by Declan Burke
“Are you going to answer that?”
“Yeah, yeah,” she said, digging her fists into her eyes. She stumbled around the room, picking up jeans and a baggy sweater. Pulled them on over her T-shirt, hopping awkwardly when her foot got caught in one of the legs. When she was dressed she pulled her hair back off her face, tied it up with a scrunchy.
“It’s the Dibble,” I warned as she padded towards the door, barefoot.
“So?”
“Exactly. And Katie? Keep it neat.”
I left the door open, listening at the crack. She opened the front door and I heard mumbling. Then the mumbling became louder and the door closed again. I crept out onto the landing. They were in the front room, the hall door open.
“I know him, yeah,” she was saying. “What’s he done?”
“He hasn’t done anything.” Galway, reassuring, his tone dry. I could imagine Brady rocking on the balls of his feet, looking around for something to sneer at. He wouldn’t find too much. The house was smart and bright, all polished pine floors and airy rooms with high ceilings. You could have turned a tugboat in the living room and still had room to swing a cat, so long as you were prepared to answer hard questions from the animal rights wallahs. Even Brady would have had enough room to lumber around without breaking anything. “We just need to talk to him,” Galway added.
“You think he’s here?”
“We don’t know where he is. But you have been observed in his company in the past few days and we’re investigating all the options open to us at this time.”
“Well, he isn’t. Here, I mean.”
Brady sounded like he’d been into the whiskey again, a header into the vat followed by a couple of brisk lengths.
“Mind if we look around?” he rasped.
“Yes.” I nearly smiled – I could imagine her, half Brady’s size, hands on hips, defying him.
“How come?”
“Leave it.” Galway again, sharp. Then: “We can contact you again if we need to, Miss Donnelly?”
“Sure. Detective Brady has my number.”
“Thank you for your time. And if you do hear from Mister Rigby, please ask him to contact us as a matter of some urgency.”
“Of course.”
The front door closed again. I went back into the bedroom, peered through the gap in the curtains. Brady was driving. He turned the Mondeo in the narrow road and it rumbled off towards town. Katie trudged back upstairs.
“Contact the cops. It’s a matter of some urgency. And it’s your turn to put the coffee on.”
I turned at the door.
“How does it feel to be an accessory after the fact?”
“Sticks and stones, Harry. I’ve been called a lot worse.”
“I’m sure you have.”
“By better than you, too. So watch your mouth.”
I boiled the kettle, started a brew, stepped out into the back garden to air my lungs. It was mild out, and the jumble of dirty grey clouds massing out over the Atlantic meant there was snow on the way for sure. For now the morning was sharp and clear, the sun pale in a powder-blue sky. I coughed my approval, phlegmy and rich, went back inside.
I turned on the radio and listened to the news, drinking coffee and rolling a smoke. The lead story concerned a cabinet stalwart that didn’t avail of a tax amnesty, mainly because he couldn’t really admit to needing it, the tale nearly seventeen years old and coming of age nicely. The second story was a foiled bank robbery in Ardee. The third followed up on a story from the day before, a multiple pile-up somewhere in Cork that left three children without their father on Christmas Eve. Their mother was in intensive care, fighting for her life, and the reporter laid on the pathos like her pension depended on it, which it probably did.
There was nothing about the accident Galway reported, the one involving a kid puncturing a windscreen. That meant no one had been killed, which was good news, which was why it hadn’t made the bulletin.
I tuned the radio to the local station, caught an update, but they had nothing on the Windscreen Kid either. Neither was there a mention of a shooting in the town the night before. I wasn’t surprised, or maybe it was just that I didn’t have the energy. I had nothing left to give, no synapses left to tingle. I was running on empty, the engine breathing fumes. All I had was the inclination to trundle on because I didn’t have the strength to apply the brakes.
The coffee helped. I was onto my third mug by the time Katie came downstairs, rubbing her hair with a towel. I poured her a coffee.
“Sugar?”
“One, and milk.”
We perched on stools beside the long pine counter, sipping the coffee and not looking at one another.
“So what happens now?” she asked.
“I keep my head down until I can get to Ben and Denise. When I get there, I’ll get them somewhere safer than where they are now.”
“You have somewhere in mind?”
“I’m hoping Bali is cheap off-season.”
“What about your brother?”
“What about him?”
“Won’t someone have to identify the body?”
“Probably. But it can wait, he’s not going anywhere.”
It came out callous but I let it carry on. She gave me a funny look, composed herself.
“Harry, if there’s anything I can do…”
I shook my head, reached out, squeezed her hand. She didn’t squeeze back.
“You’ve done more than enough. Most people would have screamed the house down, turned me over to the Dibble first chance they got.”
Her gaze didn’t waver.
“I’m not most people.”
“True enough. How come they know where you live?”
The change of pace caught her out. She stared long enough to blink twice, which was once too often.
“How do you mean?”
“I mean, you’re a reporter from out of town. How are they supposed to find you? Even know that you’re still around? I presume you gave Brady your number up at Sheridan’s place. You flip him the address too?”
She shook her head.
“No. Maybe they rang the magazine. I don’t know.”
“They rang the magazine? On Christmas Eve? Before eight in the morning?”
She stared, stayed cool.
“Harry, if I didn’t want to help I’d have turned you in when they were here. I don’t know how they got my address. I own the place, it was a sweet investment, and that kind of thing is down on record. Or maybe they stuck a pin in the phone book. You want me to ring and ask them how they found you?”
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. The way things are, I can’t trust myself to take a piss standing up. No offence intended.”
“Yeah, well, offence taken.”
She went to the sink, ran the cold tap over her mug. Left it on the draining board to drip dry, stared out the window.
“Nice place,” I said, changing the topic. “The magazine must be looking after you.”
She shot me a glance across her shoulder. Smiled, let the scene slide.
“Not as well as Tommy Finan.”
“Who he?”
“Assistant manager in the Ulster Bank, my local mole when I was buying here. He kept me posted on what bids were bullshit.” She winked. “He’s cute, too.”
“And you let him know it.”
“It was nothing he wasn’t already thinking.”
She left. When she returned she had her jacket on. She stood in front of the mirror, brushed her hair out with brisk strokes.
“So,” she said, fiddling with the hairbrush. “What’s the plan now?”
I told her what I’d told her the first time she asked, giving it a different spin.
“I was going to hang here for a while, if that’s okay. Chances are the Dibble are sitting around the corner waiting for me to stroll out.”
“Why would they be waiting?”
“Maybe they didn’t believe you.”
“Why would I lie?”
“You did lie.”
She shrugged it off.
“Right enough. I’ll swing around by your office when I get into town, let you know if I see them.”
“Sound.” I gave her Gonzo’s mobile number. “I might be gone by the time you get there, but you’ll get me on this. If the signal doesn’t run out.”
“Okay. Be careful.”
“That’s part of the plan, yeah.”
I made another coffee, moved into the living room, pulled the curtains closed. Then I rang Dutchie, started rolling a smoke. He answered on the first ring.
“It’s me, Dutch.”
“Harry?”
He sounded surprised. I didn’t blame him. The last time I’d been up that early I’d been on my way home.
“Get you up, did I?”
“Yeah, yeah. I had a couple after… after that last night. You know.”
“Yeah.”
He started again, cautious: “So how goes it?”
“Head’s cabbaged, but I’m alive.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Shouldn’t be, though.”
“How’s that?”
“Last night, on the new bridge. A car pulls up out of nowhere and some fucker lets fly with a machine gun. Fucking Howitzer, he had.”
“Fuck! How –”
“I jumped.”
“Into the river?”
“No, Dutch. I went up the way, hitched a passing hang-glider.”
“Jesus Christ, Harry! Who –?”
“They didn’t say; it wasn’t that kind of party. But I had the Branch around this morning. Again.”
“They were around to the house?”
I realised that Galway and Brady hadn’t stopped by Dutchie’s. I said, slow, wondering why: “I’m not at the house, Dutch.”
“Where are you?”
“You’re better off not knowing. That way you won’t have to lie when they call.”
He chewed it over.
“Think it had anything to do with Gonz?”
“I don’t, no. The hang-glider bloke said it was just a coincidence.” I couldn’t afford to waste any more time waiting for Dutchie to wake up. I moved on. “I need a favour, Dutch.”
“Anything. Say the word.”
“I’ll need your car. Denise took mine last night, headed for the holiday home.”
“Smart. You want to come here and pick it up?”
“Leave it at the shopping centre, the one down at the river. The third level, say. Leave the key in the usual place. And Dutch? This morning? The Dibble aren’t usually that quick off the mark.”
“I hear you. I’ll make some calls.”
“Okay, here’s Gonzo’s mobile.”
He took the number down. He said: “Anything else I can do?”
“Yeah. Can you stow Ben’s bike in the boot? It’s in the keg room.”
“Yeah, yeah, no worries. And Harry?”
“What?”
He was all choked up again.
“Be cute, Harry.”
“Like Barbie, Dutch. I’ll buzz you later.”
I hung up, finished the coffee, thumbed through the telephone book, made the call.
“Good morning, Ulster Bank. Mary speaking. How may I help you?”
“Hi. Can I speak to Tommy Finan, please?”
“One moment.”
“Thanks.”
Greensleeves came piping down the line. I hung up, poured another coffee. Sipped it slowly until the mobile rang.
“Harry? It’s Katie.”
“What’s up?”
“They’re outside the office, just down the street. The girl in the coffee shop says they’re investigating the break-in.”
“Break-in?”
“Yeah. Your office was trashed last night.”
“That’d be right.” Either Galway had got his search warrant, or the pros were even slicker than I’d given them credit for. Or maybe it was just a coincidence. Maybe some scumbags from The Project decided to break in and wreck the place on the very night I was running for my life. The hang-glider bloke sailed by. He was shaking his head. “Katie?”
“What?”
“You’re going to have let me buy you a coffee some time.”
“Cheap bastard.”
“Not so cheap, okay?”
I rang Herbie. The ring tone sounded strange, abrupt, not giving the phone a chance to ring. Which was bad news. There was a chance that Herbie, stoned and oblivious, had disconnected the phone the night before, but when Herbie got stoned and oblivious he generally went chasing porn on the Internet.
I rinsed out the coffee cup, shrugged into the damp Puffa. It was even heavier than I remembered. Maybe that was because I was carrying Gonzo in it now, in every pocket, in the seams of the lining, the folds of the collar, which I turned up defiantly before closing the door behind me.
18
It took me nearly an hour to get to the shopping mall, going out around by the college, doubling back through the train station. The town was mobbed, the last minute shopping only a Valium off frenzy, and the paranoia subsided only slightly when I got inside the mall. I wandered through some of the shops, backtracking, keeping an eye on my reflection, but I didn’t spot anyone who shouldn’t have been there. Which meant I wasn’t being followed or I was being followed by pros.
Dutchie’s car was parked on the third level, a tidy Fiat Bravo that could turn it up on the open road if it had to. I skulked behind a pillar and watched it for a while. Then I went back downstairs and hid out in the back of a stand-up coffee bar, gagging on a cup of coffee so bitter the ulcer gave it a standing ovation. I stocked up on a couple of bottles of Maalox in the chemist, chucked a box of painkillers in on the sale, ducked into the public toilet. When the ulcer stopped screaming I went back upstairs.
There was no one around that I recognised from the first trip. I threaded my way through the parked cars, flipped open the petrol cap guard, hooked the keys, got in. The retrieval ticket was in the glove compartment, with ‘Nothing yet’ scrawled on the back. I wasn’t surprised. Dutchie was good and he knew a lot of people, but the kind of people Dutchie knew usually didn’t surface in the a.m.
The .38 was in the glove compartment too. That did surprise me. Dutchie wasn’t known for his sense of humour.
I drove out of the shopping centre, turned west on Fortfield, towards Herbie’s. The lights were out on Pearse Street but Midtown wasn’t any more backed up than usual, the usual heart attack of clogged arteries, the flow reduced to a stop-start trickle. Joe was directing traffic at the broken lights, waving everyone on with gusto and savagely berating anyone who ignored his directions. Which was everyone, including himself. Running his hands through his shock of white hair, lips flecked with spittle, eyes wild.
He spotted me as the car crawled through the junction. He winked, tipped a sly nod at the chaos, straightened his back and saluted. That provoked another rash of horn tooting, which only started Joe ranting again. I saluted him back and slid out onto Fortfield, grinning.
If my sanity had a shock of white hair it might have looked the way Joe did, its cogs and gears meshing, frantic, as it tried to work out the logic of walking into what was almost certainly an ambush.
There’s no substitute for gut instinct and you can’t argue a hunch with logic. My gut feeling suggested septicaemia but I also had a hunch that claimed the pros were too cute to leave themselves open to casual observation, say by staking out Herbie’s place. If the pros were as good as I thought they were, and I wasn’t going to underestimate anyone smart enough to squeeze a trigger, they wouldn’t leave themselves open to the random vagaries of fate. They’d have something a little more professional in the pipeline, something slick and tidy that would happen at a time and place I wouldn’t even dream of guessing at. My only defence was to fly below their radar, by acting even dumber than before. Which was why I was following up on the hunch about Herbie.
I cruised past the house, turned at the end of the c
ul-de-sac. Waited ten minutes, the car in gear, foot on the gas, in case anything moved. Nothing stirred. When I was satisfied the pros weren’t around, I parked a couple of houses down from Herbie’s. One thing I knew for sure, the pros weren’t inside. If they were they’d have answered the phone when I rang, curious as to who might be ringing the guy they’d just turned over. Because if what Katie told me about my office was true, then Herbie had been turned over too. All that remained to be seen was how thorough the pros had been.
I rang the bell and waited. I rang again, and then started to wonder why I was ringing the bell. Traffic thrummed by out on Fortfield. Nothing moved on the avenue, no sound disturbed the chirping of the sparrows pecking at the frozen ground. It was dry, too. When it came, and the sky was already darkening, the snow was going to stick for sure. Which meant Ben was going to get his snowman. Whether or not I’d be around to help him make it was a debate I wasn’t prepared to entertain.
I made my way around the side of the house, avoiding the heaped pile of refuse sacks, sidling up to the kitchen window, peering in. There was no one inside. I tried the back door, expecting it to be locked, which it was. I took a quick look around, glad that Herbie had let the back garden run riot, the hedges grow high and wild. Then, when I was sure no nosy neighbour was standing by with binoculars and Nikon at the ready, I punched my elbow against the glass pane, hard enough to crack the glass but not so hard it might shatter. When I’d pulled out the longer shards of glass, I put my hand inside and slid back the bolt.
The kitchen looked like a Delhi sewer, but that was par for the course at Herbie’s. I tiptoed out into the hall. The living room door was open. I peered through the crack between door and frame. There was no one hiding behind the door. I pushed the door open. The television was on, the sound turned down, which is the only way to watch MTV. A half-eaten pizza, the size of a small wagon wheel, lay on the coffee table beside the couch. I touched the pizza. It was cold.
I picked up the poker from the fireplace, went to check the front room. Then, quietly, I climbed the stairs, poker cocked over one shoulder. If I’d thought about it I’d have reckoned, maybe, that my plan was to catch the pros napping and frighten them to death by waving the poker at them. But I didn’t think about it.