20
Lennon stood waiting in the hallway of the terraced house when the forensics team arrived from Carrickfergus at first light. They picked over Quigley’s corpse first while the photographer took daylight shots of the boy in the yard. Lennon’s eyes were dry and hot as he watched from the kitchen window. He’d gone home for a couple of hours, but sleep had eluded him.
He looked at the boy’s body, his face turned up to the sky, the tarpaulin that covered the yard overnight pulled back to let the light in. The acute angle of his neck suggested the blow to his head hadn’t killed him. Seventeen or eighteen, nineteen at most. He wore a tracksuit and Nike trainers, most likely fakes bought at a market stall somewhere. Chances were he was from the neighbourhood. He probably made a point of carrying no identification, but they’d know who he was before long. Some mother would find her son’s bed had not been slept in, and when the talk of a youth’s dead body lying in a yard nearby reached her, she would know. When she came running to Quigley’s door, he would deal with her.
The photographer came back into the kitchen. He brought the camera to Lennon and showed him the little screen. ‘Look,’ he said, scrolling through the images. ‘Here.’
The image showed a knife in the boy’s hand, tucked beneath him. Lennon looked out the window again. The body obscured the weapon.
‘The killer didn’t get far,’ the photographer said. ‘Looks like he slipped and fell bad.’
‘Maybe,’ Lennon said. ‘He’s lying on his left side, but his back and his right’s dirty too. Look where his head is. He didn’t break his neck and roll over.’
‘Who’s to say where that dirt came from?’ the photographer said.
‘We’ll let forensics have a look before we jump to any conclusions. Have printouts of those on DCI Gordon’s desk as soon as you can.’
‘Will do,’ the photographer said as he headed for the living room.
Lennon went to the back door and scanned the yard, taking in every piece of litter, every puddle. A layer of scummy green algae covered the concrete, a muddle of footprints just visible on the surface. They could be anybody’s from the old woman’s to her dead son’s, from the boy to the doctor who confirmed him dead. The rain that had fallen before the tarpaulin could be raised dulled them all the more. Useless.
‘It’s too perfect,’ Lennon said to himself.
His mobile rang. He answered it.
‘Something interesting just turned up,’ DCI Gordon said.
‘Same here,’ Lennon said.
‘You go first,’ Gordon said.
Lennon told him about the knife the photographer had spotted.
‘Well that’s that, then,’ Gordon said. ‘Almost.’
‘Almost?’
‘The duty officer at North Queen Street logged a report that two officers broke up a fight between rival gangs at the interface between the Lower Ormeau and Donegall Pass. They chased some of the youths along the Lower Ormeau. The kids split up, and the officers followed two of them into the alley behind Quigley’s house. That’s where they lost them.’
‘Did they get descriptions?’ Lennon asked, stepping aside to let one of the forensics team past.
‘Vague, but probably enough. Both males, mid-to-late teens, short dark hair, both slender, both wearing tracksuits and trainers. One of them, the taller of the two, wore an Adidas tracksuit and Nike trainers. Sound familiar?’
Lennon looked at the boy’s body. ‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Mind you,’ Gordon said, ‘there are plenty of Adidas and Nike fans in this part of the world. It’d be quite a coincidence, though.’
A fucking huge one,’ Lennon said.
‘Language,’ Gordon scolded. ‘But of course that means—’
Lennon finished the thought. ‘There was another kid here.’
‘As soon as the body’s identified, I want every single person that lad ever knew interviewed. Clear?’
‘Clear,’ Lennon said.
‘Good,’ Gordon said. He hung up.
‘Inspector?’ a voice called from behind.
Lennon turned.
A constable leaned in from the living room. ‘You’d better come out front.’
Lennon followed him through the living room where most of the forensics team still examined Quigley’s body, and out to the hall. It was early yet, and the air outside had an autumn chill. A thin crowd gathered on the street, children and women hoping for a glance at a body.
One woman stood apart, her path blocked by a policeman. She was barefoot with a dressing gown held loose around her. Her hands shook as she stared at Lennon, her mouth open, her eyes full of dread and hope.
Lennon went to her.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said as she collapsed in his arms.
21
The Traveller lay on his stomach, the sheets bunched at his feet. He couldn’t get comfortable. His left hand tingled; his fingers felt distant, like they were attached to someone else’s hand. The old bitch had missed any big veins, but the Traveller feared she’d done something to his nerves. He’d heard about that sort of thing, how all the nerves were joined together, and injury to one part of the body could have repercussions for another.
Same thing with that lump of Kevlar they’d taken out of his brain. The Traveller remembered little of the moments leading up to the explosion, only fragments of images, the wires coming into view as he’d pulled the sheets of rusted corrugated iron aside, the idea that he might die. After that, waking up in some dirty foreign hospital, unable to remember his name, unable to speak. He’d spent months there being poked and prodded. They showed him the piece of his helmet that had wound up inside his head. Who would think a little piece of plastic could take so many things away from him? Everything was connected. So, the tingling in his fingers bothered him.
If he’d been able to read, he’d have looked it up on the hotel room’s Internet connection. The foreign girl at reception told him he could get the Internet through the telly when he checked in yesterday. That had been before he headed out to see Quigley. She’d watched him when he came back in, doing his best to hide the stiffness in his arm. The Traveller smiled at her as he passed. When he got to the lift, he turned and studied the floor in case he’d left any blood in his trail. None, thank Christ.
He stared at the shaft of light at the centre of the drawn curtains. How come hotel room curtains never closed properly? The light hurt his head, so he screwed his eyes shut. He rolled onto his right side, and the movement caused his left upper arm to flare in distress.
‘Fucking old bitch cunt bastard fucking shite-licking arse-fucker,’ the Traveller said. He’d thought Mrs Quigley was too soft in the head to be a problem. A fucking knitting needle, for Christ’s sake.
The wound hadn’t bled that much, really, but it hurt like holy fuck. He wondered for a crazy moment if he should go to another hospital, let them look at it, see if she’d done any real damage. He could give another false name. He’d done it before. But those had been emergencies where one risk outweighed the other. This just hurt.
The Traveller threw his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. No use in lying there, wallowing in the pain and tingling and anger. He twisted his arm to see the wad of toilet paper he’d taped to the small pinhole of a wound. A blotch of dark red was all the paper showed for the pain, but a fucker of a bruise had begun to spread out from it. He’d seen it before, just the once. A stupid bastard called Morgan had got stabbed by his wife with a knitting needle. A peculiar thing, it was. The shape of the needle meant the wound sealed shut almost completely, letting little blood seep out. But the damage was done, the bleeding hidden beneath the skin. Morgan had almost died. The Traveller had finished the job with a screwdriver a week later. The wife’s father had paid him well for the job.
