Matt McGuire - Dark Dawn

Ward took a five iron and knocked the ball towards the first green. He couldn’t get up in two any more. In fact, he hadn’t been able to manage it for a few years. There was no need to worry though. That was golf. It had a habit of telling you things you didn’t always want to admit to yourself.

Hannah had died in the early nineties. It was a big funeral. Guys came in from everywhere. From across the water. The church was dotted with CID from the Met, from GMP, from Strathclyde. Ward wondered what the Sarge would have said about the likes of Wilson, the careerism, the way the numbers-men now owned the force.

He pulled a wedge from his bag, thinning his third which skipped through the green and buried itself in a hedge that ran along the boundary of the course. After a quick hoke Ward walked to the second. An hour and a half later he was done. A par, a couple of bogeys and two lost balls. It would do. Coming down the eighth he had stopped and looked back up the fairway behind him. A pair of solitary footprints weaved their way down the wet grass. It was a quiet morning. There wasn’t a breath of wind and Ward felt as if the whole world was there, just for him.

Afterwards he lifted his clubs into the boot of his car. Ward looked round and saw that the car park was empty. He reached into the pocket of his golf bag and took out his personal protection firearm, a Glock 19. He put it in the door of the car, started the engine and headed for Musgrave Street.

***

Catherine sat in the coffee shop, her bag on her knee, thumbing the brown envelope. John was late. He was always late. It was half eleven and the lunchtime rush would be starting soon. She didn’t want an audience. Didn’t want to hear someone gossiping about their workmates while she handed her husband, the father of her child, a set of the divorce papers. She tried not to think about it, about what he would say. If only she could just hand them over — that was enough. It would start and she knew things would take on a momentum of their own.

The solicitor had told her he would post them to her husband. It was easier that way. She didn’t agree. No, she’d do it herself. It may only be your job, she thought, but it’s my life. And anyway, things aren’t always supposed to be easy.

As she waited, Catherine went over it in her head. It wasn’t a discussion. They weren’t going to argue. She would be calm. Tell him what was happening. Hand him the envelope. Simple.

A waiter dressed in black swept up to the table and asked for her order. She said she was waiting and looked at her watch. Her line manager at Anderson amp; James was a total clock-watcher. She’d have to be back no later than twelve.

O’Neill hurried into the coffee shop, his black coat fanning out as he turned the corner. His suit needed cleaning, his shirt could do with an iron and he hadn’t shaved. He leaned down to kiss her and she offered him her cheek. His smell lingered near her face, that familiar mix of tobacco and aftershave. Catherine felt some vague memory of desire stirring up inside her. She pushed it back down, reminding herself what she was there to do.

O’Neill liked his wife in her work-clothes. The black suit and crisp white shirt. He found he always wanted her the most when she was dressed like that. He imagined her walking round the office, issuing orders, getting things done. He loved hearing her on the phone to colleagues, the authority in her voice. It reminded him of the girl he had met seven years ago, when she was about to finish her degree at Queen’s.

O’Neill’s phone rang in his pocket. He looked at the number. It was Wilson. The Chief Inspector had taken to calling him on a daily basis. He wanted updates. Wanted to know what progress was being made with the case. O’Neill imagined Wilson taking notes at the other end of the phone, compiling a dossier against him. He swore under his breath and rejected the call, putting the phone back in his pocket.

The waiter swept in again with his pen poised, a mix of pomp and self-importance. O’Neill picked up the menu, his eyebrow creased at the two-page list of drinks. Cappuccinos, lattes, americanos, all in Italian sounding sizes.

‘Tall skinny latte,’ Catherine said.

The waiter wrote her order down with a contrived flourish.

‘Do you have coffee?’ O’Neill asked sarcastically.

‘Sir?’

‘Black coffee?’

The waiter picked up the vibe and held back on his offer of muffins and pastries. He went back to the bar to place their order.

Catherine was embarrassed. Embarrassment became annoyance, which then became resentment and finally anger.

‘I see charm school’s really paying off?’

O’Neill had been hoping she was going to ask him back, to move in again with her and Sarah. He’d hoped the ‘break’ was over, that she’d had some space, that Sarah’s constant questions about when her daddy was coming home had finally brought her round. Looking at Catherine’s face, he knew he hadn’t helped his cause.

‘Wise up, love. It’s a cup of coffee.’

‘It’s not a cup of coffee, it’s you.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Why do you have to be so dismissive? You don’t care about anything that’s not chasing round Belfast, trying to lock up the latest arsehole who’s broken the law.’

‘All I did was ask if they had coffee.’

‘You know exactly what you did.’

Catherine broke off as the waiter returned with their drinks. He placed them on the table and went back to the counter. O’Neill lifted the cup and took a drink.

‘Mmmm. Good coffee,’ he said with mock enthusiasm. ‘How’s yours?’

‘F-off, John,’ Catherine replied, smiling a little, despite herself.

She felt herself start to soften, being won over by O’Neill’s sense of humour. He always did this to her. But no, she reminded herself, not today. She had to remember what she was there for. She went back and tried to find the resentment. It was easier that way.

‘It’s always the same. It was the same when we went out for dinner that time.’

‘That again? Is this a history lesson? Is that what you asked me to meet you for? To talk about some dinner we went to last year?’

‘There you go. If it’s not important to you it’s not important to anyone.’

Catherine had invited two other couples, women from work and their husbands. It was to celebrate her birthday. They’d met at half seven on the Saturday night. O’Neill had told her he’d finish his shift at five but he still wasn’t home from work. She’d spoken to Jack Ward who’d said he was questioning a suspect but he’d get him out of there as soon as possible. O’Neill had been an hour late. Catherine was furious and struggled to keep a lid on things.

Her eyes bored into the menu while they all waited for him to arrive at the restaurant.

‘Those criminals,’ she laughed, cursing herself for repeating her husband’s words. ‘They don’t work a nine to five like the rest of us.’

In the cafe, O’Neill slurped his coffee. ‘It’s not my fault those girls married two of the most boring men on the planet.’

‘You could have been polite.’

‘I was polite. I listened to rocketing house prices, to fluctuations in the stockmarket, to the sound of the new Mercedes. . you know, the S-class just wasn’t going to be big enough.’

‘You got drunk and called him an arsehole.’

‘He was an arsehole.’

‘That’s not the point.’

‘He asked me how my day was. I’d spent three hours interviewing a sixteen-year-old girl who had been raped by her step-father. It took an hour for her to stop hyperventilating so that she could string a sentence together. She kept saying, “It was my fault. It was my fault.” And you wonder why I didn’t give a shit about the fuel injection in your man’s fucking car?’