Cross - Ken Bruen [42]
I muttered, 'Aw, fuck it . . . fuck it all.'
'We'll be keeping a close eye. The official line is denial that any new leads have been found.'
Jesus, I was tired.
'You ever hear of Claud Cockburn?' I asked.
'Who?'
'He said, Never believe anything until it's officially denied.'
I had to ask.
'The tests, your, er . . . worry about your, er . . . health. Any word?'
She was amused at my hesitation to use the word breast, and it did me good to see her smile.
She said, 'I had a biopsy – not a pleasant ordeal – and they assure me they'll have the results soon.'
She was worried, added, 'But you, Jack, don't do anything reckless, OK?'
I looked round at Jury's, said, 'Me? No, I'll behave with class.'
Outside, I kicked a wall in frustration, and a guy passing quipped, 'Didn't win the Lotto, eh?'
City of fucking comedians.
Three days later, King's warehouse burned to the ground. The Guards came for me before noon, two of them, in uniform, with the new tunics, and of course the standard thick-soled shoes. Matched the expression in their eyes.
The first one, an older guy, said, 'The Super would like a word.'
The second one looked like he wanted to wallop me.
As I got in the squad car, I asked the older one, 'What's eating your partner?'
He shrugged. 'He doesn't like you.'
I looked at the guy, in his late twenties, full of spit and vinegar, the new breed, probably attended college at night.
'He doesn't even know me,' I said.
The guy laughed. 'Worse, he knows about you.'
I addressed the young gun. 'Don't suppose you want to tell me why you're bringing me in?'
He was a knot of suppressed anger, said, 'Shut your mouth.'
It's the Irish version of the Miranda deal.
They brought me straight to Clancy's office, the head honcho, the Super. My best mate once, we'd been on the beat together, learned the rudiments of policing. And then came my dismissal, my plummet down the toilet. And him, he rose through the ranks, slowly and surely. He was from Roscommon, they know how to play the game and few knew how to play it like he did. Over the years, our relationship had become outright war. He pulled me in from time to time, tried to, if not neutralize me, at least intimidate me.
He was sitting behind a massive desk, his full dress blues, decorations on his chest like a riot of bad taste. His face had caved in, and deep lines were etched on every available patch of skin. I guess the game has its own price. He didn't look up for a moment from the array of papers on his desk, then snapped a folder shut, glanced up and said, 'Timmins, you can go.'
That was the older Guard. And to the young gun he said, 'You'll be sitting in with Mr Taylor and I.'
Clancy indicated the hard chair in front and for me to sit.
I did.
The young gun stood behind me.
I waited.
Clancy leaned back in his swivel chair, said, 'You've been stirring it again.'
I said, 'I'll need a little more to go on.'
A look passed between him and the young guy, and I knew who was the new hatchet man – the young guy, who obviously didn't like me. There's always one, the guy who'll do the dirty work, the follow-orders robot.
Clancy said, 'Mr King, a prominent businessman, a pillar of the community, his warehouse burned to the ground and it was no accident.'
I acted like I was mulling this over, then asked, 'And let me hazard a guess, he's a member of the golf club, one of your buddies?'
I felt the young gun behind me stir, but resisted the impulse to turn round.
Clancy ignored that, continued.
'A few days ago, a Department of Health official visited him, a man who bears a striking likeness to you and makes thinly veiled threats. And prior to this, an alkie, a disgraced ex-Guard, also made similar threats. What the two had in common was a wild-arse theory that Mr King was stuffing his merchandise with dog parts.'
The guy behind me guffawed, there is no other description for it.
Clancy waited for