Eight Ball Boogie Part 20

I peered through the narrow gap between curtain and window frame. All I could see was an empty front garden, a tiny lawn that needed its gra.s.s cut, tiny drifts of sleet in the corners. It looked like we were in for a white Christmas but the prospect didn't fill me with the innocent glee it should have, mainly because there was a blue Mondeo parked in the street.

"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, rea.s.suring, his tone dry. I could imagine Brady rocking on the b.a.l.l.s 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 ma.s.sing 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 p.i.s.s 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?"

"a.s.sistant manager in the Ulster Bank, my local mole when I was buying here. He kept me posted on what bids were bulls.h.i.t." 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 f.u.c.ker lets fly with a machine gun. f.u.c.king Howitzer, he had."

"f.u.c.k! How "

"I jumped."