Under Construction: A DI McNally Detective Thriller, page 22
He groans again as he remembers the fire whiskey shots. His round. He needs to remember he isn’t a spring chicken any longer. At the tender age of 44, it isn’t easy to just hop out of bed in the afternoon and go about your day after a feed of drink the night before. But despite himself, he was genuinely enjoying the craic with them all. Some were good critters, with some bad views. They did have some valid points; they all just hid them amongst fearmongering and sectarian slurs. He believes if some of them broke away and created their own party, they wouldn’t have trouble gathering support. He hates to think what would happen them if they did, though.
Managing to finally collapse out of bed, he drains the pint glass of water as he pads towards the sink, before refilling it once more. He gazes about at the kitchen in the house the police had given him for the entirety of his undercover investigation. Not bad, considering the location in the west of the city. He’s sure the fresh lick of paint, luxurious decor and expensive furnishing will not up the price though, given the area, when he moves on and the police sell it. If anything, they probably lost money getting this ready for him.
Just as he pops some bread into the toaster, all he can stomach at the moment, he hears the front doorbell go. Who the hell could that be? He isn’t even sure anyone knows where he lives. It wouldn’t be the police, would it? They wouldn’t risk the investigation, and his life, to land at his front door? Deciding to ignore it as he refills his glass, brushing it off as some campaigners or Jehovah’s Witnesses, he squints against the hammering of a fist on the glass. Not today. Not when his head is this painful. Trudging through into the bedroom, he pulls on a pair of tracksuit bottoms, reaching for a t-shirt before thinking better of it. Around these parts, if someone lands at your door unexpectedly, you just greet them with whatever you’re wearing. He has to act the hard lad. Topless is intimidating, even tattooless.
Looking in the mirror, he squares his shoulders back and juts out his chin, before marching down the hall towards the front door, where he can see the outline of someone standing through the distorted frosted glass.
Chapter Seventy-Three:
2016
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The silence is bitterly cold. Perhaps even colder than the wind roaring against the windows of his car. The heat is turned right up, but the old hunk of junk can barely splutter anything powerful enough to heat you. You’d be better just to blow in your hands to keep yourself warm. They stare at the vista of the city spread out in front of them where they’re parked in the Top of the Hill Park. Usually teens can be seen coming here for dogging or to smoke a few joints. But they’re doing nothing of the sort.
The twinkle of the Christmas lights should give Danielle butterflies and anticipation of happy times. It’s only days away, with wrapped and unopened gifts clogging up the backseat. But how can she be happy? It’s her first Christmas without him. Six months he’s been missing now. Who’s going to cut the turkey? Hell, who’s going to actually cook the turkey? They’ve soldiered on with Ma’s blackened oven food for now, but they need a turkey on Christmas Day. They haven’t discussed it as a family, perhaps they’re just going to treat it as any other day? After all, Ma hasn’t been dropping the oh-not-so-subtle hints on what she can get them from Santa. They all know what they really want. And Danielle knows what Chris wants.
“Why did you bother getting presents?” she laughs, folding her arms around her front, the seatbelt digging into her, “you know we aren’t going to make it that far.”
“Why do ye always say that? If ye think we have such an expiration date, then what’s the point in us goin’ forward? Surely, we’re just wastin’ each other’s time.”
“If that’s how you feel,” she turns her head away.
“That isn’t how I feel at all,” he reaches for her arm, but she pulls away from him, pressing herself against his passenger-side door, “but you’ve been givin’ me nothin’, D. I can’t begin to understand how hard this has been for ye, but ye can’t shut me out. Constantly tellin’ me that I want to break up with ye. Puttin’ words in my mouth. It isn’t fair, Danni… What’s really goin’ on? Is it ye that doesn’t want to be with me? You’re just projectin’ it onto me. Not wantin’ to be the bad guy?”
“How dare you accuse me of something like that?” Danielle spits, “my father is dead and I haven’t so much as-“
“Ye don’t know that.”
“Oh, grow up, Chris. Crunch on those eggshells you’re pottering around. He’s fucking dead, and he isn’t coming back.”
Silence falls once more.
“This isn’t about your da,” Chris picks his words carefully, “we’ve had problems before he… Went missin’.”
“Then just fucking break up with me then.”
Chris looks at her longingly, her hair tussled and spread across her wet face. He goes to push it behind her ear, and she just observes him, shaking slightly.
“Is that what ye really want?”
“Well, clearly it’s what yo-“
“Danielle!”
She jolts at his aggressiveness.
“Is it?”
She bites the bottom of her lip before nodding sullenly. He lets out a deep sigh before reaching for the gear stick to put the car in reverse.
“No, wait.”
She untangles herself from her coat and grabs hold of his hand. Ice cold. They look at each other for several seconds before she smiles at him with as much warmth as she can muster.
“Please… Can we just… Stay here a bit longer?”
Chris stares at her, before nodding and leaning back in his seat, their hands still resting on the gear stick. They both resume their attention to the windscreen, the lights winking and dancing across the River Foyle.
Chapter Seventy-Four:
2019
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Slamming the car door shut, McNally looks up at his parents’ bungalow in the Glen Crescent cul-de-sac of Portrush. So much has changed since he walked through that front door with his suitcase, ready for his new life in England the September he moved over for uni. Yet, the house looks the same, the street looks the same and the town basically looks the same.
The seaside town is known for its popularity during its summer months, Easter and renowned events like the North West 200, but lies dormant in other months. Perfect for pensioners like his parents who only want a bit of peace and quiet. Luckily, even with the excitement going on in the other months, they’re far enough from the town centre and beaches to avoid attraction.
Pottering through into the back garden, intent on surprising them, he sneaks forward as he sees the back door has been left open. The house is so small it can get very hot in the summer months. Scraping plates and muttering can be heard petering through it, so he gets on his haunches and slides over. As he stands, he looks in the kitchen window and pulls a funny face to a whoop of cheers.
“Liam! Ya boy ye, what are you doing here?”
McNally steps through into the kitchen to be embraced by his dad, who gives a gummy grin before leading him over to the kitchen table. The exterior of the house might look the same, but after McNally’s parents retired, his mum got to work on home improvements, forcing his dad to get off his arse. They redecorated the whole interior and even knocked the wall separating the kitchen and the dining room down to make one giant space.
This is where he sits now, getting Yorkshire puddings and beef thrown onto his plate as his mother hustles and bustles with the cooker, despite his protests. He looks across the table and smiles at his sister, Lindsay. He’s glad he’s made the detour up here after talking with Quigley. It might’ve been out of the way and it might just be for a short stay, but all Quigley said about family made him realise how much he neglected his own. The drive helped him digest what he was told, but he’s still confused and doesn’t know how to move forward. He’d tried giving Dawson a call for some advice, but he wasn’t answering his phone. Surely, a good home cooked meal should clear his head.
“How are you, son?” his dad beams at him once more, before scooping up a forkful of potatoes.
“Oh, same old, same old,” he rolls his eyes, cutting into a slice of meat, “just working away.”
“Are you on the Parker case?” his mum finally takes a seat beside him.
“I am, but I’m not discussing it. Sorry, you know I can’t, but I also want to forget about it for a moment. Stressing me out slightly.”
His mum taps him on the shoulder reassuringly as his dad nods, still diving his fork into his mash. Lindsay coughs and clinks the knife off her glass of milk for their attention.
“I was going to tell you both anyway,” she spreads her gaze between her parents, before resting it on her brother in the middle, “so I might as well say now before you have to scoot off somewhere. Well… I’m pregnant!”
All knives and forks hit the plates as the momentary silence subsides with the screeching of chairs. She’s pulled into a hug by both parents and McNally waits his turn, a huge grin on his face. Lindsay and her husband, Sean, live in the neighbouring town of Coleraine, just under a ten-minute drive from their parents. Sean is also a copper within the PSNI, so McNally and Sean had clicked instantly, despite him marrying McNally’s baby sister. McNally knows the couple were trying to get pregnant for some time, so the news brings tears to his eyes.
“Well done, Linds.”
She smiles up at him and blinks back her own tears, before they all retake their seats and turn their attention to the next few months, food abandoned. This is what he needed. Despite living back in Northern Ireland for several weeks, he’d barely had a chance to make it up as often as he’d liked. He needs to try more, it’s only up the road. It’s simple things like having dinner with his family that go amiss in the loneliness of his own house. Only when McNally’s phone goes half an hour later, to the groan of his family, does he realise that he still has a full plate. He excuses himself and steps outside, biting into a slab of beef he was able to pinch on the way out.
“Ferguson?”
“Sir, where are you?”
He looks around the back garden, before turning back around to see his mum pulling his sister in for another hug.
“I’ll be back soon.”
“Quick, sir. It’s urgent. You’re going to want to see this.”
Chapter Seventy-Five:
“How’s Dave?”
Georgia aims the question towards Chris, who stops tickling a squealing William long enough to look up at her.
“He’s fine. Well… As fine as he can be, given the circumstances. I don’t think he’s in pain any longer. Obviously, he sends his condolences, but I don’t think it’s a good idea for him to come here. With everythin’ that’s happened… And I doubt we’ll see much more of him anytime soon, to be honest. When I visited him in hospital, he wasn’t too happy. Wanted rid of me. Think he’s embarrassed more than anythin’. Had to lie and text me whilst I sat in the chair beside him. It was sort of heart-breakin’ to be honest…”
Danielle moans sympathetically, grabbing hold of Chris’s hand resting on his knee and tells him she completely understands. All the girls notice this and give each other awkward glances, pursed lips and raised brows. As William runs away, requesting for Uncle C to catch him, Georgia sighs before Chris pats her on the shoulder, stating that it’s ‘no bother.’ As he thunders off after a laughing William, Travis turns to join in the conversation with Ritchie and Jase on the next sofa and the girls collect their heads together, Danielle eyeing them suspiciously before leaning forward.
“So, Danni… What’s the craic with you and Chris?” Georgia gives her a condescending look.
Danielle blushes, retreating her head again, observing Ritchie, but he’s lost in a story, his hands flying about rapidly.
“I don’t know…”
“You seem to be getting closer,” Steph comments.
“We are… And we kissed earlier today.”
Katie and Abbie ‘whoop’ girlishly, before all of them laugh, Danielle hushing them whilst still keeping one eye on her brother.
“We’re just taking things slow… I mean, I’ll probably be going back to Newcastle in a few weeks… Days, maybe. Do I really want a long-distance relationship? And what if nothing has changed? I mean, it’s been nice having him around again… It’s familiar-“
“What about the guy you work with over at uni though?” Steph narrows her eyes.
“Who?” Abbie gasps, “you kept that quiet, you wee slag.”
Danielle gasps and mocks fanning her face, another explosion of laughter coming from them, making the boys look over charily.
“It was just a couple of dates… Nothing happened,” she licks her lips, “anyway, let’s be quiet about this. Ritchie and I are only starting to get on good terms again, let’s not ruin it.”
Everyone nods as the doorbell goes, Ritchie jumping up, shouting that he’ll get it. Crossing the hall, he opens the door and his mouth falls open. There, standing on their welcome mat, gleefully leering up at him, is Darrell Boyle.
“Hi, son.”
He goes to move forward, but Ritchie doesn’t flinch. He just continues to stand there, hatred in his eyes and his face turning into a snarl.
“What the fuck do you want?”
“Now, now. Is that any way to treat a guest?” he chuckles.
“You’re no guest of ours.”
“Well, I’m just here to pay my respects. I’m sure your father wouldn’t approve of you acting this way…”
“You’re not getting through this door.”
“Honey, who’s-“
Nuala steps out of the kitchen now, an apron wrapped around her front. Seeing the widow, Boyle’s eyes shine brighter and his toothy smile spreads wider.
“So sorry for your loss, Mrs Parker.”
Nuala marches over and slaps him across the face, her hands still wet from doing the dishes.
“Ma, no!”
Ritchie grabs his mum before she does any more damage. Boyle has already taken a few steps backwards, stunned at her reaction, raising a hand to his cheek, which is already reddening.
“Get the fuck off my property!” Nuala screeches, before reaching for the door and slamming it in his rodent-like face.
Chapter Seventy-Six:
As Ferguson continues to struggle to speed up the steep Lawrence Hill, McNally shakes his head as he rewatches the CCTV footage on his phone. How can they be so conceited? In broad daylight too. He observes the car slamming the brakes at the very peak of the Foyle Bridge, making the car following too closely behind them to swerve into the right lane to avoid a collision. Three men with their faces obstructed by masks and scarves clamber out before pulling a topless man from the boot. The man writhes around aimlessly before the men place him on top of the railings and push him off as if they were unrolling a carpet.
He rewinds the man disappearing from view several times. From way up there, the bridge’s highest point, it would be like hitting cement when you reach the water. The Foyle Search and Rescue are out patrolling now regardless. The tech team had been able to highlight and sharpen the image, but McNally knew who it was right away. Smyth, or his recently revealed real name Kevin Doherty, had plummeted to his death. Of course, they’d checked the number plate, the vehicle reported stolen that morning, and had trouble tracking the car as it disappeared into the republic. Presumably to be burnt out in a field.
A stab of guilt overtakes McNally as he looks up to another set of traffic lights, Ferguson cursing beside him in the driver’s seat. Was it his fault for showing up at the Bull’s Horn last night? Did he make it too obvious? The last communication the PSNI heard back from Doherty was that rumours circulating why the bar had been closed were quickly stamped out, and it was now an unspoken agreement, but they ran riot in the bar celebrating the incarceration of Taylor. Maybe the presence of two detectives rather than the standard uniforms who would be deployed to a similar scene was the changing point?
Either way, they had fucked up. Big time. As if struggling to hold onto the remnants, they decided they’d pay the bar a visit. They know it’s worthless, they’ll be spat out of there. But they need to try something. The constant threat of violence towards the social drinkers is becoming infuriating. They’re obviously bound far tighter than just ‘drinking buddies.’
“Ready, boss?”
McNally nods his head as they round the corner to the pub, but stop suddenly, confused. They’re met with the similar shutters that the drinkers were greeted with yesterday, but no protests going on outside. Is it a lock in? This early? It isn’t even five o’clock yet. Stepping out of the car, the door slams echo around the hungover cobbles as they trudge up to the door. Leaning their heads against the black wood, they’re surprised to hear silence. What the hell is going on?
Chapter Seventy-Seven:
“That bastard. That fuckin’ bastard!”
Nuala howls as she’s escorted into the living room and plonked down on the sofa, the group of friends dispersing to let her through. Granny arrives in with tea loaded with sugar.
“For the shock,” she winks at Danielle as she presses the mug against her daughter’s lips.
Nuala drinks hungrily, barely coming up for air, the semi-boiling water not deterring her from finishing the mug. When it’s empty, Granny hobbles out to make more as Nuala breaks into a new rant.
“I can’t believe Darrell Boyle the fucking terrorist knows where I live now.”
“Ma, he probably always knew,” Danielle grabs hold of her shaking hands, “he came to annoy and upset you, don’t let it affect you like this. You’re letting him win.”
