What she didn’t need was Nolan Burke climbing out of a Merc and heading her way.
Her first thought comprised a series of swear words. Her second was whether he was there to pressurise her into not printing any of the interview. She stood beside her car, the key in her hand. She wondered if she could use it as a weapon. But then she saw the flowers in his hand.
Nolan Burke.
With flowers, no less.
‘Mr Burke,’ she said, trying hard to keep irritation out of her voice but failing miserably. She was too damned tired for this. Flowers. I mean, what the actual . . . ?
His slight smile was different from his brother’s. It carried genuine amusement. ‘Yeah, I heard about the “Mr” business. Nolan, for God’s sake. My maw’s no here to impress.’
‘What are you doing here?’ There was so much edge to her words that she could have cut bread with it.
He raised the flowers towards her, as if he was for some reason ashamed of them. ‘Came to see you.’ He was trying to be brash but his voice wavered just enough to tell Rebecca he felt out of his depth. The tiny smile was almost boyish.
She glanced up at the office windows. Was anyone watching? Did she need witnesses here? Dear God, Nolan Burke says he’s come to see her and he has flowers. She was half expecting him to produce a heart-shaped box of chocolates next.
‘Why?’ she asked.
He hesitated. ‘These are for you,’ he said, fully thrusting out the flowers in her direction.
Despite herself, she took them. They were nice flowers. She couldn’t say what the blooms were, she was hopeless at that, but they were beautiful and the bouquet was enticing. She wondered where he’d stolen them from.
‘I bought them,’ he said, as if he’d guessed her thoughts. ‘Don’t worry, they’re no knocked off or nothing.’
‘Didn’t think they were,’ she lied. Convincingly, she thought.
He didn’t buy it. ‘Aye, I’ll bet.’ Something of the Nolan Burke she’d heard about, and even seen in court, crept into his voice. Tough, sure of himself, cocky.
‘What do you want, Mr Burke?’
He looked around him, but there was no one near. He sighed. ‘A bloke brings you flowers, what the hell you think he wants? And it’s Nolan, mind.’
Was this his way of asking her out? She supposed it beat a half-brick across the head and being dragged up an alley. ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea, Mr Burke.’
‘Nolan.’
‘Let’s keep it to Mr Burke, eh?’
‘Why? We can be friends.’
Earlier she’d been thinking that she needed new friends, but this wasn’t quite what she’d had in mind. ‘Why me, Mr Burke?’
He smirked. ‘Why you? Can you no work that out for yourself?’
She let her eyes roam over the petals in her hand. They were beautiful. She’d only been given flowers once in her life. Simon, of course. Who always did the right thing. She pushed them back in Nolan’s direction. ‘As I said, not a good idea. Please take these back.’
He stepped away, made a kind of fending-off motion with his hands. ‘Naw, what the hell am I going to do with them? And why isn’t it a good idea?’
Exhaustion hit her hard again and she let the arm holding the flowers swing to her side. She didn’t have the strength for this, she really didn’t. ‘It just isn’t, okay?’
She clicked the unlock button on her fob, hoping he’d take the hint.
‘It’s because I’m a Burke, right?’
She opened the driver’s door. ‘No, it’s—’
‘I know. We’re all crooks. The family from hell. Dad’s in the jail, Mum’s a hard case, brother’s a nutjob. We punt drugs and we get into fights and we hurt people that get in our way.’
Okay, she thought, if you want to do this. ‘And you don’t do any of that, right?’
He quickly scanned the area around him again to check they still could not be overheard and stepped closer, his voice low. He had the decency to keep a distance between them, so at least he knew about the concept of boundaries. ‘Aye. We do. No point in denying it. We do all that and more. That’s the life we lead and we do it really well, you know? But there’s more to us, more to me, than dealing smack and sorting out the opposition, you know what I mean? I’m still just a guy, underneath it all.’
‘A guy who deals smack and hurts people for a living.’
And reads The Guardian, she thought. And brings flowers. What’s next? Poetry?
He opened his mouth, a smart reply ready, but he thought better of it. ‘Maybe a guy who could change.’
Rebecca thought she detected sincerity in that one simple sentence. She stared at him, trying to find some sign of duplicity in his face, hoping she would see it, but all she saw was raw honesty. Dear God, he really wants to get out. And he’s looking for a way to do it. But it sure as hell wasn’t her. She turned back to her car. ‘Come back when you have changed, Mr Burke. Goodnight.’ She leaned in to lay the flowers carefully on the passenger seat and straightened again. ‘Thanks for these.’
He merely nodded. ‘Fine,’ he said, turning away as she climbed into the driver’s seat. She was about to close the car door when he stopped and turned back. ‘Then maybe this will make a difference. I’ve got some news for you. You like news, don’t you?’
She looked past the open door, her hand on the interior handle. ‘What is it, Mr Burke?’
His smile was back. So was his confidence. This was firmer ground for him. ‘There’s a price.’
‘I don’t pay for stories.’
‘Not money. One drink. You and me. Now.’
‘You’re extorting a date now?’
‘No a date. A drink and a talk. I’ve got stuff you might be interested in is all it is. You people like your contacts, right? I can be one of them. And a bloody good one. You know that.’
The thing that annoyed her, that really pissed her off, was that he was right. Nolan Burke would be a terrific contact, although she would have to tread carefully. The stories he could steer her way would really be something, but she would always have to be wary that she wasn’t being used.
‘So what do you say?’ he asked, but she could tell he already knew the answer.
‘One drink, Mr Burke,’ she said. ‘One drink and you tell me what you want to tell me, okay?’
His smile expanded. ‘No problem. And it’s Nolan.’
22
Barney’s was the land that hipsters forgot.
By the time they’d found a space and Nolan parked the Mercedes, they had a fair walk back through the Old Town to get to the pub. To Rebecca’s mind, streets should allow traffic to move relatively easily in both directions. Along Baron Taylor Street, the narrowest in the Old Town, lorries or vans making deliveries would block its entire width and even pedestrians had to virtually scrape against the wall to squeeze past.
Nolan Burke led her into an alleyway that cut through to the High Street and there was the entrance to Barney’s. A slim door, a weathered, faded sign above it saying it was ‘a free house’ and, high on the wall, a window of frosted glass so opaque there was little reason to have it.
Rebecca had passed the bar’s unprepossessing exterior many times with no reason to ever cross the threshold. It was one of those places that you only ever went into if you were a regular. The casual visitor, someone looking for a trendy gin or a designer beer, was very unlikely to be attracted by its drab entranceway; even if they were, one look at the shadowy interior would send them scuttling for the nearest Wetherspoons. There was something depressing about the place, as if it and its customers had nowhere else to go. Here, dying dreams were mourned in hard wooden chairs at scarred tables and any hope for the future saw the last rites delivered at the bottom of a whisky glass. Despite that, part of her was glad that unpretentious places such as Barney’s still existed. The other part wondered what the hell she was doing there. It was alien. It was not for her. Was that why she felt so nervous?
It was fa
r from the hottest spot in town, she noted. There seemed nothing remotely threatening at first glance. Three young men dressed in the casual uniform of hoodie, jeans and trainers sat at the bar, their eyes fixed on a TV above the gantry tuned in to some football match or other. A middle-aged couple sat diagonally across from each other at a table in the corner under the narrow window and beside the door. The only other customer was a man in the far corner, facing the entire bar, a newspaper and a mug on the table before him. His black coat was draped over the chair beside him, a brown and white dog lying on its side at his feet, eyes open, watching the room. The man slipped off his glasses to study them as they walked in, then slid them back on and went back to his reading.
Nolan led her to a table under a long mirror that reflected the entire bar and asked her what she wanted. Her first impulse was to ask for something soft – she saw this as a work meeting – but changed her mind and asked for a white wine instead. She would have preferred a gin, her growing tension actually demanded it, but she feared in this place it would have been of the bathtub variety and she didn’t want it burning a ring round her stomach. Anyway, a drink might help settle her, for she felt unaccountably on edge. It wasn’t every day a known drug dealer invited her out for a drink. Or brought her flowers.
Nolan nodded and moved to the bar, one head jerk being enough to bring the barman to him. He rested both forearms on the bar top as he ordered the drinks and when he spoke one of the young men looked in his direction. Nolan didn’t seem to notice. He seemed relaxed in this grotty little bar. She wondered if he came here a lot. She wondered if he brought other women here. She wondered why she wondered.
The butterflies became full-grown birds.
To distract herself, she studied the other customers. The couple near the door did not seem to be speaking to each other. The woman sat at one corner of the table, the man opposite and to her left. Like the young men, his eyes were on the football. The woman stared straight ahead, as if she was studying a piece of art she particularly enjoyed rather than the plaster wall of indeterminate colour. They both had coats on, as if they had just arrived or were just leaving, but the man’s pint glass was half full. They had to be together – there were three other empty tables in the cramped space – and yet they neither looked at, nor even spoke to, one another. Married, she decided, probably for years. Was that what happened when you’d been with someone for a long time? Did you reach the point where you had said everything you had to say, leaving you sitting in an anonymous little bar, bound to one another but also separated, the years sitting between them like dead children? She thought about her parents. They hadn’t been like that. Or was she guilty of a selective memory, where childhood summers were always filled with sunshine? Had there been dark moments in their relationship? She didn’t think so. Her memory was of them talking to each other about everything. And a lot of laughter.
As Nolan walked back to the table with their drinks she saw the young man who had been staring at him swivel round in his bar stool. When his scrutiny switched to her, she felt his eyes reach across the room like a grope. Nolan didn’t appear to be aware of the man’s gaze as he set her white wine in front of her – a large one, she didn’t fail to notice – then sat down himself. His own glass contained something soft, she noted. He was driving, of course – there were any number of police officers who would just love to bust Nolan Burke on a drink-driving charge – but was he also trying to impress her? As she took a mouthful of wine, it hit her that she was also driving. Shit. Ah, well. That’s why God invented taxis. Her car would be safe enough overnight outside the office. She took another drink.
‘Why here?’ she asked. In reply he gave her a quizzical look. ‘Why did you bring me here?’
He looked around, as if seeing the place for the first time. ‘Not the most salubrious of places, is it?’
Salubrious. No wonder he read The Guardian.
‘It’s quiet, is why,’ he said. ‘Never much business, not now anyway. It used to be a really popular pub, but things change.’
‘Do you come here a lot?’
‘Now and then, make an appearance.’ He looked about again. ‘Could do with a lick of paint, I suppose. I’ll need to see about that.’
Rebecca sipped her wine as he spoke. Despite her unwillingness to come along after the day she’d had, it tasted surprisingly good. But she resolved to have only one. ‘You’ll need to see about that? Mr Burke—’
‘Nolan.’ He smiled.
She ignored him once more. ‘Do you own this place?’
‘The family does. Through – eh – intermediaries, I suppose you’d call them.’
She took another swallow, hoping it might drown the nerves. This was a business meeting, a story, that was all. But despite herself she was growing more interested in the Burke family. Of course they would have interests in various businesses. If they were selling drugs they had to launder the cash somehow. And there would necessarily be ‘intermediaries’ – individuals and shell companies hiding the Burke family’s involvement. She wanted to ask more about such arrangements but felt he would not expand on it. Then she saw the young man at the bar was still studying them both.
‘You’ve attracted someone’s attention,’ she said.
Nolan did not seem surprised. His eyes darted briefly to the mirror above her head. He hadn’t chosen this table at random, it seemed. ‘Ignore him,’ he said, as he settled his attention back on her.
‘Gladly,’ she said, deciding to get down to business. Colourful though the place was, she didn’t want to spend too much time there. Depressing atmospheres could be catching. And she was susceptible. ‘So – what’s the news? What do you have to tell me?’
He smiled. ‘Get right to it, don’t you?’
‘I told you, Mr Burke . . .’
‘Nolan.’
‘One drink.’ She pointed at her glass, saw that it was almost half empty already. Jesus, how the hell did that happen? Had it been that bad a day? Why am I so bloody nervous? The atmosphere was getting to her. She felt out of place, certainly, and she really didn’t like the way the bloke at the bar was watching them, but why the fluttery gut? She saw Nolan look at her glass, but if he thought anything of how quickly the wine had vanished he did not show it. Brazen it out, Rebecca, who cares what he thinks? ‘And you’re running out of time.’
He turned his head slightly to the left, towards the man and his dog, as if he was gauging whether he could overhear them, but the guy seemed engrossed in his newspaper. She saw his dark hair was threaded with grey. She recognised the Chronicle’s pages and that gave her a tingle of pride. She loved to see people reading a real newspaper, especially her own, but it was not a regular experience now.
She expected Nolan to hunch forward and whisper, but instead he sat back and his tone was normal when he spoke. ‘We got word this afternoon. They’re going to move that perv into the Ferry tomorrow night.’
‘How do you know?’
His look told her that was a question that would remain unanswered. ‘We know, that’s all. Tomorrow night social work is bringing the bastard in.’
Sources again. Their network rivalled that of Elspeth. As she took this in, she saw the young man lean back in his stool and say something to his friends. Whatever he said, it was enough to divert them from the game, for they too looked in their direction. Heads moved together in conspiratorial discussion. Rebecca began to get a bad feeling about this, which didn’t help her nerves.
‘We also know who he is,’ said Nolan, this time leaning forward slightly.
That brought her attention straight back to him, the young men no longer a concern. ‘You’ve got a name?’
‘We’ve got a name.’
‘What is it?’
‘Why do you need to know?’
‘Because if I have a name that might be enough to stop them trying to rehome him in the Ferry.’
He laid one hand on the table top and sat back again while he thought about this. ‘I don’
t want you to stop it. I want them to try it. We’ll stop it.’
‘Mr Burke . . .’
‘Nolan.’
No way, she thought, this is all business. ‘Mr Burke, your family has whipped up emotions over this. You know what will happen if the council try to bring him in.’
‘I know.’
‘And you want that?’
He considered what he wanted. ‘A message has to be sent.’
‘That’s your mother speaking.’
‘It’s the family speaking. And all the decent people in the Ferry.’
She almost laughed at Nolan Burke talking about ‘decent people’ but then she saw the young man who found them so interesting sliding off his stool and walking towards them. Nolan kept talking. ‘Come down the Ferry tomorrow night, come to the house, bring a photographer. You’ll see. You’ll get a story, I guarantee it. An exclusive. You folk like that, don’t you?’
She did like an exclusive, overused though the word was, but what she didn’t like was the rigid way the young man was walking as he closed in, as if he was gearing up for something, nor the grim, determined look on his face. She looked past him to his friends, who had stayed at the bar but were grinning as they watched their pal. What was about to happen was better than the footie.
‘Mr Burke . . .’ she began.
‘I know,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry.’
The young man stopped about two feet away, his legs spaced apart, one slightly behind him, as if he was poised for action. His arms were stiff by his side, his fists balled. Nolan’s position did not change, even when the man spoke.
‘You’re that Nolan Burke, eh?’
Nolan didn’t turn round, but Rebecca saw his eyes were fixed on the mirror. The young man stared at his back, as if willing him to face him. Rebecca glanced around the bar. The man’s two mates had still not moved; the barman was leaning on the counter, his back more or less to them, watching the football. The middle-aged couple to her left seemed oblivious to what was going on. Only the man to her right noticed. He had eased his glasses from his face to watch them. His dog was alert too, head up, ears pricked.
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