He tried to consider the other angle. Special Forces. It was equally unappetising. Everyone knew the SAS ran covert operations in Northern Ireland during the Troubles. But that was years ago. Why would they be here now? Why would they be chasing kids into building sites? Leaving them for dead?
O’Neill didn’t want to go back to the station. The thought of his desk, the file, and now a set of boot-prints that could put the PSNI or the British Army in the frame. He imagined the headlines: PSNI Death Squad; British Special Forces Still in Northern Ireland. If that wouldn’t bring the Assembly down, he didn’t know what would.
O’Neill got in his car and headed out to the Ravenhill Road. He turned into a side-street and parked the car; 150 yards away sat 56 Ravensdene Park. It was Tony Burke’s house. O’Neill wanted to do a door knock. See what he could stir up. He wondered how much of it was not wanting to think about the other two possibilities.
In the car he hesitated. It was the size of Burke’s house. When he’d given his address, O’Neill had imagined one of the small terrace houses at the lower end of the Ravenhill Road. This was leafy suburbia though. Detached and semi-detached villas. It was all bay windows, driveways and gardens. Burke might be a foreman but he’d said he was a labourer before that. So how did a labourer end up in a place like this?
It was after five. Burke would be home from work soon. O’Neill waited, watching. Radio Ulster hummed at a low volume in the car. Gerry Anderson was reminiscing about showbands and dance halls, a Belfast O’Neill never knew, but had heard about from his mother. It sounded cosy. But then, nostalgia always did. The radio announced that rush-hour traffic was building on all the usual routes.
O’Neill’s mobile rang. It was Ward.
‘How you doing, Sergeant?’
‘Still alive. Or just about, anyway. I’m outside Burke’s. Going to make a house call.’
‘Sounds good. A bit of community relations work.’
O’Neill thought about telling him about the boot-prints, about the potential link back to the police or Special Forces. He wondered what Ward would say. The RUC had bent the rules to the point where some people asked themselves if there were any rules. The ends justified the means. But what about now?
Just then a white Transit van pulled up outside number 56, and a man got out. Same height, same build as Burke, but it wasn’t him. The man put a key in the door and entered the house. It looked natural, as if he’d done it a million times before. O’Neill still had Ward on the phone.
‘Sir, can you run a registration for me?’
‘Go ahead.’
O’Neill gave Ward the licence-plate.
‘Nissan Almera. Red. Registered to a Martin Cushnan, 28 Ladas Drive, Newry,’ Ward read out.
‘What would you say if I told you your red Nissan was a white Transit van?’
‘I’d say false plates.’
‘I’d say you’re right, sir. And it’s parked outside Burke’s. The driver just went in. Looked like he’d lived there all his life.’
‘Newry licence. . Do you want to take a bet on the brother, Michael?’
‘DI Ward,’ O’Neill said, feigning surprise. ‘The same brother Burke told us he hadn’t seen in six months? You’re not suggesting someone lied to the PSNI, are you?’
Ward laughed. O’Neill looked at his watch and yawned.
‘How do you want to play it?’ Ward asked.
‘I’m going to hang back. See if Tony comes home. Can you put in the request for Burke’s phone record? He’s just lost his innocent bystander status.’
‘Anything else, Sergeant? A nice cup of tea? A wee portion of fish and chips, perhaps?’
‘Sounds good. And plenty of salt and vine-’
Ward hung up on him mid-sentence.
He sat back in his chair in Musgrave Street. Ward knew the Review Boards were less than two weeks away. He also knew you couldn’t force a case. It was like trying to grab the soap in the bath, his old Sergeant had once said. The tighter you squeeze, the more it slips out of your grasp. Still, none of that was going to help O’Neill.
Ward realized the younger man was being hung out on something the rest of the world had forgotten about a long time ago. Last week Laganview had made its procession back through the newspaper. It went from Tuesday’s front page, to page four on Wednesday. By Thursday there was a single paragraph on page eight. It sat beside a story on the latest Northern Irish contestant in Big Brother. Stuart Colman’s words echoed in Ward’s head: footballers and soap stars, who’s shagging who.
O’Neill sat and waited. The radio show ticked over. Five o’clock came and went. Then six. Then seven. The traffic eased as folk arrived home. O’Neill was hungry. Across the North, people were tucking into their tea. He tried not to think about it. Egg and chips, bowls of stew, plates of lasagne. He lit another B amp;H and wound down the window. He looked into the packet. There were only three left.
O’Neill glanced at the clock. He had been supposed to come off-duty an hour ago.
At around eight, a Ford Mondeo pulled in behind him. A figure got out of the driver’s side and O’Neill’s passenger door opened. Ward slipped into the seat beside him. He tossed a fresh packet of cigarettes on to the dashboard, handing O’Neill a cup of coffee and a stale bun.
‘You been baking again, Inspector?’
‘Canteen leftovers. You don’t want to see what you might have won.’ O’Neill took a bite and a drink of coffee. He immediately felt his spirits lift.
‘Did your date cancel on you again?’ he asked.
‘Listen, Billy No Mates. You’re not exactly in a position to talk.’
O’Neill agonized over telling Ward about the boot. He felt sure the Inspector would tell him to follow the investigation, wherever it took him. But where would it take him? Getting the shoe-size of every uniform in Musgrave Street? Cross-checking it with who was working Sunday night and who was off? O’Neill’s stomach turned over at the thought. He imagined the comments from other cops.
‘That’s him there.’
‘Bangs up his mates.’
‘Whose side does he think he’s on?’
By ten o’clock the Burke house was in darkness. No one had left. The brother’s van was still outside.
‘Not seen him for six months? My arse,’ O’Neill said.
‘Looks like that’s him for the night,’ Ward pronounced.
‘Think so.’
‘Let’s get to our own beds then.’
Ward got out of the car and into his own. He drove off, turning right down the Ravenhill Road.
O’Neill was about to turn on the ignition but stopped. He sat on for another twenty minutes. Finally, he cursed Burke, him and his fucking brother, and turned the key. The engine caught first time and he drove across town to the empty flat in Stranmillis.
The next morning, O’Neill got a call from Rob Leonard at the pathology lab.
‘I’ve been working some more on Laganview, looking at your body.’
Still it was O’Neill’s body.
‘I’ve got something you’re going to want to come and see. Can you make it up to the Royal Victoria Hospital this morning?’
‘I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’
O’Neill was relieved. Anything to get out of the station, away from the paperwork, which only reminded him of the dead weight of Laganview round his neck. He was a day closer to the Review Boards and still nothing. He’d seen Burke’s brother last night and was going to pay him a visit later that day. It might be something. Then again it might not.
The State Pathologist’s Department was a thirteen-man operation, located in a nondescript building within the RVH. Every year, thousands of hospital visitors parked in its shadow without any idea what they were next to. At the entrance to the hospital, people clutched flowers and bottles of Lucozade, gazing up in bewilderment at signposts for various wards. Old men in dressing-gowns stood on the steps smoking, their oxygen canisters wheeled out, standing beside them. They held their cigarettes between two fingers, a defiant gesture to the Grim Reaper or whatever the end might look like.