‘Where?’
‘Here,’ Lennon said. ‘Downstairs, in the beer garden. He called my mobile, said he needed to talk to me. He was scared shitless.’
‘Was he drinking?’
‘Yes.’
‘There you are, then,’ Gordon said. ‘He was drunk, slipped, that’s all there is to it.’
Lennon stared at Gordon, tried to read the lines of his face. ‘You know that’s not true.’
‘Easy, son.’
‘You know there’s more to it,’ Lennon said. ‘We know there was a threat against him, that he was scared of someone. You can’t pretend—’
‘Shut up,’ Gordon said.
‘You can’t—’
‘Shut your mouth.’ Gordon grabbed Lennon’s sleeve and pulled him along the corridor until they reached a quiet corner by the fire exit. He put a hand on Lennon’s chest and pressed him against the wall.
‘Now, listen to me, son, your career depends on it.’ Gordon looked along the corridor for eavesdroppers, then back to Lennon. ‘Mr Toner was of interest to Special Branch. When someone is of interest to Special Branch, they call the shots. Their officers have already inspected the scene and declared it an accident. And you know what that means?’
‘What?’
‘That means it was an accident. No matter what you think, no matter what I think, it was an accident. End of story.’
‘For Christ’s sake, I can’t—’
‘Leave it alone, son,’ Gordon said, prodding Lennon’s chest with his finger. ‘What in the name of God were you doing talking to Toner in the first place? First you were harassing that landlord on Wellesley Avenue, then —’
‘I wasn’t harassing anyone, I just—’
Gordon pushed him, hard. ‘Shut your bloody mouth. You’re on thin ice here as it is. Don’t make it any worse. Keep quiet about talking to Toner. Don’t mention it to anyone. If Dan Hewitt or anyone else in Special Branch gets wind of it, you’ll be out on your arse. You don’t mess about with those boys, you don’t get in their way, and you don’t step on their toes. Do you hear me?’
Lennon breathed deep to quash his anger.
Gordon said, ‘Do you hear me?’
Lennon closed his eyes, clenched his fists. He opened his eyes again and stared hard at Gordon. ‘I hear you.’
‘Good.’ Gordon stepped back and straightened his tie. ‘Now listen, you need to head back to Ladas Drive. There’s real work to do, no more of this pissing about.’
‘What sort of work?’
‘I need you to prep an interview for me.’
‘An interview? Who?’
‘The other kid,’ Gordon said. ‘I got the call just before you arrived.’
‘What other kid?’
‘He handed himself in this morning,’ Gordon said, smiling. ‘The other kid who was at Declan Quigley’s house the night he was killed. The one we’ve been looking for. I need you to pull together all the notes, all the photographs, everything we’ve got on the Quigley killing. I want pictures of his mate with his neck broken, that knife in his hand. I’ll be done here in an hour, and I want it all waiting for me when I interview him. I want to wave those photos under his nose, scare the living daylights out of him. I want a confession before the end of the day. So, what are you waiting for? Get going.’
Lennon put pages and photos together into piles on Gordon’s desk, the pictures on one side, the notes on the other. The photograph of Brendan Houlihan lay on top, the boy staring back at him with dead eyes. His hand lay at his side, tucked beneath his thigh, a blade just visible between his fingers and the fabric of his tracksuit bottoms. The dirt on his other side, where it shouldn’t have been.
‘Too easy,’ Lennon said.
He stood there, his eyes closed, running it over in his head. No, it was a stupid idea, he’d be in deep shit. He lifted the desk phone anyway, dialled the duty officer.
‘Is the kid in the interview room yet?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ the duty officer said. ‘The solicitor just arrived to look after him. They’re ready to go as soon as DCI Gordon gets back.’
‘No,’ Lennon said. ‘DCI Gordon just called me.’
‘Did he? I didn’t put him—’
‘On my mobile. He’s been held up. I’ve to go ahead with the interview.’
The duty officer remained silent for a few seconds, then said, ‘And?’
‘And that’s all.’ Lennon fought the quiver in his voice. ‘I’m doing the interview.’
‘Knock yourself out,’ the duty officer said, and the line clicked dead in Lennon’s ear.
Colm Devine, eighteen, pale and terrified. He fiddled with the discarded cellophane wrapping from the cassette tape he’d just inspected in an effort to hide the trembling. He failed. Edwin Speers, the duty solicitor, sat beside him. He looked bored.
Lennon peeled the cellophane from the second cassette case, took the tape from the box, and inserted it in the recorder. He hit record, and the twin decks whirred.
Devine stared at the tabletop as Lennon went through the formalities of rights and warnings required for an interview under caution. The solicitor picked dirt from beneath his fingernails.
Lennon took a pen, ready to make notes. ‘You know why you’re here, Colm.’
Devine croaked, tried again. ‘Yeah,’ he said.
‘Then you know how serious this is.’
‘Yeah,’ Devine said.
‘You were a friend of Brendan Houlihan, who was found dead at the scene of a murder of another man, Declan Quigley, three nights ago.’
‘Yeah,’ Devine said.
‘Were you with Brendan Houlihan on the night he died?’
Devine hesitated. Speers put a hand on his skinny forearm. ‘No comment,’ Devine said.
Lennon glanced at the solicitor.
‘When was the last time you saw Brendan Houlihan?’
‘No comment,’ Devine said.
‘Were you with a group of youths who were involved in a fight at the intersection of the Lower Ormeau Road and Donegall Pass on the night Brendan Houlihan died?’
‘No comment,’ Devine said.
Lennon put the pen down. ‘Colm, did Mr Speers here tell you to say “no comment” to everything?’
Devine swallowed. No comment.’
Lennon stared hard at Speers. ‘I’m guessing he did. Do you know why he did that?’
Speers coughed and fidgeted.
‘He did that because he’s the duty solicitor. A duty solicitor is only here to fill that chair and hopefully keep you from doing something stupid. In reality, he knows if you wind up in front of a judge, it’ll be with a different solicitor, someone who actually knows what they’re doing, who actually cares about your rights.’
Speers stiffened. ‘Here, now—’
‘When you’re in court, you’ll look as guilty as sin because you clammed up now. Mr Speers wants out of here so he can go for lunch, or a round of golf, or whatever he has to do that’s more interesting than babysitting you. If you sit there and say “no comment” to everything, he’s on his way quicker and you think you haven’t said anything to incriminate yourself.’
Speers wagged a finger. ‘Listen, I won’t sit here and—’
