‘What?’ Lennon sat up in his bed.
Liam’s voice quivered in his throat. ‘Whatever happens, whatever you hear, I’m no tout.’
‘What the fuck are you talking about?’
Liam paused, then said, ‘Someone else is covering their tracks, laying it on me. If anything happens to me, you remember that. Tell Ma and the girls. Don’t say nothing to anyone else, though, or you’ll wind up in the shite yourself.’
‘I won’t,’ Lennon said. ‘But what’s going to happen?’
‘I don’t know,’ Liam said. ‘Maybe nothing.
‘All right,’ Lennon said.
‘Listen, we’re all proud of you getting your degree. You stick at it, right? Get the master thing, whatever you call it, and the doctorate. You get out of this shit-hole and make something decent for yourself. You hear me?’
Yeah,’ Lennon said, the word drying to a whisper in his throat.
‘Right,’ Liam said, burrowing down into the bedclothes. ‘Get some sleep.’
Lennon lay back on the bed, but sleep did not come. Looking back across those sixteen years, he sometimes imagined he knew at the time it would be his last real conversation with his brother.
Sixteen years since Liam died. The anniversary had been just two months ago. Sixteen years since Lennon had applied to join the then Royal Ulster Constabulary, making an enemy of almost everyone he’d ever known. Sometimes, when the dawn crept across his ceiling like that time back in Middletown, he cursed the choices he’d made.
Some said that when you’re on your deathbed, it’d be the things you didn’t do that you’d regret. Lennon knew that was a lie.
He rubbed the towel back and forth across his scalp and walked to the open-plan living area.
A stack of letters lay open on the coffee table. On top was a mortgage reminder. He’d pay that tomorrow, phone up and swear it was the bank’s mistake to decline the payment. Two or three credit card statements lay beneath that. They could wait another week or two. So long as he kept the mortgage and the car payments on track, he could survive. Particularly if he didn’t think about it too much.
Lennon took a beer from the fridge and went back to the sofa. The leather cooled his skin where the shower had scalded it. He prised the cap off and took a swallow. He made calculations in his head: how much he needed for bills, how much for food, how much for diesel for the car. When he couldn’t make the figures come out right, he stopped counting.
The phone rang. He answered it.
‘Your first day back on MIT starts early,’ DCI Gordon said. ‘Two dead on the Lower Ormeau. Amess, apparently. I’ll be there in twenty minutes. You’d better be waiting for me.’
‘You’re late,’ Gordon barked as Lennon entered the hall. The DCI waited in the doorway to the living room.
‘I came as quick as I could,’ Lennon said, squeezing past a photographer.
‘Not quick enough,’ Gordon said. You only live along the river a bit. You been drinking?’
‘Just the one,’ Lennon said. He peered past Gordon’s shoulder.
‘He’s confirmed dead,’ Gordon said. ‘At least one stab wound to the chest, probably more. We’ll let the photographer get some snaps before we go in.’
‘You said two. Where’s the other one?’
‘Out the back,’ Gordon said. ‘Only a young fella, too. Looks like he busted his head on the wall. It’s dark as a coal miner’s armpit out there, and the rain’s coming on. We’ll get a tarpaulin over the yard and get a proper look in the morning. The forensics team will come down from Carrickfergus first thing. I want you here to oversee it.’
Lennon leaned over the threshold and scanned the room. The victim, a man with curly dark hair, sat with his back to the door, his arms hanging limp over the sides of the chair. A side table had been tipped over. A vodka bottle and a glass lay on the floor. It didn’t look like the victim’s place, though. Old woman’s furniture, fussy wallpaper, frilly things and tacky ornaments. ‘Anyone else here?’ Lennon asked.
‘The victim’s mother’s just gone.’ Gordon stepped back to let the photographer through. ‘She’s on her way to the City Hospital. Looked like she got a belt in the mouth. They had to sedate her, kept screaming “Bobby did it.” A neighbour says Bobby was her son. A soldier shot him when he drove through a checkpoint twenty years ago.’
‘We can cross him off the list, then,’ Lennon said. He pointed at the body. ‘So who’s our friend?’
‘Well, that’s interesting, as it happens. The deceased is known to us. In fact, he’s been a guest of ours on more than one occasion.’ Gordon smiled. ‘This is – was – Mr Declan Quigley, former driver for the late Paul McGinty.’ Gordon looked at Lennon. ‘What?’
‘Declan Quigley,’ Lennon said.
‘Yes.’
‘Paul McGinty’s driver.’
‘That’s right.’
‘It can’t be a coincidence,’ Lennon said.
‘What?’
‘Kevin Malloy the other night. He was wrapped up in that feud too.’
Gordon put his hand on Lennon’s shoulder. ‘Look, that feud business is long over with. Don’t go jumping to conclusions or you’ll miss something. Declan Quigley was a scumbag. Scumbags know other scumbags, and there’s no shortage of them in Belfast. You’re no good to me if you’re not looking at all the possibilities. Understand?’
‘I understand, it’s just that—’ Lennon trapped that thought behind his teeth.
‘Just what?’
‘Nothing,’ Lennon said. He would make a point of calling on Marie’s landlord tomorrow. The last time Lennon questioned him it turned up nothing, but he’d been subtle, edging around the real questions. This time he’d be a little firmer.
The photographer squeezed past them.
‘On my desk in the morning,’ Gordon called after him. He nudged Lennon. ‘Come on. Take notes. And watch where you put your feet.’
Lennon took a pad and pen from his pocket as he followed Gordon to the centre of the room. They both faced Quigley’s body.
‘Hmm,’ Gordon said. ‘Does anything about Mr Quigley look odd to you, Detective Inspector Lennon?’
‘Yes it does,’ Lennon said.
‘Why?’
Lennon hunkered down by the side of the chair. He pointed with his pen. ‘No defensive wounds to the hands or the forearms. A stab victim will usually try to shield themselves, even try to grab the blade.’
‘So?’
‘So either the attacker moved so fast Quigley didn’t see it coming, or he just let it happen.’
‘And the wound, or indeed wounds?’
Lennon stood up and leaned over the body. A fist-sized red stain sat at the centre of Quigley’s chest. ‘Very clean. Most fatal stabbings are done in a frenzy, lots of punctures scattered around the torso, the arms, the shoulders, the neck, even the head.’
‘Like your friend Mr Rankin did to Mr Crozier,’ Gordon said.
‘That’s right. But this is one, two, maybe three stabs, grouped tight together, directly through the breastbone and into the heart. He probably drowned from the blood filling his chest cavity. Not much mess. The attacker knew what he was doing.’
Something by the upended table caught Lennon’s eye. ‘Look,’ he said, pointing.
Gordon crouched beside him. ‘A knitting needle. I do believe that’s blood on the tip.’
‘Couldn’t be the weapon,’ Lennon said. ‘Knitting needle wounds are tiny. It was definitely a blade that did for our Declan.’
‘I’m inclined to agree,’ Gordon said. ‘Make sure forensics get a sample of that blood off to Birmingham first thing. If we’re lucky, it’s the murderer’s. And if we’re double lucky, we’ll have him on file.’
