The two men sat in silence as the car made its way up the Newtownards Road. They passed Stormont, its white imperial face lit up against the black night sky. Lynch looked at the building, the home of the Northern Ireland Assembly. For decades it had been a symbol of everything that was wrong with the North. From there, successive Unionist governments had put the boot into Catholics. Now everyone was round the table, the Chuckle Brothers, playing Happy Families. It was easy to be happy when you were taking home thousands every year for sitting round talking all day.
The roads were quiet, except for a few solitary cars, weaving their way through the dark.
‘We’re playing taxi tonight. Making a pick-up,’ Molloy said. ‘Taking it to a drop off. Easy money.’
Lynch imagined Robert De Niro in Taxi Driver. Was it Travis Bickle, he was called? He remembered the bulging eyes, the psychotic voice. ‘Are you looking at me?’ He wondered who fitted the part better, him or Molloy. Molloy liked to think he was dangerous, that he lived on the edge. Lynch smiled quietly to himself, remembering there was only one of them that had been to see a shrink in the last few weeks.
The car turned off the main road into a large council estate. Rows of pebble-dashed houses, once white but now a dull grey, were lit up by orange sodium street-lamps. On every corner the kerbstones were painted red, white and blue. Molloy pulled up beneath a 30-foot Loyalist mural. A masked gunman loomed over the car, clutching an AK-47. Prepared for Peace. Ready for War.
Lynch didn’t like it. Peace Process or no Peace Process. A couple of Catholics, parked in Ballybeen at two in the morning?
‘Don’t panic there, Lynch,’ Molloy said. ‘This isn’t a trip down Memory Lane. It’s the new Northern Ireland. You’ve got to remember we’re all in this together.’
Lynch felt his senses sharpen. They had been slowly tightening all day and were now razor-sharp. He felt as though he was aware of everything. The estate outside — he’d immediately scoped the four places someone might come from. He had an escape route for each scenario. He could sense Molloy’s hands and knew where the other man’s eyes were looking. He heard the other man’s breathing, sensed its rhythm. He was looking for a sign. Anything. A split-second head-start. Half a chance. It might be all he got.
‘So what’s the story?’ Lynch asked.
‘You don’t need to know that,’ Molloy answered. After a few seconds he continued: ‘It’s purely business these days.’
‘I see.’
‘You don’t need to see, Lynch,’ Molloy told him. ‘That’s not your job. You just need to do.’
Lynch rolled his eyes. Molloy had memorized every bad gangster film he’d ever seen. The more Lynch looked at the estate, the painted kerbstones, the mural, the more he wondered if he wasn’t in fact the package. Might McCann be delivering him up to somebody?
Molloy reached into the back seat and pulled out an Adidas bag. He took out a handgun, tucking it into his trouser belt before tossing one to Lynch. It was heavy steel, black, almost new. Glock 19. Standard issue PSNI. Molloy saw Lynch’s surprise at the make of weapon.
‘We’ve got friends all over the place these days.’
Lynch slid the magazine out of the handle, checked the ammo and hit it home with the heel of his hand. He slid back the chamber, the mechanism snapping back on its spring. He was ready to go.
‘Bag’s got the money in it. Anything seems wrong, we keep hold of the cash and get out,’ Molloy said.
‘You don’t know these guys?’
‘Know them? Yes. Trust them?’
Molloy raised his eyebrows and exhaled. ‘That’s a different question.’ Molloy now was markedly different from the man Lynch had followed along Victoria Street. He might be full of shit, but he was in control. The adrenaline was pumping through Lynch’s body. He’d been there enough times to know that, even if his heart was pounding, his hands would remain still, his voice steady. Lynch didn’t know why. He couldn’t explain it. It had always been that way.
Molloy looked at his watch. He left the headlights off and pulled the car round the corner, parking in front of a pebble-dashed house.
‘Right. Let’s go.’
Driving back down the Newtownards Road, the relief in the car was palpable. Everything in the house was as it should have been. The door had opened and they went in without exchanging words. There were two men. A blue sports bag sat on the coffee-table. Four kilos of white powder, wrapped in clear plastic and duct tape. One of the men spoke.
‘Do you want to check it?’
‘Don’t need to,’ Molloy answered. ‘I know where you live.’
The three men laughed at the old Northern Irish threat. Lynch didn’t imagine it was the first time any of them had said it.
When they were out of Ballybeen, Molloy had taken the Glock back off him.
In the city the car headed along Ann Street, turning in behind the huge stone edifice of the Belfast cathedral. For a second, an 80-foot Celtic cross towered over the vehicle. Behind the cathedral, the narrow cobblestone lanes glistened from the rain. Molloy navigated his way through several tight turns before pulling up at an unmarked door. It looked like an emergency exit.
‘What’s this place?’ Lynch asked.
‘Enough of the questions. Christ, it’s like being out with Anne Robinson.’
The two men got out of the car, Molloy carrying the blue sports bag. He kicked the steel door. After thirty seconds it opened and a squat figure with a shaved head stared out at them. Lynch recognized him. It was one of the bouncers from Mint.
‘Right, Ivan?’ Molloy said.
The man stood aside, giving Molloy space to enter. Through the door Lynch could see a commercial kitchen. Stainless-steel counters and white tiles were illuminated by powerful lights. He went to follow but the bouncer put a large hand in his chest.
‘Who this?’ he asked in a thick Eastern-European accent.
‘He’s with me.’
The man looked at Lynch as if he was a piece of shit someone had walked across his new carpet.
‘No.’
The heavy steel door closed in Lynch’s face.
He stood in the alley, wondering if Molloy would reappear. He didn’t and after a couple of seconds Lynch walked off in the direction of the docks. He rounded the corner and saw the unlit sign for the nightclub overhead. He walked past the doorway where he had waited for four hours the week before.
He had done the job. His debt was paid. McCann couldn’t complain.
TWENTY-SEVEN
It was two in the afternoon. Musgrave Street smelled like cold coffee, stale sandwiches and packets of crisps.
O’Neill was looking through the material Ward had put together on Spender. He’d brought him up to speed on his visits to Cultra. O’Neill had done some more digging but Spender came up clean. The best O’Neill could do was the complaint from twenty years back and a couple of parking tickets. The son’s record was interesting. It had the classic drug pattern — high on desperation, low on execution. Junkies didn’t make for the most subtle or patient of thieves.
How did this relate to Laganview though? And what about the notebook? Would Spender go so far as to have someone killed? Was it revenge on whoever got his son into drugs? Did someone go after his son? Was someone sending a message to Spender himself?
The other DCs on the shift, Kearney and Larkin, were both at their desks typing up. Kearney finished and clicked ‘save’ in theatrical triumph.
‘Have some of that, you little bastard.’
O’Neill’s eyes drilled into the back of his head. Everything felt like an accusation, as if the world was rubbing his face in Laganview. For two weeks the walls of Musgrave Street had been closing in on him. It seemed as if he couldn’t walk down the corridor without bumping into Wilson. The Review Boards were coming up in ten days. O’Neill knew that the Chief Inspector was going to make a move to get him out of CID, and this would be where he’d do it. It would be a committee job. On the surface it would read like standard protocol. But Wilson would have the deck stacked long before the meeting. It would be all polite smiles. They would simply be asking questions. Trying to ascertain O’Neill’s competency in his current role. O’Neill knew Laganview would be the final nail in the coffin. Proof that he wasn’t right for CID. It would be in everyone’s best interest. A fresh start for him. A new challenge. All that bullshit.