‘Who’s this?’ He pointed at one of the men.
Spender gave a name.
‘And this?’
Another name.
Ward went through each person, jotting down names. He took his time, letting Spender see he could make things awkward for him. No smoke without fire. Another showed Spender in a dinner jacket alongside three other men at a charity auction. Ward imagined tables of drunk businessmen playing How Big is Your Wallet? They would try to outbid each other for signed rugby jerseys, tickets to Paris, a spa day for the wife.
‘Well, Mr Spender. Let me leave my card.’ Ward put his card down on the corner of the oak desk. ‘If anything pops up, you’ll be sure to give me a call.’
Ward turned slowly. ‘And don’t worry. I can show myself out.’
Moving into the hall, he heard the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs. He paused at the family photograph and looked at the children. Karen Spender walked behind him.
‘Great-looking kids,’ Ward offered. ‘Still at home?’
‘No. Across the water. London and Manchester.’ The woman looked briefly at the picture, before continuing down the hall and into the kitchen.
Ward got in the Mondeo and lit a cigarette, breaking the force rule about smoking in pool cars. At the bottom of Spender’s drive he sat for ten seconds as the black gates slowly opened and released him into the grey morning.
FIFTEEN
Sean Molloy was raging.
‘Fucking wee prick-tease. A pair of bitches. Letting us look after them all night and then sliding off in a taxi.’
Saturday night had run into Sunday morning. The club had closed and he was walking home with Tierney. Until an hour ago this had looked like the least likely outcome of the night.
Molloy had been playing the big man, throwing his money round. They’d been sitting for three hours in Mint with two girls, Tara and Sharon. They must have only been eighteen but, as Molloy told Tierney, a hole was a hole. The two girls fancied themselves and for good reason. They both looked like they’d been poured into their dresses. Molloy had done a line before they arrived so was already buzzing. He ordered a bottle of champagne, even though he would have preferred a pint of Harp. The two girls loved it, sitting there like it was Christmas, hanging on his every word, especially after he gave them a wrap to take into the toilet with them. When they were away he turned to Tierney.
‘Fucking gagging for it.’
‘Aye.’
‘They’re all the same, these wee sluts. All want a good seeing-to.’
The girls came back and sidled in beside the men. Molloy put his arm around Sharon. He looked old enough to be her father. The perfume, the feel of her pressing against him and the coke all started working their magic. He told her he was in business. Self-employed. An entrepreneur. She nodded, pretending that she cared. The only thing she knew was that the champagne was free and didn’t look like drying up any time soon. An hour later Tierney went to recharge his batteries. Molloy went with him, following his mate to the gents. As they walked back from the toilet Molloy put his arm on Tierney’s shoulder.
‘She’s full of shit this one, but I tell you what, I’m going to buck the fucking hole off her.’
Both men laughed aggressively. When they got to the table, the girls were gone. All four glasses were empty.
‘Fucking wee hoors,’ Molloy said. He was fuming. He wanted to kill someone and started looking round the room for them.
‘I’ll wring her fucking neck, next time I see her.’
Tierney led him to the bar where they pushed to the front and ordered two bottles of Budweiser. By the time they finished, the chilled beer had started to cool Molloy’s temper.
‘Come on,’ he said as the bouncer did the rounds, getting folk to drink up. ‘I’m calling Alice. Party up at her place.’
Molloy was married but Alice was his thing on the side. She had been for almost three years. There was Louise as well, but she had been doing his head in lately. Alice was twenty-eight now but when she was eighteen she had been one of the most stunning girls in the whole of Belfast. Since being with Molloy she had had two abortions. She was a devil for the coke and Molloy knew he was guaranteed some action, no matter what time of the night it was, provided he didn’t arrive empty-handed.
Outside, both men were hammered. There were no taxis but it was only a twenty-minute walk. Halfway along Victoria Street Molloy announced that he needed a slash and turned down an alley. Tierney waited at the mouth of the entry.
‘Stop looking at my knob, ya fruit!’ Molloy shouted over his shoulder.
Tierney flipped his mate the finger and walked on. He knew they’d get to Alice’s and Molloy would disappear with her into the bedroom. Besides, he had some dope back at the house which would help bring him down after the last few hours.
In the alley Molloy put his head back and sighed as the stream of hot piss flowed out of him. He thought about what he was going to do. .
He braced himself as something moved out the corner of his eye.
A 6-inch rat scuttled down the drainpipe next to his head. Molloy breathed a sigh of relief as the rat burrowed into a pile of black bags.
‘Aye. You better run, you wee fucker.’
He zipped up his fly and made his way out of the entry, looking for Tierney, who was nowhere to be seen.
‘Aye. You run and all, you fucking bastard,’ he slurred to himself.
Molloy started walking, thinking about Alice. The road was deserted, except for the odd car with a TAXI sign lit across the roof.
Molloy walked up Cromac Street. Four street-lights in a row had been smashed, creating a darkened stretch of pavement. Broken glass lay across the ground and Molloy swerved at the last minute to avoid walking into a bin. At the side of the footpath, shop doorways formed a series of black alcoves. He was still thinking about Alice. He’d get her high. Then he’d get her to put something on. Her wee black number. Then. .
Darkness.
Something had smashed into Molloy’s face. He stumbled and went down, the back of his head cracking off the pavement, knocking him out. A brick had come out of nowhere, out of the empty space of a shop doorway. It struck him square in the face, breaking his nose and sending him to the ground. Six foot four, sixteen stone, lay motionless on the pavement.
A taxi drove by but didn’t stop. The driver saw a man fall and assumed it was another steamer, with one too many in him. The car paused at the lights at the bottom of the road. The lights changed to green and the taxi turned the corner into May Street.
Quietly, Joe Lynch stepped out of the doorway.
He was still holding the brick. A small beanie covered his head. He pulled the collar up on his black jacket. He was calm and stood quietly looking down at the prone figure of Molloy.
For three days he had watched and waited. By now he knew Molloy better than he knew himself. It was like the old days. That sense of familiarity, like putting on a pair of jeans you’d already worn. He’d watched and he’d waited. Over three days Lynch had memorized Molloy’s life. Every detail. Where he went, and who he saw. Where he slept, where he drank, where he ate. The wife, the girlfriend, the bit on the side.
Lynch looked at the large frame, lying comatose on the pavement. He kneeled down, crouching next to the body. Molloy was breathing, but he wasn’t moving.
Lynch looked at the brick in his hand, then at the body. Blood ran out of Molloy’s nose which was now lying sidewards across his face.
‘Not so handsome now. Eh, big lad?’ he whispered.
Lynch exhaled before he stood up. His eyes swept the street. It was all clear. He walked off, making his way along Cromac Street, staying in the shadows. He was calm, collected, in control. He hadn’t felt this steady in months. Since he’d come out of prison, in fact. Around the corner he cut through a side alley into the Markets. He walked past the Lagan, silently flowing by, and threw the brick into the middle of the river.