Matt McGuire - Dark Dawn

‘We’ve got problem.’

Back at Musgrave Street, O’Neill pulled the CCTV from the Molloy attack. He watched the footage outside Mint as people went in and out of the bar. Molloy was drinking inside and Lynch was hidden in the shadow of a nearby doorway. On the door the two bouncers stood, slowly letting people in and out. The shorter one was there again, along with another taller one.

Every twenty minutes or so the bouncer with the shaved head would disappear from the door, leaving his partner to hold the fort. He’d be gone for a few minutes, somewhere inside the bar. If he was dealing, he’d know the club’s CCTV, where the blind spots were. It was the same with every doorman across the city. The rule was, if you were going to give someone a hiding, you made sure you knew where your black spots were.

On three occasions O’Neill watched the bouncer cross the alley for a smoke. From there he could keep an eye on the door and step in if he needed to. O’Neill watched him take a final drag of his cigarette and toss it along the wall.

That was it. That was his evidence. Every contact leaves a trace. . the science didn’t lie.

At four in the morning O’Neill drove back down to the Cathedral Quarter. The place was dead and everyone had gone home.

He got out of the car and walked along the alley, hugging the wall. When he was level with the doorway, he bent down. Sure enough, scattered in a 6-foot area were four fresh cigarette ends.

O’Neill snapped his hands into a pair of white rubber gloves and put the cigarette butts into a plastic evidence bag — a little present for Forensics in the morning.

The main forensics lab was in Jordanstown, five miles along the coast from Belfast. It was a three-storey glass building, surrounded by a 30-foot perimeter fence and with round-the-clock security. At 7 a.m., O’Neill’s was the only car in the car park. He’d flashed his warrant card and Security lifted the barrier. The guard said he could wait if he wanted, but no one would be in until at least half eight.

O’Neill sat in the Mondeo, burning one B amp;H after another. He stared across the grey waters of Belfast Lough. Dotted along the other shore were Bangor, Holywood and Cultra. He wondered if Spender was at his desk, busy carving up the city before most people were out of their beds. On the passenger seat beside him sat a clear plastic bag with four cigarette ends.

Cars started to dribble in after eight. O’Neill was out and at the door before the first arrival, a man in his fifties, had even swiped his card. The detective showed his warrant card.

‘O’Neill. Musgrave Street.’

The man’s brow furrowed, unimpressed at being stopped before he was even in the door. It was always the same with CID. They thought the whole world revolved around them. And when they were making house calls, you just knew they were after something.

‘Do you know what time McBurnie gets in at?’ O’Neill asked.

McBurnie was his man. They’d only spoken briefly, over the boot-print, but it would be enough. He was young and wouldn’t mind bending the rules, putting a rush on something if O’Neill asked.

‘He’s not in today. Friday is his day off. Was he expecting you?’

The man spoke like a headmaster, offended at O’Neill’s impertinence. It was the old CID arrogance, showing up unannounced, clicking their fingers and expecting the world to jump to attention. There were rules, regulations, procedures. That was how things worked. Not flashing a badge and expecting everyone to fall at your feet. The man walked through the door, leaving O’Neill on the other side holding his clear plastic bag.

O’Neill turned round and looked across the car park, embarrassed at having been denied. He walked back to the car and waited. If the bouncer had done Laganview, there was a tiny window of opportunity. He would have known Lynch and seen him talking to O’Neill the night before. He’d realize something was up. Shit. . there was a good chance he’d taken off already! If he left the country, they’d never get him. O’Neill felt a ball of nausea growing in the pit of his stomach. He imagined himself at his Review Board, facing Wilson and three others across a large desk. He wasn’t going to lose Laganview over some senior lab tech, some jobsworth who loved his rules and thought it was his duty to enforce them.

Five minutes later, a Renault Clio pulled into a spot near O’Neill. A woman got out and started walking towards the entrance. She swiped her card and pulled open the door.

‘Hold it!’ O’Neill called, hurrying from his car. She didn’t flinch, clocking O’Neill for CID and knowing if he’d got past security, he checked out.

‘Hey, could you help me out? I’m supposed to get this to John McBurnie, but it’s his day off so I’m going to leave it for him. He’s on the first floor, isn’t he?’

‘No. Second.’

‘I’m always getting lost in this place.’

‘Out the lift and go right.’

‘Thanks,’ O’Neill replied.

In the second-floor lab his ‘friend’ was putting on a white coat as O’Neill entered.

‘How did you get in here?’ he demanded.

‘Listen. I need to apologize. We got off on the wrong foot,’ O’Neill said. ‘I know you’re coming here with sixty million things waiting to get done, and the last thing you need is some guy from CID grabbing you before you’ve even got your coat off.’

He held out his hand. ‘John O’Neill.’

The lab tech reluctantly shook his hand.

‘Robin Bradley,’ he grunted. ‘You know there are procedures round here, Detective. That is how we work. That’s how things get done.’

‘I know,’ O’Neill agreed. ‘And you do an amazing job. I can tell you, from the front line, the number of people we’ve put away on the back of what you do. . real scum of the earth, doing horrific things. Robbery, assault, rape. They only go down because of you guys. We might grab them, but they’d be right out the door again if it wasn’t for you.’

The man reluctantly started to soften. He looked at the clear plastic bag in the detective’s hand.

‘I always think it’s a pity you never get to see what happens out there,’ O’Neill continued. ‘See the results of everything you do. The faces of the victims, when they know the guy who mugged them, who put them in hospital, who raped them, is going to go down. Or the old-age pensioners, their tears of relief, when the guys who robbed them of all their savings gets five years. It’s you guys who do it. It’s the labwork that gets the convictions.’

O’Neill was laying it on thick and Bradley rolled his eyes. He knew exactly what the cop was doing, but deep down inside, he liked hearing it and wanted to believe him.

‘So what’s in the bag then?’

‘A murderer.’

‘They look like cigarette butts to me,’ Bradley answered dryly.

‘We’re working the boy at Laganview. The sixteen year old. He was beaten to a pulp and left for dead. He’s someone’s son, but he’s still lying at the morgue. Hasn’t even been ID’d, let alone claimed. McBurnie got us this far with the boot-print and I think we’ve got our man. I’ve got one more ask though — and we need it yesterday, otherwise this guy’s going to split. Leave the country. And if he goes, we’ll never get him.’

O’Neill held up the plastic bag of cigarette ends.

‘I need a DNA match on these — cross-checked against the samples taken from the scene at Laganview.’

Bradley sighed, resigning himself to breaking one of his own golden rules.

‘OK. The test takes a couple of hours to run. I can probably have a result for you by lunchtime.’

‘A couple of hours? I thought this was the twenty-first century?’