Ли Чайлд - Belfast Noir

Hume and Fisher were already standing at the coffin when he reached the ground floor, twisting the locking screws, one by one, to open it. Healy stopped at the foot of the stairs, wondering if he’d have time to make a run for it once they opened the lid. If he allowed some distance between them, he’d at least have a head start.

They removed the last of the screws and hefted up the lid, raising it in such an angle that the contents were hidden from Healy. He could, however, see the look of revulsion on both their faces as they surveyed the contents. Intrigued, he felt himself moving forward, compelled toward the box against his own better judgement. As he approached, he saw, for the first time clearly, the view that had elicited such a reaction from the two policemen. The man in the coffin, dressed in a suit, had no face. It took him less than a second to recognise the ring he wore on his finger and realise that the corpse was not Martin Logue at all, but his old mentor, Jack Hamill.

Healy took the lid from Fisher. “Happy now?” he asked, quickly checking the nameplate on top. It did say, Martin Logue . Kearney, the sneaky little bastard, must have switched the lids of Logue and Hamill’s in anticipation of just this scenario.

Sure enough, the insouciance of Mark’s swagger as he came down the stairs confirmed as much.

“Jesus, I hope it’s a closed wake,” Fisher commented, glancing again at the dead man. “You’ve not done a great job of the reconstruction.”

“We’ve not started yet,” Healy said. “On account of dealing with you.”

“Do you still want to search him?” Kearney asked.

Hume, leaning into the coffin, yet turning his head slightly away from it, patted the corpse quickly, feeling in around the few spaces between the sides of the box and the body.

“I’m sorry for your trouble,” Hume offered when he was done. “We’ll leave you to it, men.”

* * *

Healy had to stop himself from hugging Kearney as they watched the silver Vauxhall drive away from the front street. Dealing with the police had momentarily distracted him from his other concerns.

But only momentarily.

“Right, we’ll give it half an hour to make sure they’re gone and we’ll get Martin Logue across to the pub and out of my fucking business,” Healy said. He glanced at Kearney, hoping that something in the young man’s expression would reveal what exactly the contents of the coffin marked Martin Logue had been. “And thanks for that.”

Kearney accepted the words with a nod.

Laura appeared in the doorway. “Mrs. Owens is done now. She looks good, if I do say so myself. Better than she did when she was alive, anyway. Being dead suits her.”

Healy nodded. “You’re a star, Lar. Thanks.”

“I know,” she beamed. “Tony was in already too. He said the traffic’s bad so he wanted to start on his way to Roselawn for the two o’clock.”

“What?” Healy managed, sweat popping on his forehead. He glanced at the clock on the wall. It was two fifteen.

“The two o’clock. He took the old guy who blew his face off. Hamill? Tony took him on over to Roselawn for the cremation.”

* * *

Healy sat in his office, staring at the phone. By the time someone in Roselawn had answered his call, the cremation had already begun. There was nothing left to do, no way to prevent it or turn it back. There was also no way he could show up at Kearney’s pub with Hamill’s corpse. And now Hamill would have to be buried in some way. And Big John Kearney would have to be told. And Roselawn would no doubt be in touch whenever whatever was in that coffin started to burn. He guessed that it wasn’t explosives the moment someone answered the phone. The heat, he figured, would already have set them off if that had been what was inside the box.

* * *

Brogan met him outside City Hall. A small group of flag protestors were gathered, holding aloft Union Jacks of their own to compensate for the absence of one fluttering over the council building.

“So, how the fuck did this happen? Just so I can tell Big John.”

“His son swapped the lids when the cops arrived. They came down to search the coffin and opened the one they thought I’d brought up, but it was actually Jack Hamill.”

“That was a good move. And I thought that young fella was thick.”

Healy nodded. “The cops had him and me upstairs, answering questions. For ages,” he said, exaggerating in spite of the fact that Mark Kearney would undoubtedly be asked for his own version of events by his father too. “Tony, my driver, landed and lifted the coffin marked Jack Hamill , which actually contained . . .” He looked to Brogan, hoping he’d finished the sentence for him.

“Shit. So Mark kind of caused it?”

“Kind of,” Healy said quickly, spotting a get-out. “He thought he was helping.”

“He did,” Brogan admitted. “At least the cops didn’t get the stuff and link it to Big John.”

“Look, speaking of the stuff? If it’s explosives in there, Roselawn will know. When they explode, like.”

Brogan shook his head. “That’s not going to be a problem.”

“Or drugs? Every bird in Greater Belfast will be flying around stoned if they’re burning a coffin full of dope. They’ll find out.”

Brogan smiled. “Jesus, calm yourself, Healy. It’s guns! Don’t worry.”

“Guns?” Healy’s stomach lurched. “The bullets will be firing everywhere.”

Brogan shook his head, laughing. “It’s all right. Just pistols.”

“ All right? Crematoriums use fucking magnets to pull out the metal bits of the body that aren’t burned,” Healy explained. “When the burning finishes, they’ll find a load of guns stuck to the magnet. They’ll come back to me about it.”

Brogan grimaced, laid a hand on Healy’s shoulder. “Just say nothing. You know nothing. Someone in Dundalk arranged it; you don’t know their names or where they live. That’s your story and you stick to it. But you can’t name Big John, or me obviously. Or we’ll kill you.”

“I’ll go to jail,” Healy said, the weight of the hand seeming to put him off balance.

“Then we’ll do that girl of yours instead.”

“I can’t go to jail,” Healy responded, aware that his eyes were filling.

“You’ll not get long if you say you knew nothing about it. You could be out in less than a year. And we’ll see you right. You’ll be looked after.”

“It’s not fucking fair!” Healy snapped, loud enough for a blonde woman in a Union Jack hat-and-scarf set to look across at them.

“Them’s the breaks, Healy. Remember, you can’t name us. Whatever happens, Big John will see you’re looked after. And you’ll not owe any more favours. We’re all square now. I’ll even get that halfwit of a son of his out of your hair.”

Healy felt his phone vibrate in his pocket, recognised the number as Roselawn. “That’s them now,” he said, dread running like lead through his veins, settling in the nest of nerves that seemed to be twisting around his stomach.

“Good luck, buddy,” Brogan offered, patting his shoulder and walking off, nodding to the blonde woman. “You’re a stand-up guy too.”

* * *

There was no sign of the police car at Roselawn when Healy arrived. The woman who had called simply said that he was required over an issue regarding the cremation of Jack Hamill. He attempted, for a moment, to feign surprise, but didn’t see the point. “I’m on my way,” he’d said, resignedly.

He recognised Lorcan Kirk, one of the staff, when he went in. Kirk was speaking with a young couple about the various services that they could supply for the young woman’s father. Healy stood in the waiting room, unable to sit and flick through the Ulster Tatler, refusing the offer of tea from the receptionist, feeling fairly sure that he’d not be able to keep it down.