Death Row - Mark Pearson [91]
And then there was silence.
*
Light slanting on the mirror, golds, greens, fractured white light dancing on the glasses, on the glass shelves, on the leaded-light window that looked through to the doorway leading into the bar. And sound surrounding him like a warm fog. Like a coat. Heat from the log fire burning under a copper hood. Irish voices raised in song, and it’s no nay never, hands slapping on tables. Money spent on whiskey and beer. Delaney knew how that was. He’d been the wild rover, sure enough. It was all supposed to have changed. Maybe deep down you never can change, not at the heart of you. You had to want it, wasn’t that what they said? He looked at the bruised knuckles on his right hand and rubbed some of the dried blood off with his left. He picked up his glass of whiskey, swirled it for a second or two, watching the liquid within tilting and spiralling, then held it to his lips and shot it down, holding the glass forward. The barman picked up the bottle of Bushmills behind the bar, about a third remaining, and splashed a large portion into the outstretched glass. No need to measure it – Delaney had already paid for the bottle. He took another sip, looked up into the mirror that ran the length of the bar behind the optics and sighed. It was like déjà vu. He turned to the two men who were approaching him.
‘Let me guess,’ he said. ‘Another brass been rubbed and you need Jack of the Yard to come and make sense of it all for you?’
‘Not quite,’ said Sergeant Dave ‘Slimline’ Matthews. He turned to Jimmy Skinner expectantly.
Jimmy shook his head. ‘I’m not going to do it.’
The sergeant nodded, understanding. He turned back to Delaney. ‘Detective Inspector Jack Delaney, I am arresting you on suspicion of attempted murder. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’
Delaney nodded and turned back to the barman. ‘Get us another couple of shot glasses here, Sean.’ He winked at Jimmy Skinner. ‘Might as well finish the bottle, eh, Jimmy? It’s paid for.’
‘You have to come in, Jack,’ said the sergeant, with an apologetic shrug.
‘You think I can’t take you, Dave?’ said Delaney, his voice slurring badly. ‘Is that what you think?’
Slimline held his hands up. ‘I’m sure you could, cowboy. But we don’t want any trouble here.’
‘Well, that’s where you’re wrong,’ said Delaney as he stood unsteadily to his feet. ‘That’s where you’re wrong, Slimmio me lad!’ he said. Then he threw a punch at the sergeant.
Slimline didn’t even move aside. He just watched as Delaney’s punch missed by a mile and the Irishman tottered on his feet unbalanced by it before crashing to the floor, where he lay without moving.
Jimmy Skinner picked the bottle up from the bar and put it into his overcoat pocket. ‘I think he might need a shot of this in his coffee in the morning,’ he said as they bent down to lift up the unconscious Delaney, one to each arm.
‘I think we all might,’ said Dave Matthews as they drag-walked him through the noisy crowd, who paid them no attention at all, up to the door and out into the cold, wet night.
A few moments later Stella Trent came out of the Ladies and up to the bar. She looked around, puzzled.
‘He’s left,’ said the barman economically.
‘Damn you, Delaney!’ she muttered under her breath. ‘A girl can’t turn her back for five minutes.’ She picked up her half-finished glass of wine and downed it, then held her glass forward as the barman turned away. ‘Oi, barkeep!’ she said, her Irish accent getting stronger. ‘There’s a lady here in need of refreshment.’
‘Why don’t you let me get you that?’
Stella turned round to the dark-haired stranger who had sat himself on the bar stool beside her. ‘And why should I be letting you do that?’
‘Because I can’t bear to see a damsel in distress,’ he said and smiled widely as he held his hand out. ‘My name’s Tony.’
*
Kate Walker’s lips narrowed as she listened to the voice on the other end of the telephone.
‘Thanks for