Matt McGuire - Dark Dawn

The station stood 500 yards from High Street, which covered the old River Farset as it rumbled, unnoticed, below the feet of Belfast shoppers. A 113-foot gothic tower pierced the dark grey sky. Built on slob land, the Albert clock had a four-degree lean, like the ghost of a drunken sailor, looking for one of the hoors who used to ply their trade in the shadow of the clock.

At Musgrave Street O’Neill and Ward sat in the navy Mondeo, waiting for the gates to open. Inside they parked alongside a white Land Rover. It was adorned with a blue and yellow check band and the Crimestoppers phone number. The side of the Land Rover had several dents and a splash of red paint.

Doris was on reception as the detectives entered the main building. She was in her fifties, with short blonde hair. Civilian support staff, Doris had been at the station longer than anyone, including the Chief Inspector. Her husband was RUC, a Reservist who’d been shot in the late seventies. He’d survived the bullet, only to go down with cancer a few years later. There was something very Irish about it. Ward had introduced O’Neill to Doris when he first joined CID.

‘Most important person in the station. Piss off the Chief Inspector, but you’d better not piss off this woman. There’s nothing goes on round here that she doesn’t know about.’

Doris told O’Neill not to believe everything he heard. And especially not if it came out of the DI’s mouth.

Doris spoke up as the two men walked past. ‘DS O’Neill. The Chief Inspector called down.’

O’Neill and Ward stopped.

‘Wanted me to send you up as soon as you came in.’

O’Neill looked at the DI who shrugged his shoulders. Wilson had called Ward that morning, wanting a report on the scene and to know who the PI was. The DI had cursed as he hung up, harking after the days when you were left to do your job in peace.

‘How’d he sound?’ O’Neill asked.

‘The usual.’

O’Neill wasn’t convinced. He knew Wilson didn’t like him and would want to ride him hard over the body. Try and catch him out. The Review Boards were coming up next month and he didn’t want to have to answer questions about why he still didn’t have anyone in custody for Laganview.

The Chief Inspector’s office was on the third floor, nestled among the rest of Senior Management of B Division. The general consensus was, the less folk on the third floor knew about you, the better. There was an invisible divide running through Musgrave Street. First floor was uniform. The second was CID. The third was management. Each floor thought they were God’s own and harboured suspicions about the ability and integrity of the other two. The third was the worst though. Politicians dressed as peelers. When the shit hits the fan, you made sure you weren’t in the room. The third floor would hang you out to dry as soon as look at you.

The Chief Inspector was writing behind his large oak desk when O’Neill knocked and was summoned. Wilson’s office was the same size as CID, which housed six desks. The Chief Inspector was slim and neatly dressed. He wore a shirt and tie, his shoulder-boards showing three silver diamonds denoting his rank. He didn’t look up when O’Neill entered, but continued writing. O’Neill made to speak, only for Wilson to hold up a finger and cut him off.

O’Neill did a sweep of the room. There were pictures on the walls. Pencil sketches of Belfast: two giant cranes from the shipyard, an old-fashioned cinema, a tram at Carlisle Circus. Wilson’s office was neat and well-ordered. If it wasn’t for the uniform, you’d have no idea you were in a police station. The view from the third floor, O’Neill mused to himself. Peace and quiet. Law and order.

Wilson signed his name and looked up.

‘DS O’Neill. Take a seat.’ He gestured to a chair in front of his desk.

‘How’s CID?’

‘Fine, sir.’

‘So I’ve heard.’

O’Neill didn’t flinch, but his mind instinctively sped up. What had Wilson heard? Who’d he heard it from? He started going through the guys on his shift.

‘Ward tells me you are the PI on Laganview. It’s a big job. You’d better be up to it.’

O’Neill knew he was being simultaneously challenged and doubted. ‘So fill me in then, Detective.’ Wilson offered the last word like an accusation.

O’Neill couldn’t believe he wanted a progress report. The case wasn’t four hours old. He wanted to tell Wilson to go fuck himself but he knew the game, knew he needed to put on a show, let Wilson see he had a handle on things. He spoke quickly, breaking down the facts — the scene, the state of the victim, the lack of ID, lack of weapon, lack of witnesses. .

‘There’s a lot lacking here,’ Wilson said, implying these circumstances were somehow a personal reflection on O’Neill.

O’Neill ignored it, continuing with the facts. Wilson interrupted him when he mentioned a possible punishment beating.

‘Hold on. You need to calm yourself down there, Detective. We need to tread very carefully here.’

‘Sir?’

‘Punishment beating? We don’t need the press getting hold of that kind of language. And we don’t need them getting it from us.’

‘With respect, that’s what it looks like. Sir.’

‘Punishment beatings mean paramilitaries. We’re supposed to be past all that. It’s too political. We need to catch who did this, but there are things here that don’t need to be said out loud.’

That was Wilson. The consummate politician. O’Neill knew what he was getting at but it didn’t mean he had to like it. Instinctively he pushed back.

‘It looks like a punishment beating. Sir.’ The mark of deference came out like a swear word.

‘I don’t care what it looks like, O’Neill. The Peace Agreement was signed eight years ago. We’re trying to return this country to a state of normality. Punishment beatings, paramilitaries. They’re a thing of the past. They’re gone.’

‘Well, someone forgot to tell that kid down at Laganview.’

Wilson’s face reddened.

‘This is not about Laganview. It’s more than that. It’s about money, investment. America. The European Union. The less we hear about punishment beatings, the better. What do you think would happen if people start getting cold feet? Investors pull the plug. Then we’re all in the shit.’

O’Neill wondered when exactly it was that a dead body ceased to be important in its own right. It was Belfast though. Nothing was ever simply what it was.

Wilson pulled back, realizing he had strayed from the topic.

‘Don’t get me wrong — we need to catch whoever did this. We just need to go about it in the right way.’

O’Neill knew he should let it go. But. .

‘On hospital numbers we had almost three hundred punishment beatings last year. Two-fifty the year before that. It doesn’t sound as if everything’s over, as if it’s all behind us.’

‘I don’t need a statistics lesson from you, Detective.’ Wilson glared at O’Neill. ‘But if you like though, we can start drilling down into your own stats. Maybe begin with your clearance rate, eh?’

O’Neill knew he’d gone too far. Wilson had made his threat. It was subtle, but there nonetheless.

‘This is not just another body, whether we want it to be or not. And we’re not just a police force. There’s history to consider.’

History again, O’Neill thought. For years history had been kicking in doors, shitting on people, giving folk reasons, putting guns in their hands. The North had had too much history. O’Neill remembered the TV when Tony Blair had flown in for the peace talks. He met the press, grinning: ‘I can feel the hand of history on our shoulders. .’ O’Neill wondered who had been grinning the night before, as they stood over the body of a dead teenager on the bank of the River Lagan.