off down the road. The car left an empty space that the rest of the men seemed to tumble into.
Two years later, thumbing through the file, O’Neill wished Laganview was that easy. There was no one he could lean on. No one to apply a bit of pressure to. Hell, he didn’t even have a name.
He walked into the coffee room and poured himself the third cup of the day. It was still only 8.30 a.m.
In the office next door DI Ward hunted through the bottom drawer of a steel filing cabinet. He pulled out a series of black notebooks, the ones he’d used in the eighties, back when he was in uniform.
He was looking for William Spender, the developer at Laganview. He knew he was in there somewhere. It was a complaint; although nothing ever came of it. Ward had been sent to interview him over allegations that he had threatened one of his neighbours. Something to do with an extension.
The investigation had been dropped. Out of nowhere, the neighbour retracted the complaint. Ward sat at his desk, thumbing through old notebooks, trying not to get sidetracked by the names and memories that leered out of the pages.
Next door, O’Neill continued to circle Laganview. The more he looked at the file, the less he believed it was a straight-up punishment beating. Punishment beatings were a warning, a signal that drug dealing wasn’t tolerated. A dead body was one way. Better though was a living, breathing victim. A daily testimony, in 3-D Technicolor. If the young ones saw their mate hobbling round on a pair of walking sticks, taking painkillers for the rest of his life, they would know what was coming to them. A punishment beating was about control. A way of making sure the hoods knew who was in charge. If you were dealing for someone and thought about ripping him off, there were going to be consequences. It wasn’t a crime of passion. Things didn’t get out of hand. O’Neill heard of incidents where they even called the ambulance, waiting until they heard the sirens before doing the guy’s knees.
He thought about Wilson’s warning. About not calling this a punishment beating. The political ramifications. The need to be careful. The Chief Inspector might get his wish, after all.
O’Neill sighed and prised himself up from his desk. He went outside to the car park. Two white Land Rovers sat in the shadow of the station wall. He lit a cigarette. Three uniforms stood by the back of one of the Land Rovers, sharing a story.
The door from the lock-up opened and Sam Jennings walked out. She had her hat pulled down, her short blonde ponytail peeking out the back.
‘Hey, John,’ she said. ‘Or should I say, Detective Sergeant O’Neill?’
‘That’s right.’ O’Neill lifted three fingers, tapping imaginary stripes on his shoulder. ‘You need to stand up when I walk in the room.’
‘Hah. You forget I knew you when you didn’t know your radio from your pepper spray.’
‘Fair point.’
Jennings glanced over at the three male uniforms at the back of the wagon. She saw her shift stretching out in front of her. Stuck in the Land Rover, taking a ribbing for chatting up CID. From what she could tell, Musgrave Street was a boys’ club. She felt as if she was being watched, that the guys on her shift were still waiting to see if she could cut it when things turned rough. It had been the same in Dungannon. A load of lads waiting to see if she wasn’t another empty uniform. The PSNI playing politics, filling another bullshit equality quota.
‘So how’s Musgrave Street working out?’ O’Neill asked. ‘You got a good shift?’
Jennings raised her eyebrows sceptically. ‘I’ll let you know. There are a few cowboys round here, I’ll tell you that for nothing. Guys who think they’re hard lads, that they can do whatever they want.’
‘Yeah? Just keep your head down. And anyway, what was wrong with Dungannon? Last I heard, you were entering boxing competitions.’
‘Listen. It’s official. Dungannon’s been pacified. I
Two years later, thumbing through the file, O’Neill wished Laganview was that easy. There was no one he could lean on. No one to apply a bit of pressure to. Hell, he didn’t even have a name.
He walked into the coffee room and poured himself the third cup of the day. It was still only 8.30 a.m.
In the office next door DI Ward hunted through the bottom drawer of a steel filing cabinet. He pulled out a series of black notebooks, the ones he’d used in the eighties, back when he was in uniform.
He was looking for William Spender, the developer at Laganview. He knew he was in there somewhere. It was a complaint; although nothing ever came of it. Ward had been sent to interview him over allegations that he had threatened one of his neighbours. Something to do with an extension.
The investigation had been dropped. Out of nowhere, the neighbour retracted the complaint. Ward sat at his desk, thumbing through old notebooks, trying not to get sidetracked by the names and memories that leered out of the pages.
Next door, O’Neill continued to circle Laganview. The more he looked at the file, the less he believed it was a straight-up punishment beating. Punishment beatings were a warning, a signal that drug dealing wasn’t tolerated. A dead body was one way. Better though was a living, breathing victim. A daily testimony, in 3-D Technicolor. If the young ones saw their mate hobbling round on a pair of walking sticks, taking painkillers for the rest of his life, they would know what was coming to them. A punishment beating was about control. A way of making sure the hoods knew who was in charge. If you were dealing for someone and thought about ripping him off, there were going to be consequences. It wasn’t a crime of passion. Things didn’t get out of hand. O’Neill heard of incidents where they even called the ambulance, waiting until they heard the sirens before doing the guy’s knees.
He thought about Wilson’s warning. About not calling this a punishment beating. The political ramifications. The need to be careful. The Chief Inspector might get his wish, after all.
O’Neill sighed and prised himself up from his desk. He went outside to the car park. Two white Land Rovers sat in the shadow of the station wall. He lit a cigarette. Three uniforms stood by the back of one of the Land Rovers, sharing a story.
The door from the lock-up opened and Sam Jennings walked out. She had her hat pulled down, her short blonde ponytail peeking out the back.
‘Hey, John,’ she said. ‘Or should I say, Detective Sergeant O’Neill?’
‘That’s right.’ O’Neill lifted three fingers, tapping imaginary stripes on his shoulder. ‘You need to stand up when I walk in the room.’
‘Hah. You forget I knew you when you didn’t know your radio from your pepper spray.’
‘Fair point.’
Jennings glanced over at the three male uniforms at the back of the wagon. She saw her shift stretching out in front of her. Stuck in the Land Rover, taking a ribbing for chatting up CID. From what she could tell, Musgrave Street was a boys’ club. She felt as if she was being watched, that the guys on her shift were still waiting to see if she could cut it when things turned rough. It had been the same in Dungannon. A load of lads waiting to see if she wasn’t another empty uniform. The PSNI playing politics, filling another bullshit equality quota.
‘So how’s Musgrave Street working out?’ O’Neill asked. ‘You got a good shift?’
Jennings raised her eyebrows sceptically. ‘I’ll let you know. There are a few cowboys round here, I’ll tell you that for nothing. Guys who think they’re hard lads, that they can do whatever they want.’
‘Yeah? Just keep your head down. And anyway, what was wrong with Dungannon? Last I heard, you were entering boxing competitions.’
‘Listen. It’s official. Dungannon’s been pacified. I
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