Dead And Buried

Conor felt like he ought to make a contribution. ‘I’ve got a mosquito net,’ he offered.

‘Does it work on leopards?’ Again the fleeting smile.

There weren’t any leopards, in the end. They ate the fruit and bread perched on the tailgate of the jeep. When the sun went down, Conor made himself as comfortable as he could under a blanket in the passenger seat; Kipenzi curled up cat-like in the back.

While the stars came out in the deep sky, they talked: family, work, travel, food (Kip spoke three languages and had lived in Brazil and Japan, but she’d never had a bacon soda farl from Kenny Hegley’s on Cloister Street). When the red sun rose in the morning they were still talking. At eight, when Doctor Nkono pulled up in his dust-caked 4x4 alongside the stranded jeep, he found Conor dozing in the driver’s seat, and Kip sound asleep with her head on his shoulder.

Conor came round to find the doctor shaking his arm. ‘Good morning, Mr Maguire,’ he said.

It took Conor a second to register it all: the dazzling sunlight, the doctor’s wry, kindly smile, the thought that he’d spent the night sleeping rough in the African savannah, the ache in his back, the scent of Kip’s hair on his clothes.

Belfast seemed every one of the six thousand miles away in that moment – and a million years ago.

But here you are, Conor told himself as he manoeuvred out of Barry Lever’s yard and pulled onto the Belfast road. You kissed Kip goodbye for good, and here you are – home again.

He didn’t notice the car behind him until he was deep into the city suburbs. At a red light on Montgomery Street he squinted in his rearview. Yeah, that was it, all right: the car he’d seen outside the Cherry Tree that night, after Ella’s party. The cops.

Conor fought down a rising panic. Sure, there’d been a time when the police in Belfast knew his name and his face; there’d been a time when they were more than keen for him to – what was the phrase? – help them with their enquiries. But now? He was clean. He’d been out of the damn country for nearly six years, for Christ’s sake. But then the police, like everyone else in Belfast, had long memories.

He drove carefully, mindful of road signs, signals, speed limits (he could hear Mags’s voice in his head: give the bastards nothing) – easing the Land Rover through the thickening traffic on Albertbridge Road.

Before Short Strand and the river he swung the car into a layby and braked. He breathed a quick prayer: please God let them go past. In his right-hand wing mirror he watched the black car move alongside – and then slow – and then stop.

The darkened nearside window hummed open. There was no one in the passenger seat. The driver, keeping one hand on the wheel, leaned across and motioned for Conor to wind down his own window. Heart thumping, he pushed the switch. The window rolled down; the traffic fumes and the dank Lagan air caught in Conor’s throat. He swallowed uncomfortably and met the driver’s eye.

‘Hello, Conor,’ she said. Yeah, the coppers round here knew him, all right –and he knew them. This was a name and a face he’d have been glad to forget. He nodded stiffly.

‘Hello, Detective Galloway.’

‘Surprised to see you round these parts again.’ Galloway’s accent was softly but markedly Glaswegian.

‘I’ve been away.’

‘I know – I remember you leaving.’ A bleak smile. ‘Sort of sudden, wasn’t it?’

‘An opportunity came up. You know how it is.’

Traffic was getting tailbacked behind the black car. A horn beeped irritably. Galloway sighed. ‘Look at me, holding up traffic. Now, Conor – you’ve five minutes for a chat with an old friend, haven’t you?’

‘Yeah – yeah, I suppose so,’ Conor shrugged. It was easier to play along – to pretend that he had a choice in the matter.

‘Great.’ She smiled. ‘Follow me. Try and keep up.’ The darkened window rolled up. The black car moved off.

Conor signalled and pulled out in its wake. When he moved his left hand from the wheel to shift gears he felt it tremble and he gripped the gear lever till his knuckles showed white.

Detective Lisa Galloway. He’d been wondering if he’d see her again, hear her voice again – and hoping like hell that he wouldn’t.

‘I’m not trying to play games with you, Conor,’ Galloway said. ‘I’m just trying to do what I’m paid to do.’

They’d driven to a rundown pub on Laganbank Road. Galloway had led him to a table outside – so she could smoke, she’d said with a self-critical grimace. ‘Keep meaning to quit,’ she said, ‘but bad habits die hard in this job.’

Conor guessed that the truth was she didn’t want to be overheard.

They were the only drinkers on the windblown terrace. Conor could hear TV football commentary coming from inside the pub – then someone shouted something, and someone else swore loudly. Then someone started up a chant: hello, hello, we are the billy boys… Rangers fans. At least there was no chance of bumping into any of his relatives here. He sipped his half of bitter and watched Galloway warily as she settled on the bench, set down her glass of vodka and coke, and fired up a cigarette. She’d lost weight since he’d last seen her, and she’d been skinny as an alleycat then. And she looked older – of course she did; it’d been six years. There was a permanent crease in her brow. Bags under her eyes – not a lot of laughter lines. This is just what work and worry and this city and this country do to you, Conor thought.

In her straight black trousers and dark boxy jacket you’d not look twice at her if you passed her in the street – but she was still a good-looking woman, underneath it all. The bones of her face were fine and strong and her dark hair was glossy. Through a cloud of white smoke Galloway said, ‘It was funny, the way you left, Conor.’

‘Funny?’

‘It was just at the same time Jack Marsh disappeared, wasn’t it?’

Conor fidgeted uneasily with a beermat. Any hope this would be a friendly catch-up evaporated. He wished she hadn’t said it. He wished he’d never heard it. It took all the guts he had to meet Galloway’s eye.

‘Don’t know what’s funny about that,’ he said.

Galloway ignored him. ‘Strange case,’ she said thoughtfully, looking out over the scalloped grey-green river. ‘Feller like Marsh – he was always so careful, you know?’

‘I don’t suppose he was short of enemies.’

‘No, you’re right there.’ She smiled – like this was a private joke between the two of them. ‘For a start I think the army would’ve had him shot if they were still allowed. Dealing dope to cadets was one thing – he was a good soldier, after all – they could turn a blind eye there. Then they caught him selling small arms to villains out of Deysbrook Barracks.’ She laughed. ‘They couldn’t overlook that.’

Conor nodded. He knew the case history inside-out. Marsh had taken his dishonourable discharge and done his time.

Galloway sipped her drink and swallowed slowly. ‘Marsh landed in Belfast around the same time I did.’

‘Sounds like destiny.’

Galloway didn’t say anything. Conor stayed silent while she took a long pull on her cigarette. He studied her pale hands and her narrow hazel eyes.

She looked up suddenly, her eyes meeting his. Conor looked away.

‘I don’t want any trouble, Detective,’ he muttered.

Galloway laughed. ‘Now what on earth would you mean by “trouble”?’ She smiled. Conor didn’t smile back. Abruptly, Galloway stubbed out her cigarette and folded her hands on the tabletop. Here we go, Conor thought.

‘Whoever killed Jack Marsh—’ Galloway began.

Conor stopped her with a raised hand. ‘You’re talking like Marsh was definitely killed. But you never found him, did you? I mean, you don’t even know if he’s dead. No one does,’ he added.

Galloway’s eyes were stony. ‘Don’t push your luck, Mr Maguire,’ she said quietly. She took a drink and began again. ‘Like I said, I don’t want to play games. I’ll tell you what we want.’ Again her eyes met his. ‘Patrick Cameron,’ she said.

Conor leaned back in his seat, his mind racing. ‘What d’you want with Patrick?’

‘He was close to Marsh. Very close.’

‘Maybe he was. What’s that got to do with me?’

‘Don’t play dumb, Conor – you’re smarter than that.’ Galloway brushed away a crumb of cigarette ash in an irritated gesture. ‘Patrick Cameron’s your wife’s brother,’ she said.