Cross - Ken Bruen [43]
Then he asked, 'What are you now – pet detective? It's not enough you kill a child, cause the death of an innocent young man, now you hassle the solid citizens?'
I forced myself to let the comments slide and asked, 'Am I under arrest?'
He stood up.
'We've been in touch with the Department of Health, and if they want to press charges, we'll be happy to oblige. Meanwhile, a word to the wise – stay the hell away from Garda business. You want to investigate something, why don't you find out who shot the young man whose care you were responsible for?'
I had to grit my teeth. 'Oh I will.'
He came round the desk and leaned in real close. His aftershave was expensive, if overpowering.
'We already did, and you know what? Surprise, surprise, it was the mother of the little girl you killed.'
I tried not to show my amazement. 'So, did you arrest her?'
He straightened up, shook some lint off his shoulders. 'Soon as we locate her. Thing is, we're kind of hoping she might make another attempt and we can catch her in the act, after she's done the . . . dirty deed.'
And then he was gone.
Before I could stand up to leave, the young guy hit me on the ear with a powerhouse, the blow knocking me from the chair and dislodging my earpiece. He brought his heel down on it, ground it, then bent and shouted, 'Can you hear me, arsehole? Stay the fuck away from Guard affairs.'
I heard him.
19
'Not knowing how near the truth is,
we seek it far away.'
Hakuin
The Americans have an expression for verbally attacking someone. When you want to really lash into someone, they say, tear 'em a new asshole.
I tore one for Ridge.
Like this.
'The fuck when you were going to tell me about Cathy Bellingham?'
I'd asked – no, amend that, I fucking ordered her to meet me in the Great Southern Hotel and slammed down the phone.
I got there first, went to the end of the lounge, under the bust of James Joyce, stared at him, near shouted, 'The fuck are you looking at?'
Yeah, you're screaming at a bronze head of one of Ireland's most famous writers, you've either gone completely mad or just heard you lost the Booker Prize.
The porter approached. He and I had history, most of it bad, and he ventured, 'Long time no see, Jack.'
His voice was quiet, as if he wasn't yet sure if I was drinking. If I was, he was heading for the hills. As I said, history.
I sat down, levelled dead eyes at him. 'Help you with something?'
He gave a nervous laugh. 'Actually, those are my lines. I'm the one who works here.'
Keeping it light, as if we were just a couple of old mates having a touch of merry banter.
I said, 'So go work, you see me preventing you?'
He looked round – for help?
None was forthcoming so he asked, 'I, er, wondered if I could get you something – tea, coffee?'
'Get out of my face, you could get me that.'
He did.
Ridge arrived, dressed in smart new suede jacket, tight jeans and those pointy-toed boots that have to be murder. The porter had a word with her and I could see her nodding, so I figured he'd warned her I was not exactly mellow. I don't think this was a surprise to her. She walked over, a purpose in her stride, like she wasn't going to take any shite from me.
'Yeah?'
I launched in straight away. She reeled for a moment then asked, 'How did you find out about Cathy Bellingham?'
Cathy . . . Oh God, our long and tortuous history. We'd met originally when she washed up in Galway from London. She'd just kicked heroin, was a real punk, had lived the life. She sang like an angel and had a tongue like a fishwife. We hit it off immediately. She'd helped me on a number of cases, then I introduced her to my best friend, Jeff, and damn it all to hell, they jelled, got married and had the little girl with Down's Syndrome, Serena May. She sure had reason to want me dead.
'Clancy told me. Remember him, your boss?'
She savoured that then said, 'Her apartment was searched and bullets were found that matched the rifle, the . . . er . . . weapon . . . used.' She was treading delicately round the use of Cody's