Burke started to panic. Had Spender turned on him? Was it a set-up?
He looked up and down the road, trying to figure the best way out. Down Sunnyside Street? No. Better the main road. More obstacles. More people. Ormeau Police Station was 300 yards away, squatting by the roadside like an iron fortress. Burke thought about walking up the street, trying to get closer to its protective shadow. Spender would wonder what he was up to though and he might think Burke had said more to the peelers than he was letting on.
The foreman glanced across the street. The back door of the taxi closed and he saw a swish of long blonde hair in the back. The car pulled out into the night traffic and Burke let out a sigh, whispering: ‘I’m getting too old for this shit.’
He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a packet of Lambert amp; Butler. He lit one just as a sleek black Mercedes slowed at the kerb. Burke looked at the fag. It was always the same. He suddenly wondered if this might be his last smoke and took two quick draws before tossing it away. He pushed the thought to the back of his head, telling himself it was all right, everything was dead on. As he rounded the car he checked that the passenger seat was empty and Spender was alone. A somewhat relieved Burke turned his collar up, glanced down the street, and lowered himself into the car.
‘Mr Spender, I-’
‘Shut up.’ Spender was tense and knew he wouldn’t have to repeat himself.
As the car eased out into the night traffic Burke was struck by how quiet the engine was. He was about to mention it, but thought better. Spender drove up the Ormeau Road, past the new shopping complex at Forestside. He took his time, keeping to the 30 m.p.h. speed limit. Spender liked being in control and enjoyed Burke’s discomfort beside him. The foreman’s mind raced. Was he driving with deliberate care? Not wanting to attract attention? No. It was OK. There was nothing to worry about.
The houses started to thin as the car made its way up the Saintfield Road and out of Belfast. They passed Purdysburn, the city’s mental asylum. Burke wanted to ask where they were going but stopped himself. You can’t be nervous, he told himself. A nervous man’s hiding something. He thought about his brother Michael and wished he was there. Michael had been involved and had seen things. Burke didn’t know how many operations he’d been on, but a situation like this wouldn’t have worried him in the slightest. Why hadn’t he brought Michael along?
In the past Spender would park up round the corner from the bar, in a side-street, somewhere off the main road. They were now well out of Belfast.
Just before the Carryduff roundabout the Mercedes slowed and turned off the main road, winding its way down a narrow country lane. In two minutes they were in the middle of nowhere. It was dark, and high hedges crowded in on the car. Burke had no idea where they were. Spender steered the Mercedes through a gap in the hedge and they emerged into a clearing in front of a 40-foot corrugated iron building. It was disused but looked as if it had been some sort of hay barn.
Burke peered at the gloomy surroundings, half-expecting another vehicle, a van perhaps, with a couple of men at the back doors. There was no one else, a fact that didn’t reassure him as much as it should have.
Spender stopped the car and turned off the engine. The car lights went out and the yard was plunged into darkness.
Burke glanced at the door handle.
‘Now,’ Spender said, turning to his passenger. ‘Tell me, have I got a tout working for me?’
TWENTY-ONE
O’Neill arrived at Musgrave Street to find a message from Mike Hessian.
Hessian was part of Civilian Support and was known as Big Brother round Musgrave Street because he worked CCTV and video surveillance. Eight hours a day he sat locked in a cupboard with nothing but a bank of six screens for company. The Health and Safety men would have had a field day.
Hessian was in his fifties and wore a cardigan and a pair of glasses, perched on the end of his nose. He looked like a librarian more than a peeler. Everyone round Musgrave Street knew though: you could cheat on your wife and she might never find out, but Mike Hessian would know.
He might not have been a proper peeler but Hessian had locked up more guys than anyone in the nick. He gave you what every crime needed: a witness. And Hessian’s witnesses always took the stand. They didn’t get cold feet. They couldn’t be intimidated. In Musgrave Street you learned pretty quickly: when Bap stabbed Mackers, when Gerry did Jackie, when Micky ran over Carsey, and the whole world happened to look the other way, you went to see Mike Hessian.
Last week O’Neill had spent a day in the cupboard, poring over the CCTV from the street around Laganview. They had this, plus footage from the Court House, the Hilton Hotel and the Waterfront Hall. Everything in the vicinity. He’d come up with nothing. Hessian joked that whatever had gone on at Laganview happened in the only blind spot in the whole of the city. O’Neill had rolled his eyes, knowing he was a fool to have expected anything else.
When he got the message from Hessian he headed straight for the cupboard.
‘Mike. How are you doing? Watching EastEnders again, I see.’
Hessian laughed. ‘Detective Sergeant O’Neill. The very man.’
O’Neill took a seat. The room smelled of black coffee and Old Spice aftershave.
‘So what have you got? Please tell me it’s someone running from Laganview holding a baseball bat.’
‘Afraid not. But you did say if there was anything interesting in the Markets, to let you know.’
Hessian pressed some buttons on the control panel in front of him.
‘The Markets is a black spot. Always has been. Cameras don’t last more than a couple of days in there. But take a look at this. It was sent over by Central. It’s the early hours of Sunday morning.’
The read-out in the corner of the screen showed 03:36. O’Neill recognized Cromac Street, the main road that ran along the edge of the Markets. It was less than five minutes from where the body was discovered at Laganview. The picture was grainy but you could make out four traffic lanes and both footpaths. The road was quiet, except for the occasional taxi.
‘Cromac Street,’ O’Neill said.
‘They don’t give you guys those badges for nothing then.’
Little happened on the screen. A traffic-light changed in the black-and-white picture.
‘Very good, Mike. Belfast By Night. You should enter this in the Turner Prize next year.’
‘Hold your horses, Detective. I’ve got a few friends I’d like you to meet. . Here we go.’
A figure ambled into shot. He had his back to the camera so you couldn’t make out his face. He was swaying and had definitely had a few. He continued walking up the road until he was almost out of the picture.
‘OK, Hessian. I get it. Drunk Man Walking. I wouldn’t be practising your Oscar speech just yet.’
‘The younger generation — no patience. Just watch the screen, will you?’
Suddenly, the man on the screen went down as if he’d been shot. He lay motionless on the pavement for several seconds. A taxi drove along the road, slowing slightly, before continuing to the lights and then turning into May Street. Ten seconds later, a figure stepped out of the shadows. He stood over the man and looked down on him, holding something in his hand. The figure crouched over the body, as if he was thinking about something. Then he stood up and walked off purposefully. He crossed the street and disappeared out of shot, down a side-street into the Markets.
‘Have I got your attention yet?’ Hessian jibed.