Laganview. There were interviews, canvassing reports, a list of site workers, criminal records, known drug dealers, SOCO reports, evidence slips, statements, photographs, lab tests. There was nothing like a body for generating a paper trail. The tree huggers would have a field day, O’Neill thought. He imagined the headline:
Murder Bad For Environment.
For all the paperwork though, they still didn’t have a name.
The appeal for information had been repeated on TV throughout Tuesday and Wednesday. The
Belfast Telegraph
led with the story on Monday night. It had fronted radio bulletins throughout the week. Still they had nothing. It made no sense. Absolutely none.
At the press conference Wilson had looked the part. Reassuring the public. ‘No stone unturned . . . most horrific crime . . . perpetrators to justice.’ All the usual. Tell them what they want to hear. There was no talk of a punishment beating. The press had been kept well away from the scene and the state of the body hadn’t been disclosed.
For two days Musgrave Street flexed its muscle. Uniform stopped kids on street corners. CID lifted anyone with half a history of drug involvement. Jackie McManus, Micky Moran, Johnny Tierney, Stevie Davie, Sean Molloy. All the local celebrities.
They sat in interview rooms. Bored, inconvenienced and mildly amused, watching the police flounder.
‘Where were you last Sunday night?’
Silence.
‘Who were you with?’
Silence.
‘What time did you get home?’
Silence.
These guys didn’t even bother to ‘no comment’. They knew what was going on, knew the peelers were stirring the pot. It was what you did when a body showed up. The cops kicked the hornets’ nest. McManus, Moran, Tierney . . . they’d been questioned often enough to know that this time, the police really did have fuck all.
O’Neill had called the Royal Victoria Hospital on the Grosvenor Road. The hospital boasted the best knee surgeons in the world. In thirty years they’d had plenty of practice. He spoke to the head of orthopaedics and got the files sent over of every punishment beating in Belfast in the last eight years. There were 308. Where did you begin? O’Neill asked the hospital to keep him informed if any new victims came in, particularly if they were local.
He frowned at the open pages of the Laganview folder. How could the kid still not have a name? There was no Missing Person report. His prints were nowhere on the Police National Computer, which meant he didn’t have a record.
‘How many wee hoods are there,’ O’Neill muttered to himself, ‘that have never been arrested, not even once?’ He stared at the six digits on the manila folder. 880614. That’s what the kid was. A number. At this stage, it was all he was.
In the next room DI Ward looked into the empty space in front of his desk. He was thinking about his retirement. What the hell was he going to do? He had no family any more, except for a brother in Scotland. He and Maureen had planned to have kids but it just had never happened for them. He didn’t know why. Maureen blamed herself. She turned to him one night, told him that if he wanted to leave her, she would understand. Ward couldn’t believe what he heard. Couldn’t believe it had affected her so much, that she was that down about it. He tried to make it a joke.
‘You trying to get rid of me? Have you got a wee thing with the milkman that you’re not telling me about?’
Maureen smiled and a solitary tear ran down her cheek. That night in bed Ward held her. He told her to wise up, that she was the best thing that had ever happened to him. Maureen squeezed his hand. He told her he was going to have words with the milkman and all.
When the breast cancer came, Ward knew what she was thinking. She’d got what she deserved. She’d let him down and this was God’s way of punishing her. She did three rounds of chemo but it was too late. Ward had been on his own now for fifteen years.
His mind went back
Murder Bad For Environment.
For all the paperwork though, they still didn’t have a name.
The appeal for information had been repeated on TV throughout Tuesday and Wednesday. The
Belfast Telegraph
led with the story on Monday night. It had fronted radio bulletins throughout the week. Still they had nothing. It made no sense. Absolutely none.
At the press conference Wilson had looked the part. Reassuring the public. ‘No stone unturned . . . most horrific crime . . . perpetrators to justice.’ All the usual. Tell them what they want to hear. There was no talk of a punishment beating. The press had been kept well away from the scene and the state of the body hadn’t been disclosed.
For two days Musgrave Street flexed its muscle. Uniform stopped kids on street corners. CID lifted anyone with half a history of drug involvement. Jackie McManus, Micky Moran, Johnny Tierney, Stevie Davie, Sean Molloy. All the local celebrities.
They sat in interview rooms. Bored, inconvenienced and mildly amused, watching the police flounder.
‘Where were you last Sunday night?’
Silence.
‘Who were you with?’
Silence.
‘What time did you get home?’
Silence.
These guys didn’t even bother to ‘no comment’. They knew what was going on, knew the peelers were stirring the pot. It was what you did when a body showed up. The cops kicked the hornets’ nest. McManus, Moran, Tierney . . . they’d been questioned often enough to know that this time, the police really did have fuck all.
O’Neill had called the Royal Victoria Hospital on the Grosvenor Road. The hospital boasted the best knee surgeons in the world. In thirty years they’d had plenty of practice. He spoke to the head of orthopaedics and got the files sent over of every punishment beating in Belfast in the last eight years. There were 308. Where did you begin? O’Neill asked the hospital to keep him informed if any new victims came in, particularly if they were local.
He frowned at the open pages of the Laganview folder. How could the kid still not have a name? There was no Missing Person report. His prints were nowhere on the Police National Computer, which meant he didn’t have a record.
‘How many wee hoods are there,’ O’Neill muttered to himself, ‘that have never been arrested, not even once?’ He stared at the six digits on the manila folder. 880614. That’s what the kid was. A number. At this stage, it was all he was.
In the next room DI Ward looked into the empty space in front of his desk. He was thinking about his retirement. What the hell was he going to do? He had no family any more, except for a brother in Scotland. He and Maureen had planned to have kids but it just had never happened for them. He didn’t know why. Maureen blamed herself. She turned to him one night, told him that if he wanted to leave her, she would understand. Ward couldn’t believe what he heard. Couldn’t believe it had affected her so much, that she was that down about it. He tried to make it a joke.
‘You trying to get rid of me? Have you got a wee thing with the milkman that you’re not telling me about?’
Maureen smiled and a solitary tear ran down her cheek. That night in bed Ward held her. He told her to wise up, that she was the best thing that had ever happened to him. Maureen squeezed his hand. He told her he was going to have words with the milkman and all.
When the breast cancer came, Ward knew what she was thinking. She’d got what she deserved. She’d let him down and this was God’s way of punishing her. She did three rounds of chemo but it was too late. Ward had been on his own now for fifteen years.
His mind went back
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