Matt McGuire - Dark Dawn

Lynch’s eyes narrowed. He pulled up his collar and turned down Donegal Avenue. He could do one more. One more, then out for good. It was the only way.

Ward was furious.

He had been sitting in his office after a briefing meeting when Wilson had knocked on the door. There had been an unofficial complaint made against O’Neill. Ward’s ears had pricked up immediately. An ‘unofficial’ complaint? You either had a complaint or you didn’t. And if you did, then be man enough to at least stand behind it.

O’Neill had been spotted in the middle of the night, climbing over the fence at Laganview. Ward went on the attack.

‘He’s investigating a murder, sir.’

‘I know what he is doing, Inspector.’

‘So what’s the problem?’

‘Climbing back into a crime scene at four o’clock in the morning? It’s not exactly how we want people to see the police operating, is it?’

‘A murder investigation? I think people want to see the police arresting people and putting them away. I don’t think they care how many fences have to be climbed to get it done.’

‘You know what I’m talking about, Ward. Anyway, this isn’t an argument — I’m telling you. Next time, O’Neill’s getting an official warning. Conduct unbecoming.’

Ward knew Wilson would have liked to have gone the whole hog this time. He couldn’t though. If the complaint wasn’t official there’d be no record and you couldn’t go after someone with a piece of hearsay.

How did it end up on Wilson’s desk though? These things normally went through official channels which always bypassed local command structures. There was only one person who’d have the balls to call in with something like that, and call it in directly to Wilson — Spender.

Ward grabbed a set of car keys from his desk and stormed out of the office. In the corridor he blew past DC Kearney who was on his way to see him. ‘Inspector War-’

Ten minutes later, Ward was outside a glass office block on Linenhall Street. He parked on double yellow lines. Policeman’s privilege. Inside, he took the elevator to the twelfth floor where he was greeted by walls of glass. At reception a girl sat beneath the large stylized logo of Spender Property. She looked up.

‘Can I help-’

Ward walked past her as if she wasn’t even there. He heard her lift the phone behind him. ‘Security. .’

A few twists and turns, and Ward found Spender’s office. He marched past the PA and opened the heavy wooden door.

‘Excuse me! What do you think you are doing?’ a shrill voice demanded from behind him.

The office was empty. Ward turned and rounded on the girl at the desk.

‘Where is he?’

The girl was in her thirties, immaculately made up. The kind of girl who is attractive and definitely knows it. Ward had seen the type a million times. There wasn’t a PA in the world who wasn’t on a power trip. They controlled access to the MD and always thought they were the most important person in the whole company.

The girl was affronted that someone could dare to walk into the office and make demands of her like that. She made to dig her heels in. She’d heard Carol on reception call down for Security and they’d be there any minute.

Ward leaned over the desk, six inches from her face, seething.

‘Listen to me, love. And listen carefully. If you don’t want to be arrested right now for obstructing a police investigation, you’ll tell me where he is.’

The girl wobbled under the threat. Ward saw it in her eyes and closed in, speaking quickly.

‘I’m going to count to three. One. Two. Thr-’

‘Laganview. He’s at Laganview. They have a meeting down there with. .’

Ward turned on his heel and was off, halfway down the corridor.

At reception Carol stood next to a security guard, pointing at Ward as he marched towards them. The guard made to come forward. The detective pulled out his warrant card as he walked past.

‘Don’t even think about it, son.’

Ward slipped between the doors of the lift as they closed behind the security guard.

Ten minutes later, the Mondeo skidded on the makeshift gravel car park at Laganview. There was a lot of expensive tin in the car park — two Jaguars, a Land Rover and a couple of Mercedes.

He looked down into the site and saw a group of men in suits and yellow hard hats. Spender stood in the middle, holding court, pointing out various aspects of the construction to the visitors. On the perimeter another man stood clutching a mobile phone, pointing at it in an attempt to get his boss’ attention. Ward knew it would be the office, letting them know he was on his way.

He walked in front of the group, positioning himself in their line of sight. He held up his warrant card and spoke in a loud voice, almost shouting.

‘Mr Spender. DI Ward, Musgrave Street CID. I need to ask you a few more questions about the murder on your building site.’

Spender’s bonhomie suddenly evaporated. The expressions on the surrounding faces changed from being impressed to prurient interest. Spender turned to the man holding his mobile phone, his face hiding his anger. Ward wondered if the guy would still have his job by the end of the day.

‘Paul, can you take our guests round and show them the walkway and the view of the river? I’ll join up with you all in a minute.’

The crowd were chaperoned away, leaving Ward and Spender alone. The developer waited until his guests were out of earshot, before hissing, ‘What do you think you’re playing at, Ward? I’m going to have you for this. This is police harassment.’

‘Harassment? Don’t start putting ideas in my head. Or maybe you’d just like to put in another private phone call to Wilson. Tell him his boys aren’t playing cricket. Is our wee investigation messing with the value of your portfolio? Is that what it is? Is that all it is? Because at the moment I’m beginning to wonder.’

Spender looked towards the group of men. Ward continued:

‘If you want to make an official complaint, then fire away. Just know that while you’re stirring the pot, I’ll be busy working my way through every planning application, every tax return, every single piece of paper with your name on. You see, I’m old. No hobbies. I’ve a lot of free time on my hands. The Hightown Road. The Gasworks project. The Cathedral Quarter. I imagine there’ll be a few interesting names in there. A few city councillors, perhaps? I am sure this would be something the Belfast Telegraph would be pretty keen to hear about. So by all means, complain away. I’ll look forward to it.’ Ward walked away, leaving Spender alone.

The developer stood where he was, watching the detective as he left the building site. He looked over at the group of businessmen on the other side of the apartments’ steel skeleton. A few of the group were watching the police officer as he picked his way back to the car park.

Spender cleared his throat and straightened his tie. As he returned to the group he thought of the questions they’d now have and how he would set about repairing the damage.

Marty carried Petesy for days. He was carrying him when he phoned his cousin in the Ardoyne. He was carrying him when he went into the Holy Lands for Thursday’s paper round. He was carrying him when he saw Cara and her mate, and they pretended not to see him. He was carrying him when Micky’s ma answered the door and told him to sling his hook. He was still carrying him at three in the afternoon, walking across the Albert Bridge, when a black Mondeo pulled up alongside him.

The window rolled down and a peeler shouted his name, telling him to get in the car. Any other day, Marty would have bolted. Across the road, between the cars and off. He’d have been away before the peeler could have lifted his radio. Today though, he was tired — tired of the weight, tired of the guilt, tired of carrying his friend. Marty slumped into the passenger seat of the car. After all, it was only the peelers. What was the worst they could do to you?