Matt McGuire - Dark Dawn

Lynch listened as O’Neill moved on, exhaling a long, quiet, controlled breath.

He heard the cop work his way down the entry, counting the steps as they grew more faint. Sixty seconds. O’Neill was 100 feet away. If they didn’t find him now they’d seal the block and go house-to-house. Lynch knew this was his chance.

He reached up and slid the deadbolt as if it was a detonator pin. He then sprang the door, running towards the near end of the entry. He heard O’Neill turn but didn’t look back. Lynch kept his head down and sprinted. A set of car tyres screeched somewhere behind him. He cut off the road and ran down a narrow pedestrian walkway. Lynch burst out of the Markets and on to the main road, two cars skidding to avoid the figure that suddenly appeared in their windscreen. Running full speed, Lynch made it across four lanes of traffic and away.

O’Neill arrived ten seconds later and caught a glimpse of him as he turned down a side-street and made off in the direction of the city centre.

O’Neill put his hands on his knees. His lungs were on fire, burning in his chest. Thirty seconds later, Ward pulled up in a navy Mondeo. O’Neill got in the car, still heaving, trying to get his breath back.

‘You see? What did I tell you about jogging?’

Back in Musgrave Street O’Neill stood in the car park and worked his way through three cigarettes, lighting one from the other.

They would lose Lynch after that. He’d go off the radar completely. Mike Hessian in CCTV would watch everyone who came in and out of the Markets. O’Neill would have someone sitting on the house and someone opposite The George in a disused office block. He’d be given two days. After that, the additional manpower would have to be reassigned. Resources were scarce and O’Neill would be on his own again.

The day he and Ward had sat outside The George and then followed Lynch was what had done it. Walking behind him down May Street, O’Neill couldn’t help feeling he knew Lynch, that he’d seen him before. A couple of days later it clicked. The attack on Molloy. He’d gone back to the CCTV. There were only three seconds where the attacker was walking in the open. O’Neill had watched it over and over. He had Hessian pull up the afternoon video of May Street from when they had followed him. It was the same walk, the same shoulder roll, the same head down.

They’d pulled Lynch’s address from his probation record. Last registered in Brixton, South London. O’Neill checked the records to find out who he had celled next to in the Maze. Jackie Hurson, a lifer from Derry, was on one side. On the other was Peter Hughes. He was from Belfast. The Markets. Bingo.

They’d blown it though. Lynch had vanished. He would have left Belfast straight away and headed across the border. They’d never find him. O’Neill fought hard not to think about the Review Boards the following week. What would happen would happen. If Wilson came for him then fuck it, there wasn’t a whole lot he could do about it. Laganview might bury him, but so what — it would have buried anyone. He still had a week though.

O’Neill stubbed out his cigarette and headed back into the station.

O’Neill came off his shift at eight, thinking about another stint outside The George. The day had dragged after getting so close to Joe Lynch, only to have him slip away. He was hungry and decided to stop off at a place near the City Hall. He knew he’d make a better decision on a full stomach.

The Last Stop cafe was mostly used by city-bus drivers as Donegall Square was the main terminus. The waitress was in her fifties and looked as if she’d been on her feet all day.

‘Yes, love?’ she asked, as O’Neill took a seat.

‘What’s good?’

‘Stew.’

‘That’ll do.’

Tucking into the bowl, O’Neill looked out at Belfast, settling into another gloomy evening. A steady succession of buses pulled up outside, rattling the windows as they accelerated away. A few late-night shoppers stood queuing — two girls clutched shopping bags, a man read the Irish News and two old dears nattered away to each other.

O’Neill pierced a piece of potato and lifted it to his mouth. The woman had been right, he thought, the stew’s not. . His fork froze in mid-air. The man at the bus stop had folded up his paper and sat looking at him.

It was Joe Lynch.

Their eyes met and held each other’s gaze. Lynch had got away twice and yet here he was, presenting himself to O’Neill.

As if he read O’Neill’s thoughts, Lynch raised his eyebrows and stood up from the bus stop. He folded the paper, tucked it under his arm and casually walked away, inviting. O’Neill dropped his fork and hurried out of the cafe.

‘Here — you!’ the woman shouted from behind the counter, but O’Neill was out the door.

Outside he could make out Lynch, picking his way between the number sixteen and the forty-five. He kept up a steady pace but didn’t seem to be in a hurry. At the street, Lynch turned and glanced over his shoulder, checking O’Neill was there. The detective wondered what he was playing at. Maybe he wanted to talk. Maybe it was some kind of set-up. O’Neill glanced behind him and set off after Lynch, dodging between two parked cars, watching him cross the main road and head down Donegall Avenue.

Belfast’s main shopping street was crowded with late-night shoppers. O’Neill reached for his mobile and dialled Ward. He cursed when it went straight to answerphone. Lynch turned right towards Corn Market, past British Home Stores and Mothercare. O’Neill studied him carefully. He had looked back a couple of times, checking on the progress of the detective. O’Neill felt safe: the streets were packed and there would be plenty of witnesses. Lynch wouldn’t try anything. From what Ward had told him, Lynch was a pro, someone who knew what he was doing. He wouldn’t take a chance on something like this.

They walked down High Street, then into North Street and the Cathedral Quarter. The road narrowed into a cobbled entry with the designer shops and restaurants on either side. Lynch slowed as he approached Mint, heading for the door to the bar. He paused at the bottom of the steps and looked over his shoulder, straight at O’Neill; then he turned and acknowledged the 16-stone bouncer who stood watch over the door. The detective waited at the end of the cobblestone street as Lynch disappeared into the bar.

O’Neill dialled Ward again, this time getting through.

‘Just hold fire, do you hear? I’ll be there in five minutes.’

O’Neill remained in his place at the end of the entry, watching the door. He was back at Mint. All the pieces were there. He had everything he needed, he just had to put them together. A voice in his head was telling him he’d missed Lynch twice. How many times was he going to let him get away? He could see the main door from where he was, but there’d be fire exits. Lynch could slip out. If you lose him a third time, O’Neill thought, you don’t deserve to call yourself a peeler. He knew the bar would be crowded and there was the look at the bus stop as well. Lynch had wanted to be followed. He had wanted to bring O’Neill there.

‘Fuck it,’ he said out loud. ‘In for a penny. .’

O’Neill set off down the alley towards the bar. The bouncer stood aside and let him in. If he remembered O’Neill from the previous night, he didn’t show it. Inside, Mint was starting to fill up and O’Neill felt reassured by the number of people there. It was an after-work crowd — men in suits, girls in dresses.

O’Neill clocked Lynch, sitting alone in a booth at the back of the bar. Less than ten feet away, the green sign illuminated the emergency exit — an escape route if more police arrived. There were two bottles of beer sitting in front of him. Lynch flicked his head, acknowledging O’Neill. The detective walked over and sat down, face to face.