman would tell them to focus on the view. Keep their eyes on the horizon. There was a lot of that going on these days.
O’Neill put his notebook away and stood under the corrugated iron roof. He pulled smoke into his lungs, the nicotine peeling back the lack of sleep from the night before. Jack Ward arrived and picked his way across the rubble. Ward was fifty-six, stocky, and wore a black trenchcoat. He was a good boss and trusted his troops to get on with things. Ward spoke slowly and was quiet and watchful. He gave the impression he’d seen it all before, that nothing would surprise him. The DI was eighteen months away from retirement, one of the few senior CID officers who had stayed on after the Peace Process. It was the release of all the prisoners that sparked the mass exodus. Ward remembered standing in Musgrave Street canteen, watching the TV. Men walked out of prison. A quick pump of the fist before ducking into waiting cars. Ward knew half of them by name. They’d spent years murdering peelers. He’d spent his career trying to put them behind bars. Now they were out. All of them. In the corner of the room Jackie Robinson, a DC of ten years, puked in a bin. Tony Callaghan, one of the other DIs, summed it up rather eloquently.
‘Fuck this.’
Callaghan was gone within six months. It seemed like half the force had the same idea. Guys with fifteen, twenty years on them. All gone. Ward had stayed on though, holding his ground, keeping his counsel. Something in him couldn’t walk. At least not yet.
Six years on, standing next to O’Neill, he pulled a packet of B amp;H from his jacket and lit one. Ward looked at the ground by their feet.
‘Two fags? Christ. You’re really drinking this one in.’
Ward was relaxed with his troops. Occasionally he sounded like an old schoolteacher; everyone still ‘sir-ed’ him, out of respect more than anything. The two detectives stared at the scene. Their eyes moved over objects, holding them for a moment, committing them to memory. O’Neill looked at the rain, then up at the dark, threatening sky.
‘Reckon someone up there doesn’t like us, sir?’
Ward laughed quietly. ‘You only figuring that out now?’
Ward looked at the body in the grey tracksuit. He nodded, pointing his cigarette.
‘You see? That’s why I never go jogging.’
O’Neill smiled. Nothing came between a peeler and his attitude. He had learned that during his first week in CID. He glanced at the billboard where powerful up-lights illuminated a finished version of Laganview Apartments. The building was a glistening silver cube, all glass and mirrors.
‘I don’t know, sir. I could see you in one of these yuppie flats.’
Ward glanced sideways. ‘On my salary, son? I wouldn’t believe everything you heard in Police College.’
It had rained all morning and looked like it was on for the day. O’Neill imagined the waters rising over Belfast. A second Great Flood. Christ knew, the place could do with it.
‘Take your time here,’ Ward announced. ‘I’m putting you up front on this one.’
O’Neill swallowed hard. He’d worked Suspicious Death before but only in a support role, never as Principal Investigator. PI meant calling the shots. Bodies were a big deal, even in Northern Ireland. There would be SOCOs, Forensics, the pathologist, not to mention the press and top brass, all breathing down his neck. When a body turned up, people wanted to know.
On the drive from Musgrave Street Ward had thought through his options before deciding to give O’Neill the case. O’Neill had been an Acting Sergeant for nine months and it would be his first major case as PI. It was a big call. Bob Townsend, the regular DS, was on secondment and due back next month. The Review Boards were coming up and Ward knew the Chief Inspector, Charles Wilson, wanted O’Neill out of CID and back in uniform. If the truth be told, Wilson wanted O’Neill gone altogether. Uniform would do though, for the time being. Wilson didn’t like O’Neill. As a DC he’d made the fatal mistake of disagreeing with the Chief Inspector in front of people. It was two years ago and something pretty minor, but the Chief Inspector didn’t forget. He reckoned O’Neill wasn’t cut out for CID. He was wrong — Ward knew it. He’d watched O’Neill for three years. Sure, he was a bit rough round the edges and he made mistakes, but once he bit on to something, he didn’t let go. O’Neill was the real thing. He was just enough of a stubborn arsehole to be a really good detective.
None of that mattered though. Not to Wilson. The Review Boards were next month and the Chief Inspector would make his move there. Being sent back to uniform would mark O’Neill out. He’d be damaged goods. Everyone would know it. His only hope was to have a big case under his belt, and they didn’t come much bigger than a murder. If O’Neill could wrap Laganview up before the Review Boards, Wilson wouldn’t be able to touch him.
The Chief Inspector was a new breed. Twenty-first-century police. A company man. An accountant. Happier in meetings, reading reports, compiling budgets. Flying off across the water to drink cups of coffee with other number-crunchers from the Met, Greater Manchester Police, Lothian and Borders. Don’t ask him to solve a crime though. The last place you wanted Wilson was on a job, knocking on a door, interviewing a suspect.
Ward had watched over the last ten years as a slew of Wilsons came in and slowly took over the force. He knew one thing: they might wear a uniform, but they weren’t peelers. They thought crime could be solved with spreadsheets and graphs, with statistics and pie charts. And when they opened their mouths they sounded more like politicians than cops. They played the angles and made the right friends. They were never happier than when they were getting their mugs on TV. He’d seen a generation of Wilsons rise up the rank — at the same time as he was passed over.
‘Next time, Jack. There’s always next time.’
It was bullshit and Ward knew it. He was too old. His face didn’t fit. He didn’t speak the lingo. He would retire next year anyway, leave the force to Wilson and the rest of the bean-counters.