18
Lennon showered, the water hot as he could stand. He scrubbed himself pink and buried that hard little ball of filth so deep down inside himself he could barely feel it. It was always the same. He’d do it knowing he’d hate himself for it, and afterwards swear he’d never do it again. The burning guilt would last a day or so before he could wash it away and forgive himself.
He turned his mind from the Scottish law student, her sighs and moans and affection as transparent as her underwear. Instead, he thought about Roscoe Patterson’s words. Lennon knew Patsy Toner all too well. He’d interviewed many a thug with Patsy Toner in attendance. The slimy little shit called himself a human rights lawyer. The only human right Patsy Toner cared about was the right to get paid.
Lennon hadn’t seen Toner around the interview rooms and court hearings for quite some time. Logically, he could put it down to the killing of Brian Anderson. When the bent cop was found dead in Toner’s borrowed car, followed by the bloodbath near Middletown, the party moved swiftly to distance itself from the lawyer and the rest of Paul McGinty’s lackeys. Toner’s human rights work would naturally have dried up, but there were still plenty of petty hoods and lowlifes who needed representation. Party backing or not, Patsy Toner was a seasoned defence solicitor, well used to dealing with the PPS and the courts.
But no, Lennon couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen the little lawyer and that stupid moustache of his. He’d make a point of looking him up.
Lennon shut the shower off and stepped out into the steamy bathroom. He towelled himself down and wrapped himself in a dressing gown. The en suite bathroom was small but beautifully appointed. It was one of the main features that sold him on the flat. That and the river view. He stepped into the bedroom, his head shrouded in the towel. The memory came to him as it always did: crying as a child when his mother dried his hair too roughly after bath time.
His mother.
It had been almost a month since he’d last gone to see her in the nursing home. Not that it made much difference to her. Maybe he’d go down to Newry tomorrow evening. Short notice, but the routine would work regardless. He would send a text message to his younger sister Bronagh stating the time he meant to call with their mother. He would receive no reply. If his time clashed with any other family member, they would quietly reschedule. It suited everybody to do it that way.
When Lennon’s mother had first heard a whisper that his brother Liam had joined the local boys, had volunteered for the cause, she had begged him to reconsider. She told him he’d wind up in prison, or worse, shot dead by the cops or the Brits.
Liam had smiled as she ranted, then he wrapped his arms around her, told her not to listen to rumours. He had no interest in fighting anyone. Sure, he had a job with a local mechanic, fixing farm machinery. He had a future. Why would he piss it away on such nonsense?
Lennon remembered Liam making eye contact with him over their mother’s quivering shoulder, and Lennon knew he was lying.
He also knew Liam was lying when he turned up with that black eye.
Lennon had been home from university a month, earning pennies in a local petrol station. The diesel the station sold was hooky stuff, stripped agricultural fuel from one of the plants that were hidden all over the countryside. Everyone knew Bull O’Kane ran them, but everyone knew to keep their mouths shut, even if their cars wound up with ruined fuel pumps from the bootleg diesel. It might cost a grand or more to fix a knackered engine, but opening your mouth to complain would cost you a lot more. It would signal you as a tout, and touts never came out of it well, if at all.
Liam had been breathless and cheery, but unscathed, when Lennon met him for a pint after the hurling match. But he didn’t argue when Liam arrived home in the early hours of the following morning with blood seeping from the welt under his eye and told their mother he’d caught a swipe from a hurling stick at the game.
Later, as birdsong began to drift into the bedroom the two brothers shared, Liamlay staring at the ceiling, his muscled forearms behind his head, his big chest rising and falling. Lennon watched him in the half-light, fear and love and resentment fighting for dominance of his heart. He jerked, startled, when Liam spoke.
‘I’m not a tout.’
‘What?’ Lennon sat up in his bed.
Liam’s voice quivered in his throat. ‘Whatever happens, whatever you hear, I’m no tout.’
‘What the fuck are you talking about?’
Liam paused, then said, ‘Someone else is covering their tracks, laying it on me. If anything happens to me, you remember that. Tell Ma and the girls. Don’t say nothing to anyone else, though, or you’ll wind up in the shite yourself.’
‘I won’t,’ Lennon said. ‘But what’s going to happen?’
‘I don’t know,’ Liam said. ‘Maybe nothing.
Probably
nothing.’ He rolled over onto his side, his eyes glinting in the early light as they met Lennon’s. ‘Look, forget I said anything. I’m just blowing, all right?’
‘All right,’ Lennon said.
‘Listen, we’re all proud of you getting your degree. You stick at it, right? Get the master thing, whatever you call it, and the doctorate. You get out of this shit-hole and make something decent for yourself. You hear me?’
Yeah,’ Lennon said, the word drying to a whisper in his throat.
‘Right,’ Liam said, burrowing down into the bedclothes. ‘Get some sleep.’
Lennon lay back on the bed, but sleep did not come. Looking back across those sixteen years, he sometimes imagined he knew at the time it would be his last real conversation with his brother.
Sixteen years since Liam died. The anniversary had been just two months ago. Sixteen years since Lennon had applied to join the then Royal Ulster Constabulary, making an enemy of almost everyone he’d ever known. Sometimes, when the dawn crept across his ceiling like that time back in Middletown, he cursed the choices he’d made.
Some said that when you’re on your deathbed, it’d be the things you didn’t do that you’d regret. Lennon knew that was a lie.
He rubbed the towel back and forth across his scalp and walked to the open-plan living area.
A stack of letters lay open on the coffee table. On top was a mortgage reminder. He’d pay that tomorrow, phone up and swear it was the bank’s mistake to decline the payment. Two or three credit card statements lay beneath that. They could wait another week or two. So long as he kept the mortgage and the car payments on track, he could survive. Particularly if he didn’t think about it too much.
Lennon took a beer from the fridge and went back to the sofa. The leather cooled his skin where the shower had scalded it. He prised the cap off and took a swallow. He made calculations in his head: how much he needed for bills, how much for food, how much for diesel for the car. When he couldn’t make the figures come out right, he stopped counting.
The phone rang. He answered it.
‘Your first day back on MIT starts early,’ DCI Gordon said. ‘Two dead on the Lower Ormeau. Amess, apparently. I’ll be there in twenty minutes. You’d better be waiting for me.’
‘You’re late,’ Gordon barked as Lennon entered the hall. The DCI waited in the doorway to the living room.
‘I came as quick as I could,’ Lennon said, squeezing past a photographer.
‘Not quick enough,’ Gordon said. You only live along the river a bit. You been drinking?’
‘Just the one,’ Lennon said. He peered past Gordon’s shoulder.
‘He’s confirmed dead,’ Gordon said. ‘At least one stab wound to the chest, probably more. We’ll let the photographer get some snaps before we go in.’
‘You said two. Where’s the other one?’
‘Out the back,’ Gordon said. ‘Only a young fella, too. Looks like he busted his head on the wall. It’s dark as a coal miner’s armpit out there, and the rain’s coming on. We’ll get a tarpaulin over the yard and get a proper look in the morning. The forensics team will come down from Carrickfergus first thing. I want you here to oversee it.’
Lennon leaned over the threshold and scanned the room. The victim, a man with curly dark hair, sat with his back to the door, his arms hanging limp over the sides of the chair. A side table had been tipped over. A vodka bottle and a glass lay on the floor. It didn’t look like the victim’s place, though. Old woman’s furniture, fussy wallpaper, frilly things and tacky ornaments. ‘Anyone else here?’ Lennon asked.
‘The victim’s mother’s just gone.’ Gordon stepped back to let the photographer through. ‘She’s on her way to the City Hospital. Looked like she got a belt in the mouth. They had to sedate her, kept screaming “Bobby did it.” A neighbour says Bobby was her son. A soldier shot him when he drove through a checkpoint twenty years ago.’
‘We can cross him off the list, then,’ Lennon said. He pointed at the body. ‘So who’s our friend?’
‘Well, that’s interesting, as it happens. The deceased is known to us. In fact, he’s been a guest of ours on more than one occasion.’ Gordon smiled. ‘This is – was – Mr Declan Quigley, former driver for the late Paul McGinty.’ Gordon looked at Lennon. ‘What?’
‘Declan Quigley,’ Lennon said.
‘Yes.’
‘Paul McGinty’s driver.’
‘That’s right.’
‘It can’t be a coincidence,’ Lennon said.
‘What?’
‘Kevin Malloy the other night. He was wrapped up in that feud too.’
Gordon put his hand on Lennon’s shoulder. ‘Look, that feud business is long over with. Don’t go jumping to conclusions or you’ll miss something. Declan Quigley was a scumbag. Scumbags know other scumbags, and there’s no shortage of them in Belfast. You’re no good to me if you’re not looking at all the possibilities. Understand?’
‘I understand, it’s just that—’ Lennon trapped that thought behind his teeth.
‘Just what?’
‘Nothing,’ Lennon said. He would make a point of calling on Marie’s landlord tomorrow. The last time Lennon questioned him it turned up nothing, but he’d been subtle, edging around the real questions. This time he’d be a little firmer.
The photographer squeezed past them.
‘On my desk in the morning,’ Gordon called after him. He nudged Lennon. ‘Come on. Take notes. And watch where you put your feet.’
Lennon took a pad and pen from his pocket as he followed Gordon to the centre of the room. They both faced Quigley’s body.
‘Hmm,’ Gordon said. ‘Does anything about Mr Quigley look odd to you, Detective Inspector Lennon?’
‘Yes it does,’ Lennon said.
‘Why?’
Lennon hunkered down by the side of the chair. He pointed with his pen. ‘No defensive wounds to the hands or the forearms. A stab victim will usually try to shield themselves, even try to grab the blade.’
‘So?’
‘So either the attacker moved so fast Quigley didn’t see it coming, or he just let it happen.’
‘And the wound, or indeed wounds?’
Lennon stood up and leaned over the body. A fist-sized red stain sat at the centre of Quigley’s chest. ‘Very clean. Most fatal stabbings are done in a frenzy, lots of punctures scattered around the torso, the arms, the shoulders, the neck, even the head.’
‘Like your friend Mr Rankin did to Mr Crozier,’ Gordon said.
‘That’s right. But this is one, two, maybe three stabs, grouped tight together, directly through the breastbone and into the heart. He probably drowned from the blood filling his chest cavity. Not much mess. The attacker knew what he was doing.’
Something by the upended table caught Lennon’s eye. ‘Look,’ he said, pointing.
Gordon crouched beside him. ‘A knitting needle. I do believe that’s blood on the tip.’
‘Couldn’t be the weapon,’ Lennon said. ‘Knitting needle wounds are tiny. It was definitely a blade that did for our Declan.’
‘I’m inclined to agree,’ Gordon said. ‘Make sure forensics get a sample of that blood off to Birmingham first thing. If we’re lucky, it’s the murderer’s. And if we’re double lucky, we’ll have him on file.’
19
‘Se easy,’ Pyè said. ‘You just hold him for mwen, yes?’
‘Hold him for you?’ Fegan asked.
‘Wi, yes, what I say?’
‘All right,’ Fegan said.
Pyè got out of the car. Fegan followed, closing the passenger door behind him. Its alarm system blipped and blinked as Pyè thumbed the key fob. The pawnshop stood in darkness. The Doyles said Murphy lived above it. They said Murphy shafted them on some jewellery deal, that he’d put money in his pocket that should have gone in theirs. Now they wanted that money back. They said Pyè would do the work. Fegan was just for show.
Pyè hammered the shutters. ‘Hey, Murphy! You home?’
Fegan watched the windows above for lights. Nothing stirred.
Pyè kicked the shutters. ‘Murphy! Mwen know you home!’ He kicked three more times, and the shutters rippled with the force of it.
A window across the street opened. ‘Shut the fuck up! You know what time it is?’
Fegan and Pyè turned to it. A bald-headed man leaned out of a third-storey window.
‘Fuck you!’ Pyè shouted. ‘Mwen fuck you up, motherfucker.’
‘What?’ the bald man asked.
‘Mwen say fuck you,’ Pyè said. ‘Mwen show you mwen knife.’
‘The fuck you talking about?’ the bald man said. ‘You going to talk tough, do it in fucking English, you fucking French-talking son of a bitch!’
‘French?’ Pyè turned to Fegan, waved a hand at the angry man across the street. ‘Li say French?’
‘What?’ Fegan said.
‘Li say French,’ Pyè said. ‘Motherfucker.’ He kicked the shutters again. And again.
A light appeared above the shop. Fegan stepped back onto the road and peered up at it. The window opened, and a red-headed man appeared. ‘Whoever the fuck’s kicking my shutter better have a fucking good reason, I swear to God.’
‘Hey, Murphy!’ the bald man across the street called. ‘You tell your friends not to come round waking people up, you hear me?’
Aw, fuck off, Cabel!’ Murphy shouted. ‘Mind your business and go back to bed.’
‘When people be kicking the shit out of your shop and waking me up, it
is my
business, you Mick bastard.’
‘Fuck you, Cabel,’ Murphy said. ‘Go back to bed or I’ll come over and
put
you to bed, you hear me?’
‘Fuck you, Murphy!’ The bald man slammed his window closed.
Asshole,’ Murphy said. He looked down. ‘Now who the fuck is kicking my shutters?’
‘Open, Murphy,’ Pyè said. ‘Mwen want talk with you.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘Pyè Préval. Come down.’
‘Pyè?’ Murphy leaned out to see better. ‘Why the fuck didn’t you call me? Jesus Christ, you scared the shit out of me. Who’s that with you?’
‘This friend mwen, Gerry,’ Pyè said. ‘Li cool. Come down. Open the fucking door.’
‘Don’t tell him my name,’ Fegan said.
‘What?’ Pyè said.
‘Don’t tell him my name.’
Pyè shrugged. ‘Wi, sure, no name.’
They waited until they saw a light through the shutter. It rose with a mechanical groan to stop at eye level. The door beyond opened, and Pyè ducked under the metal. Fegan followed.
‘Close it,’ Pyè said.
Murphy obliged. He held the button until the shutter sealed them in.
Guitars lined the pawnshop’s walls. Fegan walked in a slow circle, remembering the Martin he’d had back in Belfast, the one Ronnie Lennox left to him. He’d meant to learn to play it, but that hadn’t worked out.
‘So what do you want at this time of night?’ Murphy asked. He wore an open dressing gown, revealing a stained undershirt and pyjama bottoms. His slippers didn’t match.
‘Upstairs,’ Pyè said.
‘What for?’ Murphy asked.
‘Parle,’ Pyè said. ‘Talk.’
‘We can talk down here.’
‘Non,’ Pyè said. ‘Upstairs.’
There on the wall, Fegan saw it. The headstock said C.F. Martin. It looked like the guitar Ronnie had given him, the same shape, the same size. The lacquer hadn’t taken on the same deep gold of age, but it was still pretty. Fegan reached up and brushed the strings with his fingertips. He’d never got to hear what Ronnie’s guitar sounded like. It still sat propped in the corner of his old house on Calcutta Street for all he knew.
‘Hey, don’t touch that,’ Murphy said. ‘It’s expensive.’
‘Non, non, non,’ Pyè said. ‘You don’t say shit to friend mwen Gerry, hear?’
Murphy held his hands up. ‘I’m sorry, Pyè,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean nothing. It’s expensive, is all.’
‘Don’t tell him my name,’ Fegan said.
Wi, sorry,’ Pyè said.
‘I didn’t hear your name,’ Murphy said. ‘Touch the guitar if you want. Knock yourself out.’
‘Upstairs,’ Pyè said.
‘All right,’ Murphy said. ‘Come on.’
He led them through a back room to a narrow staircase. ‘I wasn’t expecting visitors,’ he said as he climbed ahead of them. ‘I would’ve cleaned the place up otherwise.’
The door at the top of the stairs opened onto a small apartment and a ripe odour. Old newspapers gathered in piles around the living room. Murphy toured the place, picking up pornographic magazines and empty beer cans. He ducked into the kitchenette and dumped an armful of detritus under the sink.
Fegan and Pyè exchanged a glance and a grimace.
Murphy came back out. ‘So what’s this about?’ he asked.
‘Sit,’ Pyè said.
‘Jesus, Pyè, you’re making me nervous. Come on, tell me what this is about.’
Pyè pointed at the one chair clear of litter. ‘Sit,’ he said.
Murphy did as he was told.
Pyè looked at Fegan and nodded at the space behind the chair. Fegan moved to it. Murphy twisted to follow Fegan with his eyes.
‘You’re scaring me, boys,’ Murphy said. He kept his head turned to Fegan. ‘You don’t say much, do you? What does he want? Can you talk, Mr No Name? Or are you here just to look mean?’
‘Friend mwen Gerry Fegan,’ Pyè said. ‘Li the meanest motherfucker you ever met. Li a lougawou. Li a bòkò, a bad witch. Li fuck you up big time.’
‘Don’t tell him my name,’ Fegan said.
‘Sure,’ Pyè said. ‘Non worry, Gerry.’
‘Pyè, I don’t know what you’re saying to me.’ Murphy turned first to Fegan, then the Haitian. ‘And I don’t know who the fuck this guy is. Tell me what you want, and I’ll give it to you if I can, all right? Just speak English, okay?’
Pyè stepped carefully over his words. ‘You bought jewels from Doyles. You say jewels worth sa much. You sell jewels, you say jewels worth
sa
much.’ Pyè held his palms up and open as he stepped closer to Murphy, raising and lowering his hands like scales. ‘Sa much,
sa
much. Big different lajan. You put lajan in pocket, wi?’
‘I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,’ Murphy said. He turned in the seat. ‘Gerry. Gerry, right?’
‘No,’ Fegan said. ‘That’s not my name.’
‘Gerry, what’s he talking about?’
‘I’m not Gerry,’ Fegan said. ‘I’m Paddy. Paddy Feeney.’
‘Wi, li Paddy Feeney,’ Pyè said. He pointed at Fegan. ‘Paddy Feeney, li fuck you up.’
Murphy wrung his hands. ‘Gerry, Paddy, whatever the fuck your name is, I don’t give a shit, just please tell me what the fuck he’s saying to me. What does he want?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Fegan said. ‘Pyè, what are you saying to him?’
‘Lajan!’ Pyè shouted. ‘Doyles want they lajan.’
‘What’s ‘lajan’?’ Fegan asked.
‘Lajan!’ Pyè opened his arms wide. ‘Dollar, motherfucker. Dime, quarter, buy stuff, you understand?’
‘Money?’ Fegan asked.
Wi, money!’ Pyè grabbed his own hair in exasperation. ‘Lajan, money. What the fuck I say?’
‘Money?’ Murphy asked. ‘What money?’
‘I don’t know,’ Fegan said. ‘What money, Pyè?’
‘Doyles’money,’ Pyè said. He started to pace. ‘You say jewels worth sa much. You buy jewels off Doyles, wi? But you know jewels worth
sa
much, and you sell them, put lajan in you pocket. Wi?’
‘What?’ Murphy said.
Fegan leaned down to Murphy. ‘I think I know what he’s getting at. Did you buy some jewellery off the Doyles?’
‘Yeah,’ Murphy said. ‘They had some stuff to move. They always have stuff to move. I don’t ask where it comes from, I just find a buyer for it. So what?’
‘I think Pyè reckons you told the Doyles it was worth less than it was,’ Fegan said. ‘And then you sold it to someone else for what it was really worth, and you kept the difference. Does that sound right?’
Murphy nodded first, then shook his head. ‘Yeah, no, that wasn’t it. That wasn’t it at all. The market, you know, what you call it … fluctuates.’ He turned back to Pyè. ‘The market fluctuates. I paid the Doyles market price, right? When I sold the stuff on, the market was in my favour, that’s all.’
‘Doyles want they lajan, they money,’ Pyè said. He took a knife from his pocket, a big hunter’s piece with a serrated blade. ‘This knife mwen. Money. Now, motherfucker.’
Murphy turned back to Fegan. ‘Gerry, tell him—’
‘I’m not Gerry,’ Fegan said.
‘Whatever the fuck your name is, tell him I paid the Doyles a fair price, and I made a fair profit.’
‘I don’t think he’ll listen to me,’ Fegan said.
‘I haven’t got the money,’ Murphy said. He lowered his voice and stretched up to Fegan. ‘You know how much the rent is on this place? It’s only Jersey, I know, but Christ they charge for it, Gerry. I’m one week away from being put out on the street.’
‘That’s not my name,’ Fegan said. He looked up at Pyè. ‘He says he doesn’t have it.’
Pyè raised his eyebrows. ‘Non? Okay.’
‘Okay?’ Fegan asked.
‘Okay?’ Murphy asked.
‘Wi, okay,’ Pyè said. He took two steps forward and stuck the blade in Murphy’s upper arm.
Murphy screamed.
Fegan stepped back.
‘Lajan, blood, no different,’ Pyè said. He pulled the blade from Murphy’s arm and stabbed him in the thigh.
Murphy screamed.
Fegan said, ‘Jesus, Pyè.’
Pyè stood back and said, ‘What? Li no got money, li get knife. No different. Doyles happy.’
Murphy wept. ‘Listen to me, Pyè, I got no money. Fuck, I’m bleeding. It hurts. Jesus, I need a doctor.’
‘Get lajan, mwen get doctor, wi?’
‘I got no money,’ Murphy said. He pressed one hand against his thigh and the other on his upper arm. ‘Jesus, look at the blood.’
Pyè stabbed Murphy’s other thigh. ‘No lajan, no doctor.’
Murphy screamed again. ‘Pyè, you bastard! Fuck!’
Pyè leaned close, his hands on his knees. ‘Mwen say last time. No money, no doctor. Konprann? Understand, motherfucker?’
‘Oh God,’ Murphy said. Sweat mixed with tears on his cheek. ‘I got a couple hundred downstairs in the safe. Take any stock you want. Whatever you can carry, all right? Take it all. Just don’t cut me no more. Please.’
‘That not enough, Murphy.’
‘Please, Pyè, I don’t got it. Please, no more.’
‘Fuck,’ Pyè said. He grabbed Murphy’s hair, forced his head back to expose the throat. He drew back the knife, ready to open Murphy’s jugular.
Murphy said, ‘Please don’t.’
Pyè put his shoulder behind the blade.
Fegan leaned across the back of the chair and grabbed Pyè’s wrist. ‘Don’t,’ he said.
Pyè stared at Fegan. ‘What you do, Gerry?’
‘Don’t,’ Fegan said.
Pyè tried to pull his wrist free, but Fegan held firm. Murphy shrunk away from the blade. Pyè tried to prise Fegan’s fingers from his wrist. ‘Let go,’ he said.
‘No,’ Fegan said. He pushed down and to the side, taking Pyè’s balance.
Murphy slid to the floor and crawled away, blood trailing behind him. He craned his neck to watch Pyè and Fegan struggle.
Pyè grabbed Fegan’s throat with his free hand, the chair still between them. Fegan kneed the back of it, taking Pyè’s feet from under him. The Haitian fell forward and lost his grip on Fegan’s throat. Fegan smashed his forearm across Pyè’s jaw. Pyè’s head rocked to the side, and he blinked. Fegan shifted his weight, taking Pyè’s body with him, and the Haitian slumped to the floor, his eyes blank. Fegan took the knife from his fingers.
‘Stick him, Gerry,’ Murphy hissed. ‘Fucking stick him.’
Fegan looked up from the blade.
Murphy lay in his own blood, hate and fear on his face as it dripped out of him. ‘Go on, stick that motherfucker.’
‘No,’ Fegan said.
Pyè moaned and blinked. His eyes focused on Fegan and the knife. He gasped and scrambled backwards.
‘Get out of here,’ Fegan said. ‘Tell the Doyles I won’t do their dirty work.’
‘They kill you, Gerry.’ Pyè wiped blood from his lip.
‘Maybe,’ Fegan said. ‘Go on, get out.’
Pyè got to his feet. He opened and closed his mouth, worked his jaw from side to side. ‘For him?’ he asked, looking at Murphy. He shook his head. ‘Doyles right. You a crazy motherfucker.’
‘Go,’ Fegan said.
Pyè walked towards the door. He paused at Murphy’s side. ‘Soon,’ he said.
Murphy crawled away from him.
Pyè turned in the doorway. ‘See you round, Gerry.’
Fegan stayed silent and watched him leave. In the quiet, he became aware of Murphy’s ragged breathing.
‘Thank you, Gerry,’ Murphy said as he struggled towards the telephone.
‘That’s not my name,’ Fegan said. He crossed to the telephone, lifted it, and placed it on the floor by Murphy’s bloodstained hand. ‘Call an ambulance,’ he said.
He left Murphy alone and bleeding.