by Zara Keane
The man took a seat by the window, finally shrugging off his leather jacket and unwinding the scarf.
Seán banged the table in a subconscious gesture. Of course he knew the guy. It was Laurence “Lar” Delaney, a notorious Dublin wide boy with connections to everyone from the Real IRA to organized crime within the Traveller community to slippery fuckers like Ray Greer. Seán hadn’t seen Delaney in the flesh since the summer. And he wasn’t happy to see him now.
He nudged Brian. “Word to the wise. Dude sitting by the window? That’s Lar Delaney. You might remember the name from the Gant murder investigation and then the money-laundering-business inquiry.”
“Eh?” Brian cast a surreptitious glance over his shoulder.
Delaney didn’t move a muscle nor give any indication he’d noticed them. All bollocks in Seán’s opinion. A man like Delaney didn’t walk into a random café and fail to register the presence of two uniformed policemen.
“What’s he doing in Ballybeg?” Brian asked.
“I don’t know, but I intend to find out.” Seán abandoned his half-eaten lunch and approached Delaney’s table. Abandoning his undrinkable tea, Brian scrambled after him.
The waitress Olivia employed part-time had taken the man’s order and now set a mug of steaming black coffee in front of him.
The biker saw them approach but he deliberately waited until the waitress retreated and they’d slid onto the bench opposite him before making eye contact. “Afternoon, lads,” he said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Delaney’s accent was an odd mix of working class North Dublin and American twang. He’d spent time on the other side of the Atlantic, that was for sure.
“Don’t play dumb, Delaney. We know who you are. We worked the Gant case last summer.”
Delaney’s smile revealed unexpected dimples on his unseasonably tanned cheeks. The man didn’t strike Seán as the solarium type, so he’d recently spent time in sunnier climes than their Irish winter. “So you did, Detective Inspector Mackey.”
Seán felt his cheeks grow warm. “Sergeant Mackey.”
The smile didn’t falter. “Ah, yes. I heard about your demotion.”
Seán was sure he had. It had come about as the result of a takedown gone wrong. The raid in question was supposed to catch Ray Greer’s gang red-handed with stolen museum pieces. Had the plan succeeded, Seán would have been well on his way to securing a transfer within the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation from arts and antiques thefts to homicide. Instead, the evening had ended with a dead rookie detective and Seán’s disgrace, demotion, and transfer to Ballybeg. Someone had ratted them out to Greer. Seán’s hands formed fists under the table. If he ever found out who that someone was, he’d make them pay.
Delaney quirked a pierced eyebrow. “What crime am I breaking by having a coffee in a public café?”
“None,” Seán replied smoothly, “but this café belongs to Aidan Gant’s former wife. We just want to make sure you’re not here to harass her.”
Delaney’s surprised expression was too convincing to be feigned. “I didn’t know she owned this place. My only agenda is coffee and food.”
“Well, you’ve found it. Drink up and leave.”
“I haven’t paid for it yet. And I haven’t had a chance to order my lunch.”
Seán tossed a few coins on the table. “Courtesy of Ballybeg Garda Station. Now be on your way.”
Delaney settled back in his seat and raised his palms in a placating gesture. “No can do. I’m meeting someone for lunch.”
“Whether or not you were directly involved in the business over the summer, we don’t want your sort in Ballybeg. Finish your coffee, get on your bike, and leave.”
The door to the café swung open, letting in a gust of icy wind and Tammy Havelin. She was wearing her Glencoe College uniform, and a school bag was slung over one shoulder.
To Seán’s astonishment, Tammy made a beeline for Delaney’s table. She dropped a kiss onto Delaney’s cheek and rubbed his shaved head affectionately. “Hey, Dad. Did I keep you waiting?
Chapter Twenty-Five
SEÁN LOOKED FROM Delaney to Tammy, then back again. Blinking away the fog of surprise, he could see the resemblance. Truth be told, Tammy looked more like her father than her mother. She’d inherited his height and striking blue eyes. Recalling Clio’s panicked reaction to Seán having a cup of coffee with Tammy, he decided he was going absolutely nowhere until he was certain Delaney posed no threat to the girl.
“Does your mother know you’re here?” he asked, eyes narrowing in suspicion.
“Of course.” The girl’s wide-eyed innocence oozed insincerity.
“Okay.” He pulled his phone from his pocket. “In that case, I’ll just give her a call to make sure.”
“What?” She reached out to put a hand on his arm. “No, don’t do that. She’s working at the pub. She’ll be busy.”
“Clio texted me to say it would be okay for me to meet Tammy today.” Delaney flipped open his phone and showed Seán the message.
“That wasn’t sent from Clio’s number.”
Delaney frowned then turned to his daughter. “Did you fake a text from your mother to me?”
Tammy slumped into her seat and crossed her arms over her chest. “So?”
Her father sighed. “I don’t have custody, Tammy. I can’t see you without your mother’s permission. You know that.”
“She’s been jumpy lately. Totally paranoid after—” She cast a furtive glance at Seán and Brian.
“After what? What happened?” Delaney’s brow creased in concern. And unless he was a world-class actor, he wasn’t faking.
“Nothing,” the girl said quickly. Far too quickly to convince any of them that she was telling the truth. “Let’s just forget it and order lunch. I’m starving.”
Delaney’s gaze met Seán’s. A moment of reluctant understanding passed between them. “Can you give Clio a call, Sergeant? Or give me her number and I’ll call?”
“Dad,” Tammy protested. “Please don’t. Mum will make me go home. I haven’t seen you in ages.”
Her father ran an agitated hand over his shaved head. “I have to tell her, Tammy. You know the rules.”
Seeing Lar Delaney, suspected Real IRA hit man and convicted bank robber, acting the role of responsible parent was a turn-up for the books. Well, well. Perhaps the man had a couple of redeeming features to display alongside his mug shot gallery.
Seán hit dial. Clio answered on the second ring. “What’s up? I hope you’re not calling to say your uncle can’t perform at the party.” Her tone was bone-dry. “My mother would be devastated.”
“Nothing to do with the party. I’m at Olivia’s place—the Cottage Café on Curzon Street. Tammy is here with her father. It seems she didn’t have your permission to meet him.”
“What? What the hell is he doing in Ballybeg?”
Crazy as it might sound, Seán was relieved to hear the irritation in her voice. From Clio’s reaction, the idea of her ex being at large in her new hometown was a source of irritation rather than fear. Whoever had hurt Tammy, it wasn’t Lar Delaney.
“Do you want me to drive her back to Clonmore House? I need to check in with your mother this afternoon anyway. The super wants to make sure the security plans for tomorrow are in place.”
“Would you? I’d be very grateful. My shift at the pub doesn’t finish until six o’clock.”
“Can’t I at least eat lunch with Dad?” Tammy pleaded. “She’ll never let me see him after this.”
“I’m guessing you heard that,” Seán said into the phone.
“Depends on your schedule, Seán. If it won’t inconvenience you to wait, she can have lunch with him, but then she’s to go straight home.” Clio released a sigh. “I just don’t want her getting any daft ideas about moving in with her father. Not that I think he’d offer,” she added with a rough laugh. “Unreliable is Lar’s middle name, but Tammy doesn’t see it. He swans into her life wh
en it suits him and is nowhere to be found when he might prove useful.”
“Okay. Unless all hell breaks loose in Ballybeg over the next half hour, Brian and I were going to order dessert and brainstorm our schedule for next week. Tammy can hang with her father, and I’ll escort her home when I’m leaving. Sound good?”
“Sounds perfect. Thank you so much.” She dropped her voice to a husky whisper. “I promise to make it up to you. My mother will be home this evening. Want to meet after work? I could come round to your place.”
Aware of the audience around him, he kept his voice neutral. “An excellent idea. I’ll text you the details.”
Her husky laugh sent a tingle down in his spine. “You do that. I’m looking forward to meeting your famous vinyl collection.”
“I’ll play a record for you later.” Smiling, he rang off and slipped the phone back into his pocket.
Lar Delaney was eyeing him in detached amusement, beefy arms crossed, and sweater sleeves pushed up to his elbows to display the intricate sleeve tattoos on each muscled arm. “You seem to know Clio well.”
“Ballybeg is a small town. I know a lot of people.” Seán met the big man’s gaze, but the brief period of frankness between them was at an end. Delaney was back in wary mode, defensive shields in place.
An idea nagged at the back of Seán’s mind, a loose thread floating in the winds of memory that he instinctually knew was significant but couldn’t link up to the whole. Clio…Lar Delaney…the Gant murder case…money laundering…
And then it hit him. The man he’d suspected of taking something from Clio’s handbag that evening at the Sheldon hotel had seemed familiar. Of course he bloody well had. Even if Seán couldn’t fix a name to the guy, he’d seen his mug shot. And where had he seen it? Among the mountain of files dedicated to Ray Greer, one of the slimiest bastards to disgrace the Dublin crime scene. Greer’s shenanigans had set in train the course of events that had led to Seán losing his job and young Alan Brennan losing his life.
What the hell was Clio Havelin mixed up in?
***
Clio clutched the wine bottle with stiff fingers and coaxed her lips into a smile. The bravado from earlier had dissolved, leaving her a mass of nervous energy.
A date. Seán had asked her out on an official date. When was the last time she’d had dinner with a guy? Probably not since Juan, an ex-boyfriend from her time in Barcelona. And when was the last time a man had offered to cook said dinner? That would be never.
Taking a deep breath, she pressed the bell on the door of Seán’s apartment building. A moment later, the intercom crackled into life.
“Hey, Clio. I’ll buzz you in. My apartment is on the top floor. I’ll meet you on the landing.” Even through the static, his deep voice had the power to weaken her knees.
The buzzer sounded and she entered the small lobby. Seán’s apartment was located in a three-floor modern new-build on the outskirts of town. The house was a blocky, cubic structure with a slanted metal roof. In deference to the Ballybeg tradition of brightly colored facades, it was painted a warm shade of red-orange. All the buildings in close proximity to Seán’s were no older than five or ten years. If Clio’s guess was correct, the area had been farmland until relatively recently.
True to his word, he was waiting on the top landing, the door to his apartment ajar. A wide grin split his face when he saw her. His gaze roved over her black trousers and lacy blue top. “You look lovely.”
Her cheeks grew warm. She’d made more of an effort than she usually did, even adding a light coating of mascara and a touch of lip gloss. “You don’t look too bad yourself, Sergeant Mackey,” she said, taking in his dark shirt and denim jeans.
Seán ushered her into his home. The slate-gray tiles and white walls gave the place a sleekly modern appearance, and tasteful posters and paintings added a splash of color. With the exception of two closed doors that Clio took to conceal the bathroom and the bedroom respectively, the apartment was open plan. Dramatic floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked farmland and gave the room the illusion of extra space.
In one corner of the living room, Marvin Gaye’s “Midnight Love” was spinning on the record player. After handing him the wine bottle, she flipped through a stack of vinyl records. “I see you like Motown music.”
“My mother was a huge fan. I grew up listening to the Supremes and other Motown artists. My record collection belonged to her.”
“You’re lucky. My mother pretends to like opera. That’s what I was subjected to as a child.”
Seán laughed and held the bottle of wine she’d brought aloft. “Want a glass? I also have white in the fridge, or beer if you’d prefer.”
“If it’s already chilled, a small glass of white would be perfect.”
While Seán was pouring wine, Clio moved toward the kitchen and peeked into a pot on the stove. “Mmm…This smells heavenly.”
“It’s nothing fancy,” he said, handing her a glass. “Just a chicken tarragon casserole.”
“Just?” she teased. “Admit it. You’ve been slaving over a hot stove for hours.”
“Maybe a couple.” His dirty grin made her veins hum.
Taking a clean spoon from the drawer, he tasted the sauce. “Pretty good, if I do say so myself. Want to try?”
He held the spoon out and she closed the space between them. This close, their electrically charged sexual attraction fairly crackled. She put her lips round the spoon, licking the yellow sauce from it suggestively. “Delicious.”
Seán’s eyes darkened, and his gaze dropped to her mouth. Clio’s nipples hardened under her lacy blue top. A vision of shoving cooking utensils to the side and having sex on the kitchen counter loomed large…and then her treacherous stomach grumbled. Loudly.
That got a low rumble of a laugh. “I’d better dish this out,” he said in a thick voice.
“I think you’d better.”
The chicken tarragon casserole lived up to the promise of its tantalizing aroma. “This was seriously good,” Clio said after she’d eaten her fill. “Why hasn’t some smart woman snapped you up already and chained you to the kitchen?”
Seán’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “Do you like the idea of chaining me up?”
“I like the idea of you cooking for me, with or without chains.” And with or without clothes…
As if reading her thoughts, he grinned and refilled her wine glass. “So, Miss Clio. Are you going to fill me in on the Lar Delaney story, or will I have to drag it out of you?”
She made an exaggerated grimace. “I figured you’d recognize him.”
“Kind of hard not to. He was the youngest person on Ireland’s Most Wanted list when I was a junior policeman. I’d love to know how he managed to persuade the judge to give him an eight-year sentence and walk free after five.”
Clio gave a noncommittal shrug. She wasn’t stupid enough to divulge any information on her ex to a policeman, even one who was off duty. Truth be told, she didn’t know anything concrete to share. If Ray Greer was a slippery bastard, then Lar Delaney was opaque. And despite their shared child, Clio was wary of Lar, and even warier of his family.
She took a sip of her Pinot Gris and eyed Seán over the rim of the glass. “You’re curious to know how a wealthy private school girl got knocked up by the son of a shady paramilitary leader.”
That made him laugh. “I’m assuming the conception occurred in the usual way. But yeah, I’d like to know how you hooked up.”
“Lar worked part-time in his uncle’s betting shop. It was next door to a chipper that my friends and I sometimes went to after school. He was big, bad, and handsome and I fell for him. Plus he was the first guy to ask me out, and I was flattered. Within three months, I was pregnant.”
“And your mother hit the roof.” His smile was gone now.
“To put it mildly.” The memories of their explosive reactions were as fresh in her mind as though it had all happened yesterday. “My stepfather was still alive then. I believe
he was the driving force behind the decision to throw me out.”
“Did Delaney dump you?” His voice hardened and his mouth formed a grim line of condemnation.
“Our situation was more complicated than that.” She sighed and angled her chair toward the window, staring out over the snow-speckled fields. “I’d assumed—and Lar had allowed me to believe—that he was nearly nineteen. He was tall and broad and had the swagger to pull it off. When my parents found out I was pregnant, they freaked out and hauled me round to the housing estate where Lar’s family lived. And we all got a shock. Turned out Lar was two months shy of his fifteenth birthday. Far from me being seduced by an older bad boy, I was nearly three years his senior.”
“Jaysus.” Seán blinked. “He got you pregnant when he was fourteen?”
“Yes. He was fifteen by the time Tammy was born and I was eighteen. So you see, he was never in a position to support us. Despite the streetwise attitude, he was still just a kid.”
“Where did you go after your parents kicked you out?”
“Lar’s aunt’s spare room. By the time Tammy was born, Lar and I weren’t even pretending to be a couple. He made an appearance at the hospital, then scarpered.”
Seán cleared their plates and fixed coffee. He set an espresso cup before her and reclaimed his seat. “Truth be told, I don’t know that I’d have been any more reliable when I was fifteen.”
“To be fair to Lar, he did come round to visit us regularly during the first few months of Tammy’s life, but he played with her like she was one of his younger siblings and not his daughter. I knew I couldn’t rely on him for support, and I’d been obliged to leave school before my Leaving Cert. Without a school certificate, I had no chance of getting a decent job. And once Lar was sent to a juvenile detention center, he was out of the picture for several years.”
“Right.” He nodded, a thoughtful expression on his face. “At what point did you move to Spain?”