Collusion

23

Lennon sat with his head in his hands, afraid to look at Gordon or Uprichard when he spoke. They thought they had the case wrapped up. Lennon doubted they’d take it well to hear he thought different. He told them anyway.

‘I don’t think it was the kid.’

‘It’s too early to think anything,’ Gordon said. He’d had an Ulster fry sent up to his office from the canteen. He swished a piece of sausage around in a pool of yellow egg yolk.

From his spot against the radiator, CI Uprichard watched Gordon eat. He’d had a minor heart attack last year, and talk was his wife made him eat muesli for breakfast. ‘Wait for the post-mortem,’ he said, ‘even if you can’t wait for forensics to come up with something.’

‘We know he wasn’t there alone,’ Lennon said.

‘So there was another kid,’ Gordon said through a mouthful of egged sausage. ‘Doesn’t mean the one we found didn’t do it. Doesn’t mean he did, either. You jump to conclusions far too quickly, DI Lennon. You should learn to stand back and take in the facts as a whole. Thirty years I’ve been at this, and one thing I can tell you for certain.’ He jabbed his fork in Lennon’s direction for emphasis. ‘Investigating with an agenda will lead you in circles.’

‘Agenda?’ Lennon asked.

‘That’s right,’ Gordon said. ‘First thing you said to me when you found out it was Quigley: “Couldn’t be coincidence,” you said. That’ll taint everything you do from here on if you’re not careful.’

Lennon had to concede the point. ‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘What now?’

‘I suggest you go home and get some rest,’ CI Uprichard said. ‘You look exhausted. We can’t do much until the post-mortem and forensic reports come back.’

Gordon chewed toast, spitting crumbs as he spoke. ‘We’ve got three teams doorstepping the area to see who the kid was friends with. If anything comes up, we’ll call you back in.’

‘All right,’ Lennon said. He got up and headed for the door.

‘Don’t go chasing things that aren’t there,’ Gordon called after him. ‘You’ll end up missing the truth for want of a lie, young Lennon.’

Lennon lay on his back for an hour, wishing for sleep. A dull hint of a headache loomed behind his eyes. Making up for the lost hours of the night before would ease it, but he knew the more he wished for the warm darkness the less likely it would come.

The quiet again. Too much silence, and too many thoughts to break it. Most were of Marie and Ellen. He had found out everything he could when they first disappeared, begged favours, pressed anyone he knew for more information. The same story everywhere he turned: Marie felt unsafe after her uncle got his brains blown out, so she made herself scarce. After a while, Lennon eased up. He told himself to let it go. His daughter was lost to him. It didn’t matter if she lived in Belfast or somewhere across the sea; he’d never know her anyway.

But then Dandy Andy Rankin talked, and once more every thought formed around Marie and Ellen. Lennon couldn’t force his mind to look away. There was only one thing to do. The landlord lived on Wellesley Avenue, two streets north of Eglantine Avenue. He could be there in ten minutes.

Jonathan Nesbitt, sixty-seven and retired, blinked at Lennon’s ID. ‘What can I do for you?’ he asked.

‘Can I come in?’ Lennon asked, putting one foot inside the door.

‘I suppose, if you—’

Lennon stepped past him and said, ‘Thanks.’

Nesbitt’s hall was a little dowdy, but well kept. He had two properties he rented out, houses his wife had inherited from her father before her own death a few years ago. The hall led to a high-ceilinged living room. Cheap prints hung on the walls, cherubic children, dogs playing cards. An old television sat in the corner, Philip Schofield and Fern Britton exchanging banalities in oversaturated colour.

‘What’s this about?’ Nesbitt asked as he followed Lennon in.

‘Sit down,’ Lennon said.

‘Oh, thank you,’ Nesbitt said with no attempt to veil his sarcasm. He lowered himself into the armchair facing the television.

Lennon sat across from him. ‘It’s about the house you own on Eglantine Avenue. The ground floor flat, in particular.’

Nesbitt’s eyes rolled. ‘Miss McKenna,’ he said.

‘That’s right,’ Lennon said.

‘For the last time, Miss McKenna moved out in a hurry, I was given a year’s rent in advance, my son boarded it up for me, and that’s that.’ Nesbitt tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. ‘Hang on, you were here asking about it before. Two or three months ago, wasn’t it?’

Lennon nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said.

‘What do you think I’m going to tell you now that I didn’t tell you before? Look, I was asked to hold the flat for Miss McKenna, I was given the rent in advance, she moved out, and that’s all there is to it.’

‘Who asked you to keep the flat?’

Nesbitt shifted in his seat. ‘I’m not at liberty to say.’

‘I’m a police officer,’ Lennon said.

‘And I’m a retired civil servant and a landlord,’ Nesbitt said.

‘You don’t follow me.’

‘Oh, I follow you all right. But I don’t have to tell you anything I don’t want to.’

‘I can compel you to talk to me,’ Lennon said. ‘I can formally interview you at a station, on record. And if you still don’t want to answer the questions, I can bring you in front of a magistrate, and you’ll—’

‘Don’t waste your breath,’ Nesbitt said. ‘They told me you’d try that. They said they’d quash any legal action, it’d never see a court.’

‘Who said that?’ Lennon asked.

Nesbitt coughed. He waved his hand in the air as he searched for the right words. ‘They did,’ he said, eventually.

Lennon sat forward. ‘Who’s “they”?’

‘I’m not at liberty to say,’ Nesbitt said. His eyes glittered as he smirked. He clearly enjoyed his power over Lennon.

‘Someone picked up Marie’s post last week,’ Lennon said. ‘They must have a key.’

‘Nothing to do with me,’ Nesbitt said. ‘I haven’t set foot in that flat since it was boarded up.’

‘Who has the key?’

‘They do,’ Nesbitt said. He bit his knuckle to suppress a giggle.

‘And who is “they”?’

‘I’m not at—’

‘Yeah, I know.’ Lennon stood up. There was no use in pressing the landlord. He took a card from his jacket pocket. ‘Do me one favour, though. If anyone comes around asking more questions, anyone who isn’t, you know … they … give me a shout, okay?’

Nesbitt took the card with a contemptuous sniff, and studied it at arm’s length. ‘We’ll see,’ he said.

‘Please,’ Lennon said. ‘Anyone you’re not sure of comes around, let me know.’

‘Anyone?’ Nesbitt set the card on the arm of the chair and stared up at Lennon. ‘Anyone like you?’

Lennon said, ‘I’ll let myself out.’

His mobile rang as he got into his car. ‘Yeah?’ he answered.

It was Gordon. ‘Blood type on the knitting needle matches the kid’s, and he has a small puncture wound on his thigh. His prints are on the knife, of course. It’ll take a few days for proper DNA matches from Birmingham, but it looks pretty solid. Mrs Quigley stabbed him with the needle, he fled to the yard, lost his footing in the wet, and that’s that.’

‘What about the other kid?’ Lennon asked.

‘Haven’t turned him up yet,’ Gordon said. ‘The locals are cooperating for the most part – the paramilitaries told them to – but no sign. We’ll find him before too long, don’t worry.’

Lennon settled into the driver’s seat. ‘I don’t know,’ he said.

‘You don’t know what?’

‘Doesn’t it seem a little … well … easy?’

‘You’re a more experienced investigator than that, DI Lennon,’ Gordon said. ‘This was a clumsy, stupid, hasty killing. Clumsy, stupid, hasty killers don’t cover their tracks. They’re almost always caught within twenty-four hours. Granted, the fact that the killer managed to break his own neck while escaping is a stroke of luck. But nevertheless, pending all reports from our more scientific colleagues, I consider this one wrapped up.’

‘You told me it was too early,’ Lennon said.

‘That was this morning,’ Gordon said. ‘This is now. Like I told you, don’t go chasing things that aren’t there. Take the rest of the day off. You did good work at the scene. I won’t forget it.’

‘Thank you,’ Lennon said.

He hung up and put the phone back in his pocket. Nesbitt watched him from his living room window. The old man had a phone to his own ear. Lennon wondered who he was talking to.