Eventually the kid smirked and said, ‘John Lennon? Was Ringo busy?’
Lennon gave the boy his hardest stare. ‘Detective Inspector John Lennon. My friends call me Jack. You can call me Inspector Lennon. Understood?’
The kid’s smirk dropped. ‘Understood.’
‘Is your name Hutchence?’
Yes.’
‘First name?’
‘David.’
‘What are you, a student?’
‘Yes.’
‘At Queen’s?’
‘Yes.’
‘You having a party, David?’
‘No!’ The young man held his hands up. ‘It’s just me and my flatmates. We weren’t making any noise. We’ve no music going or anything.’
Lennon leaned forward and sniffed the air between him and the kid. ‘You been smoking anything?’
‘Just fags.’ The young man forced his shaking hands together as the toilet flushed again.
Lennon stepped into the hall. ‘How long have you been here?’
‘Just a couple of weeks,’ the kid said as shuffled backwards. ‘Term only starts on Monday.’
Lennon walked past the young man and peered up the stairwell. Another kid’s head ducked out of sight on the landing above. A flatmate, presumably. ‘Who lives on the top floor?’ Lennon asked.
‘No one yet. The landlord said there’s more students moving in next week.’
Lennon pointed to the door in the hallway beyond. It had been six years since he’d left the ground floor flat, and that life, behind. ‘What about in there?’ he asked.
‘It’s empty too,’ the kid said. ‘The landlord said someone rents it, but they’re away travelling or something.’
Lennon tried the door handle. It was locked, of course. ‘Is there ever anyone around?’
‘No, there’s… oh, wait!’ The young man’s face lit up like he’d won a prize. ‘Someone picked up the post last week. There was a pile sitting there.’ He indicated the shelf above the radiator. ‘We went out one night, and when we came back, it was gone. Do you want the landlord’s number?’
No,’ Lennon said. He’d tackled the landlord not long after the flat had been boarded up and come away with nothing. He handed the kid a card. ‘If anyone ever comes around, goes in there, takes anything away, anything at all, you give me a call, all right? And I’ll pretend I didn’t smell anything funny coming from upstairs.’
The young man gave a weak smile and nodded.
‘I’ll see myself out,’ Lennon said.
15
The Traveller didn’t like this one bit. The broad-shouldered man with dirty-fair hair was clearly a cop. The Traveller hadn’t noticed him pull up, so he had to assume the cop was watching the flat too. Of course, it was possible the cop wanted something with the kid who answered the door, but the Traveller knew that wasn’t so. He knew it in his gut.
Christ, it had been a long day. When he fled the hospital he drove straight to Portadown, constantly checking the mirror with his one good eye. He considered ditching the car, but the risk of stealing another was greater than the chances of his number plate being caught on CCTV in the hospital car park.
Once he’d got to Portadown he’d pulled into the first place he could find. He walked until he found a chemist and bought a little tube of antibiotic eye ointment and a bottle of water. The girl behind the counter stared at the orange streaks around his bad eye made by the stuff the doctor had used. He held his hand out for his change. She put it on the counter and stepped back.
When he returned to the car, he tilted his head back, pulled up his eyelid, and poured the water in. Jesus, it went everywhere, but it seemed to do the trick. He dried his face with his sleeve as best he could, and then put a dollop of the ointment in his eye. He sat there blinded for half an hour before heading for the motorway. It took less than forty minutes to reach Belfast, nudge his way through the traffic on the Lisburn Road, and turn right into Eglantine Avenue. He knew to look out for the church on the corner.
As soon as he parked, he put another dollop of the ointment in his bad eye, hoping it would ease the stinging and itching. Instead, it left him squinting and swearing. Maybe that was when the cop pulled up. The Traveller cursed himself. He and the cop had been sitting yards from each other, watching the same boarded-up flat, for at least an hour. The Traveller always listened to his instincts, that reptilian part of his brain, and right now it was telling him the cop was trouble. He took the mobile phone from his pocket, entered the password, and dialled the only number it held.
‘What?’ Orla O’Kane barked.
‘Who’s the cop?’
‘What cop?’
‘The cop who just went into Marie McKenna’s building. The same cop that’s been sitting watching it for at least an hour.’
‘Jesus,’ Orla O’Kane said.
‘Jesus what?’
‘That wee girl of hers. The father’s a cop. Can’t remember his name, but I’ll find out. What’s he look like?’
‘Big fella, good shape,’ the Traveller said. ‘Dark blond hair. His suit looked better than a cop could afford, even with the danger money they get up here. Maybe he’s bent.’
‘I’ll see what I can dig up. I heard about our friend in Monaghan on the news, by the way. Pity about his wife.’
‘Yeah, pity,’ the Traveller said.
‘I suppose it couldn’t be helped.’
‘No, couldn’t,’ the Traveller said.
‘Fair enough. What about Quigley?’ she asked.
‘I’ll maybe call and see him a bit later.’
‘You do that. I need some progress to—’
‘Whisht!’ the Traveller hissed, silencing Orla. ‘The cop’s coming out. I’ll maybe follow him, see what I can see.’
‘Don’t take any chances,’ she said, her voice low and serious. ‘We’re not interested in him. If he’s a problem, deal with it, but leave him alone otherwise. Understood?’
‘Understood,’ the Traveller said. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll just have a wee shufti. Nice talking to you, big lass.’
‘Watch your m—’
The Traveller hung up and slipped the phone back into his jacket pocket. The cop crossed the road ten yards ahead and disappeared from view. The Traveller lowered his window a little. He heard a car door opening and closing with a solid thud. Something quality, probably German or Scandinavian, or maybe a late Ford. An engine sparked and caught with an ugly diesel clatter. The Traveller lowered his window a little more so he could lean out. Up ahead, a silver Audi A4 pulled out and accelerated towards the Malone Road.
‘Nice motor,’ the Traveller whispered to himself. It looked pretty new. Thirty-five thousand euro, maybe forty, depending on the engine size and the options. He didn’t know what it would cost in pounds sterling, but it would still be big money for a cop. The Traveller turned the old Merc’s key, and the ignition whined until the engine burped and farted into life. He let a Citroën pass so he could keep it between him and the Audi before he pulled out.
The cop turned right on the Malone Road, as did the Citroën, but he surprised the Traveller by immediately turning left into the cluster of churches and old houses that led to Stranmillis. The Citroën stayed on the Malone Road, leaving no buffer between the Audi and the Merc. The Traveller had to be careful. He didn’t know the names of these little streets, but he knew Stranmillis Road when the cop turned onto it. The Traveller let two cars pass before he followed, giving him some cover.
The river came into view as they approached the roundabout at the bottom of Stranmillis. Surely the cop didn’t live down here? A doctor or a solicitor could just about manage a mortgage around these parts, but surely not a cop.