When Sorrows Come

  Matt McGuire was born in Belfast and taught at the University of Glasgow before becoming an English lecturer at the University of Western Sydney, Australia. He has published widely on various aspects of contemporary literature and is the author of the first DS O’Neill novel, Dark Dawn.

  Also by Matt McGuire

  Dark Dawn

  When Sorrows Come

  Matt McGuire

  Constable & Robinson Ltd

  55–56 Russell Square

  London WC1B 4HP

  www.constablerobinson.com

  First published in the UK by C&R Crime, an imprint of Constable & Robinson, 2014

  Copyright © Matt McGuire, 2014

  The right of Matt McGuire to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Extract from ‘This Be The Verse’ taken from Philip Larkin Poems

  © Estate of Philip Larkin and reprinted by permission of Faber & Faber Ltd.

  Every effort has been made to obtain the necessary permissions with reference to copyright material, both illustrative and quoted. We apologise for any omissions in this respect and will be pleased to make the appropriate acknowledgements in any future edition.

  All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not be reproduced in whole or in part, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or hereafter invented, without written permission from the publisher and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in

  Publication data is available from the British Library

  ISBN 978-1-78033-832-3 (trade paperback)

  ISBN 978-1-47210-611-7 (ebook)

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Printed and bound in the UK

  Cover by Blacksheep

  ‘When sorrows come they come not single spies but in battalions …’

  William Shakespeare, Hamlet

  For Claire

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I would like to thank my agent, Peter Straus at RCW, for his support and enthusiasm. All the team at Constable & Robinson, but particularly James Gurbutt for his insightful editorial suggestions. I would also like to thank my colleagues at the University of Western Sydney, especially Peter Hutchings, Sara Knox, Gail Jones, Brian Stout, Anthony Ulhmann, Ivor Indyk, Hazel Smith, Chris Andrews and the members of the Writing and Society Research Group. The support of my family has been consistent throughout the writing of this book – Maree, Liam, Jack – and I cannot thank them enough.

  ONE

  Belfast, 2 a.m., Tomb Street

  A man, a boy really, beaten to a pulp. Cracked ribs, broken jaw, fractured skull. Kicked in the head, too many times to count. Around him a puddle, slowly expanding, a halo of blood and piss and rain. The air was damp, clouds gathering, more rain on the way.

  Tomb Street runs through the docks, going nowhere, at least nowhere you’d want to be at two in the morning. At the far end, a young fella stumbled out of a nightclub with a skinful on him. He was thinking a slash, then a taxi up the road. He staggered a hundred yards, ducked into an alley, unzipped his fly. He squinted over his shoulder, into the dark, at a shape, motionless on the ground. Even in this light, in this state, he could tell.

  The mobile came out – ‘Ambulance … Tomb Street …’

  Back at the club it was chucking-out time. Young ones poured out like the walking wounded. Wee girls in too much make-up and not enough skirt. In the middle of the road, a boy of seventeen put his hands on his knees and puked his ring. His mates stood watching, pissing themselves.

  The ambulance arrived, parting the sea of bodies. It parked at the mouth of the alley and two paramedics stepped down. They moved slowly, in green overalls, like tired workmen. One of them crouched and put two fingers to the boy’s throat. He stared into space and waited – nothing.

  He looked at his partner, face set, and slowly shook his head. The other man shrugged and headed back to the rig for the paperwork.

  Five minutes later, a police Land Rover rumbled into Tomb Street. It parked up, the tape came out, the alley sealed – POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS. No one noticed, no one cared. The stragglers had moved on, heading for town and the weekly shoving match over kebabs and taxis. The armoured wagon sat there, squat and scarred, like a front row forward. It gazed after them, its windscreen a blank pitiless stare.

  O’Neill pulled into Tomb Street in an unmarked Mondeo, a pool car that smelled like stale sweat and cold coffee. The town had been jumping since he came on – Drunk and Disorderly, Aggravated Assault, the usual Saturday night.

  O’Neill was a DS, mid-thirties but looking closer to forty; eight years of shift work will do that to you. His hair was cut close, going grey at the sides. Beneath his shirt he wore a medal, Saint Michael, the patron saint of peelers. O’Neill wasn’t religious. His ex-wife had given it to him when he joined up and he figured, what the hell, might as well have someone watching your back. Catherine had jumped ship last year, taking their six year-old daughter with her. They were still in Belfast though, in the old house, and he saw Sarah on weekends, when the shifts allowed.

  O’Neill sat in the Mondeo for a moment, staring at Tomb Street, at the warehouses and their walls that were black like a cancerous lung. This was old Belfast, the docks. Half a mile away were the shipyards, or what was left of them. The place was being redeveloped. The Titanic Quarter, all luxury flats and loft apartments, the new Northern Ireland, at least that’s what the brochure said. O’Neill looked in his rear-view mirror. A teenager was pissing in the street while his mate lurched at the traffic, trying to flag a cab.

  Tomb Street had come in just after two – Suspicious Death. O’Neill had grabbed a set of car keys, glad to get out of Musgrave Street and the pile of paperwork on his desk.

  He opened the car door and approached the Land Rover, recognizing Terry Donnelly, a uniform with ten years on him. There was another cop there, young looking, like he was bunking off school.

  ‘Who are you then?’

  ‘Green, sir.’

  O’Neill smiled, thinking ‘No shit.’

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Twenty-one.’

  ‘How long you in?’

  ‘Three weeks.’

  ‘You meet our friend then?’ O’Neill thumbed at the alley.

  The rookie nodded doing his best Clint Eastwood, like he saw bodies everyday, at Tesco or the youth club, or wherever it was his life had been before it stuck a uniform on him and brought him to Tomb Street. You could see it a mile away – the pretence, the bullshit, the fakery. They all did it, especially at the start. Don the mask, like you’d seen it all before, like nothing could surprise you. Then one day, without noticing, you turn round and realize it’s true. O’Neill turned and nodded towards the young fella perched in the back of the wagon.

  ‘Jerome Collins,’ Donnelly said. ‘Found the victim.’

  O’Neill gave him the once-over – hands, face, shoes – no sign of a scrap.

  ‘Where’s he from?’

  ‘Downview Avenue.’

  It was Volvo country – doctors, lawyers, accountants.

  ‘Said he was in the club, heading home, needed a piss. Dandered into the entry, found your man, called the ambulance.’

  ‘Does he know him?’

  ‘
No.’

  ‘Record?’

  ‘Nah. I called it in and they put him through the PNC. Computer says he’s clean.’

  ‘If the computer says so …’ O’Neill said cynically. ‘Right. Move the tape back, seal the street, start the log. Everyone that comes in or out.’

  He stepped away, pulled out his mobile and called Ward. The DI answered first ring and said he was on his way.

  O’Neill looked back down the alley. Tomb Street would bring the flies. There’d be journalists, newsmen, reporters – all looking for a story, a bit of excitement for the folks back home, munching on their Corn Flakes.

  He looked towards town. They’d need to do a canvass. He called the duty sergeant and asked for more bodies. Robinson laughed – it was Saturday night, two in the morning, he could have three.

  O’Neill walked to the back of the wagon and Jerome Collins. The kid was eighteen, nineteen tops. He was rat-arsed, the eyeballs rolling in his head. O’Neill shook his head and called Donnelly over.

  ‘Take a statement, get a signature, send him home. Custody’s full, he’s no priors and we need him sober anyway.’

  O’Neill turned back to the entry, smelling the vomit, the piss, the stale beer. He crouched down, putting his torch on the body, trying not to think. Ward had taught him his first year in CID. You stayed stupid, just looked, allowed the scene to register.

  The victim was an IC1 male, five foot ten, early twenties. He was in dark jeans, brown brogues and a pale-blue shirt. Well turned out, O’Neill thought, from a nice home. From the dirt it looked like he’d rolled a bit, probably covering up, trying to protect himself. At his head was a puddle, black and viscous, like a miniature oil spill. O’Neill looked at the face. It was swollen, distorted, like it had been used as a punch bag. It was starting to bruise. Right eye shut, lip split, forehead open. O’Neill sighed. Someone had hit this guy and kept on hitting him, long after it ceased to be a fight.

  He thought about other Saturday nights, other assaults – the streaming blood, the broken noses, the missing teeth. He frowned, looking at his new friend.

  Behind O’Neill a white van pulled up and two scenes of crime officers got out. They put on their white suits and took out a camera. Sporadic flashes lit the walls of the entry.

  ‘Someone send for the cavalry?’

  O’Neill turned to see Ward step out of the darkness. The DI was in his fifties with a full head of hair and a moustache he’d never thought to get rid of. He had bags under both eyes, like it was a long time since he’d seen a full night’s sleep. Ward always looked tired, but O’Neill wondered if something was up, if the idea of his retirement next year wasn’t starting to work him over.

  He shone the torch on the corpse. ‘Meet contestant number one.’

  Ward crouched down. ‘All right, son. What about you?’

  The DI was twenty-eight years in, ex-RUC, one of the few that hadn’t jumped ship after the Agreement. The prisoner release had done it for most of them. Watching the TV as five hundred men walked out of jail: gunmen, bombers, murderers, guys who had killed cops, shot them walking the dog, in front of their wives, in front of their kids. And now they were all out, back on the street, like butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths. Half the force had walked away, going for early retirement; you couldn’t blame them.

  Ward stood next to O’Neill, two cops at opposite ends of their careers. O’Neill was in CID three years and still felt like the job was a privilege. Being paid to go out there, to be a witness, to see a world that folk never saw. He felt like he knew things, that he was privy to secrets, that he understood words like evil, violence, brutality. Ward, on the other hand, could smell retirement round the corner. He was tired, exhausted, done. Thirty years of wading through the shit. In quiet moments, over a smoke or in the car, it would dawn on him, what he’d learned after it all, the one thing he was sure of – there was only so much one man can shovel.

  Ward turned to O’Neill. ‘So talk then.’

  ‘Saturday night special. Looked at the wrong bird, bumped the wrong guy, said the wrong thing. A lot of reasons to get your head kicked in out here.’ O’Neill pointed to the club at the end of Tomb Street. ‘Fiver says he was in there.’

  Behind them two DCs, Kearney and Larkin, pulled up in a black Astra. They got out and Ward briefed them. ‘Uniform are coming. Let them know. Then hit the taxi drivers, the kebab shops, the doormen. Anyone half sober.’

  The two detectives stepped away. They knew they were pissing in the wind, so did Ward, but there was procedure to follow, boxes to be ticked.

  Ward looked at the body and shook his head. ‘Used to be, a guy was on the ground not moving, you stopped pummelling him.’

  ‘The good old days …’

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far.’

  ‘Detectives …’ A voice from behind the tape.

  A SOCO floated out of the darkness, holding a wallet. O’Neill gloved up and took it. Inside were credit cards, a driving licence, till receipts. There were business cards – Jonathan McCarthy, Trainee Solicitor, Thompson and James. O’Neill showed Ward.

  ‘A taxpayer.’

  Ward smiled and shook his head. ‘That’s all we need. Wilson will love this.’

  The Chief Inspector had a thing about PR. If it had been some wee hood, well then, that was no problem. So long as he didn’t make a mess. Taxpayers though, taxpayers were a different matter. They had parents, parents with solicitors, parents that were solicitors. They asked questions and wanted answers. When you had citizens getting beat to death outside nightclubs, well, it didn’t play too well.

  O’Neill looked at the wallet. There were receipts from the club, rounds totalling forty, fifty quid. He showed Ward.

  ‘Lets go then,’ the DI said.

  At the nightclub, O’Neill made a fist and pounded on the door. He looked up, noting the CCTV camera pointing at the entrance. After a minute a bouncer appeared – sixteen stone, shaved head, monkey brow. O’Neill pulled his warrant card, ‘CID-ed’ him and stepped in.

  The club was industrial chic – leather sofas, exposed brickwork, low arches. The bouncer dragged his knuckles back to the bar and wrapped them round his post-work pint. Three bar staff sat in the corner, a fella and two girls, also having a drink. Behind the taps a figure in a white shirt and tie was emptying the tills. O’Neill noted two more CCTV cameras, one on the bar, one on the dance floor. He stepped up to the chrome counter.

  ‘CID, Musgrave Street. We’re here about an incident outside. One of your customers …’

  The man smiled. ‘If it’s outside then surely they’re a member of the public?’

  The accent was Dublin, smarmy. O’Neill stared at him and waited. Eventually he spoke. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Martin Keenan. I’m the manager.’

  Keenan was late thirties with a receding hairline and an expanding waistline. O’Neill could see he rated himself. He imagined sleazy comments directed at blonde girls half his age.

  ‘What do you know about the incident?’

  ‘Know nuttin abou’ it.’

  ‘You have any trouble tonight?’

  ‘We don’t let it in.’

  ‘Throw anyone out?’

  ‘Like I said. We don’t let them in.’

  The bouncer grunted, enjoying the show. O’Neill glanced at him, imagining the kid mouthing off, getting thrown out, the bouncer taking him round the back, giving him a hiding. It wouldn’t be the first time. He looked round the nightclub. It was owned by Paul Lafferty, who had half the bars in Belfast.

  ‘Nine o’clock,’ O’Neill said. ‘Monday morning. I want your CCTV, I want every card payment, I want your staff list, I want names, addresses, National Insurance numbers. I want your shift rota – the doormen, the glass collector, the wee African in the toilets …’

  ‘We don’t have a wee African …’

  O’Neill glared.

  Keenan tried to hold out, but couldn’t. ‘That’ll all take time.’

  Ward sighed
and stepped forward.

  ‘I’ll tell you what’ll take time. Explaining to Paul Lafferty why his club’s been shut down for six months, why we’re sifting through his accounts, why there’s a police investigation into his business, why his name’s in the paper every week, why no one comes here any more, why—’

  Keating raised his hands. ‘OK, OK, I get it.’

  Ward turned and walked out the door, O’Neill following. On Tomb Street he signalled to Larkin.

  ‘Get statements from everyone. Start with the bar staff, take your time, do the manager last. And check the bouncer for any kind of record.’

  O’Neill stepped away and lit a cigarette. Ward drew level and got out his own.

  ‘Wrong side of bed?’ O’Neill asked.

  ‘Something like that.’

  O’Neill smiled, knowing how it felt. He’d been running uphill for a year, since Catherine left, since Laganview, since he ended up in hospital with a concussion and a dislocated shoulder. He thought about his ex. She said it was the shifts, the late nights, the last minute phone calls – ‘A job’s just come in …’ You got away with it once, maybe twice. Eventually it wore thin. His daughter Sarah would be seven next weekend. He was supposed to be seeing her tomorrow, a trip to the cinema. O’Neill looked at his phone, knowing he’d have to make another one of those calls.

  A white television van pulled up at the end of the road. O’Neill watched as a reporter and a cameraman stepped down and started to set up.

  ‘How’d the press get this?’

  Ward rubbed his thumb against two fingers. ‘Musgrave Street, leaks like the Titanic.’

  O’Neill tried not to think about it. He shut the phone call to Sarah out of his head, staying with the job, the details, the facts. He walked down the road, notebook in hand, drawing a map of the street. He marked things out – the club, the alley, the position of the body. He noted the names of various businesses and watched as the SOCOs started to pick their way through the scene. The white suits and facemasks, like a nuclear clean up. In a doorway, he came across three empty cans, Tennent’s Super. He picked one up with his pen, looking at it, thinking.