Matt McGuire - Dark Dawn

‘It’s him.’

O’Neill read the name. Jacob Pilsudski. He was from somewhere O’Neill had never heard off. Pomorskie. Born 11 December 1989. He was sixteen years old.

‘Yeah. That’s him all right,’ Ward said. He picked up the passports and flicked through them.

‘They’re all Polish,’ O’Neill said. ‘They’re kids. He has them dealing for him. He takes the passports off them — a bit of extra security. That was why he knee-capped this one after he killed him. He knew we’d end up running round in circles, chasing after anyone with a paramilitary past. Shit, it’s not as if there’s a lack of suspects for something like that.’

‘So what now?’ Ward asked.

‘Mint. It’s our last chance.’

O’Neill and Ward swung by Musgrave Street and swapped the black Mondeo for an unmarked white van. It belonged to the Proactive Unit but Ward pulled rank and commandeered it.

At half four they parked up in Waring Street and waited. They had a clear view down Henry Street and into the Cathedral Quarter. Halfway down the cobbles were the doors of Mint. O’Neill knew this was the only thing to do now, wait and hope. They’d closed Walczak’s door and left two units hidden at either end of the street in case he came back. There was a good chance a neighbour had seen the action and tipped him off though. If that was the case he’d go underground and try to slip out of the country. The airport, ferry and train stations had all been put on alert and a picture had been circulated. A description had been sent round the entire PSNI with officers instructed to stop and search anyone resembling.

They needed to be lucky. O’Neill thought about everything he’d done over the last month, the hours he’d spent sifting the case-file, sitting outside Burke’s, staking out The George, chasing Joe Lynch. And still it came down to luck. He needed a bit of luck to get Walczak. How did that work? How was that fair?

He looked at his watch for the third time in ten minutes.

‘Will you stop looking at your frigging watch?’ Ward said.

‘I seem to spend my life sitting in cars. Waiting.’

‘Hey, that’s the job. If you haven’t figured that out by now, you never will.’

O’Neill shifted in his seat trying to get comfortable. The van smelled of stale crisps and cigarette smoke.

‘This thing reeks,’ he said.

‘So would your car, if you spent twelve hours a night sitting in it.’

O’Neill watched pedestrians walk down Waring Street. At the bottom of the road a couple of men stood smoking outside the Northern Whig. The bar had opened a few years ago in the former newspaper offices.

‘So tell me, Detective,’ Ward asked. ‘How do a bunch of Polish kids end up dealing on the streets of Belfast?’

‘Same way Belfast kids do. It’s about money. All they’re doing is working. Trying to get by. Doing what it takes.’

‘And what about our friend Walczak?’

‘He’s involved with somebody. A middle man. There is no way the local boys would have allowed him to set up shop on his own. He controls the door to one of the biggest clubs in town though. The customers come to see you. A guy that’s on coke will drink all night. He’ll never get pissed, never pass out. If the place is making a killing over the bar, everybody’s happy. It’s one big party and everyone’s winning.’

‘So what about Joe Lynch and Gerry McCann?’

‘Good question. I don’t know.’

‘And Burke? Spender?’

‘They’re dirty. Up to something. How it all fits is another question.’

The clock on the car ticked forward. O’Neill reckoned the doormen came on at seven and as it got closer he could feel his legs starting to itch. Ward was gazing out the window, trying to figure out who would be at O’Neill’s Review Boards. .

O’Neill tapped on his arm. He looked up and saw Walczak illuminated in the doorway of the club. He was with the same man as the previous night. Both wore dark suits and long black coats. Business as usual.

‘Is this that karma stuff you were on about?’ Ward asked, arching an eyebrow.

The two detectives got out of the car and started walking down the cobbled street. Neither man looked at the door, trying to pretend they were a couple of guys, out for a pint and a spot of food.

Walczak glanced down the road, saw O’Neill and instantly took off. He leaped down three steps and sprinted down the alley, away from the cops.

O’Neill ran after him, shouting over his shoulder to call it in. Ward grabbed his radio.

‘This is 571. Officer in pursuit. Requesting immediate back-up. Suspect is five ten, shaved head and black coat. Heading up Henry Street in the direction of St Anne’s.’

Ward then took off after them, cursing. ‘More bloody running.’

O’Neill was already 100 yards away before Ward got going. Walczak had made it to the end of the lane and crossed Talbot Street, turning right down a narrow alley. A thought suddenly came into O’Neill’s head — this guy could run all day. He’d read a book about some British SAS guys who had been caught behind enemy lines in Iraq. They just put their heads down and ran across the whole country, trying to get away.

O’Neill pumped his arms, oblivious to the burning in his chest. At the end of the lane he turned right and his feet slid out from under him. Leather shoes on greasy cobbles.

‘Bastard!’

His right leg hit the ground hard. O’Neill saw Walczak turn a corner 20 yards away. He scrambled up and took off. Back-up was on the way. All he had to do was stay on top of him. They turned down Exchange Street, Academy Street. O’Neill was gaining on the doorman. The latter’s heavy coat wasn’t helping his cause. By the bottom of the lane they were only a few feet apart.

The bouncer slowed to turn the corner and O’Neill dived. He managed to get Walczak round his legs and both men hit the ground. The doorman was strong and turned, punching the cop in the head. O’Neill had hold of a foot and clamped his arms around it.

Walczak stood up, unfazed by the peeler’s hold on him. He leaned down and punched O’Neill in the face. The detective clung on. Walczak punched him again, trying to make him release his grip. He then leaned back, lifting a boot and bringing it down hard on O’Neill’s head. He lifted it and did the same again.

O’Neill tried to squeeze tighter, bracing himself against the blows. Ward, he thought, where the fuck are you?

He tried to tuck himself round Walczak’s leg as a way of shielding himself. He just needed to hang on. The boot came down again. O’Neill felt his grip slacken. And again, the boot. He swooned. Lightheaded. The boot, again. A wave swept over O’Neill. His hands went limp. He felt the leg lift up and out of his grasp. His arms clutched at thin air. It was the last thing O’Neill was aware of before the lights went out.

O’Neill woke up. He was warm and surrounded by bright light. He felt as if he was floating.

He could only open his left eye, and blinked several times trying to get the room into focus. He was in a hospital bed. A room on his own. A dull ache throbbed on his right side. He tried to move his arm and felt a searing pain shoot through his shoulder and up his neck, causing him to grimace.

After a few seconds he looked down and saw a sling holding his arm. His left hand had a needle in it and there was a drip going into the back of his hand. He was plugged into a heart monitor, the digital graph rolling left to right, showing his vitals.

I’m not dead then, he thought.

Ward sat beside the bed. O’Neill tried to speak but his throat was dry and his voice croaked. Ward stood up and poured some water into a cup. He leaned over, holding it to the detective’s mouth. The water soothed on its way down his throat.