Eight Ball Boogie - Declan Burke [10]
Big Frank knew and nothing else mattered. I didn’t point out that maybe the fact that nothing else mattered might be the reason Helen Conway was screwing around. I said: “She has the opportunity?”
The unholy trinity – motive, opportunity and proof. Proof was up to me, and after ten minutes with Frank Conway even I wanted to have an affair.
“I’m out of town for a night or two most weeks,” he growled. “On business.”
“Where?”
His voice ground out a warning, harsh.
“Here and there, it changes.”
He stared. I scribbled.
“So, what? You want me to confirm she’s having an affair? Breaking her neck isn’t really an option until you know for sure.”
He nodded, curt.
“Alright, I’ll need details – where she works, shops, gets her hair done. A recent photograph, that kind of thing.”
He dug into his inside pocket, handed me a driver’s licence that should have carried a government health warning. She was the right side of forty, dark hair curling to her shoulders, head tilted back, accentuating the aquiline nose. There was mischief in the dark, almond-shaped eyes. The tiny smile was sardonic, knowing, and if the lower lip was less provocative than Ian Paisley it wasn’t by more than a thumped lectern.
I’d seen her type before, mostly through binoculars, so I could understand why Conway might turn desperate if he thought she was playing away. That kind of woman comes around once in a lifetime, if you’re lucky, and that kind of luck doesn’t come cheap. I made a note of the details, handed back the licence. Wondering if Conway was carrying it because he’d come prepared, or in a vain attempt to stop his wife driving when he wasn’t around.
“She has a bank account in her own name?”
“Accounts. I don’t have the details with me.”
“One will do and I’ll need it today. Hobbies?”
“Hobbies?”
“Flower-arranging, ballroom dancing, deep sea diving. Anything she does on her own, when you’re not around.”
His tone was sullen.
“She plays golf.”
“At The Bridge?”
“Where else?”
At The Bridge your handicap was measured by the number of seasons your wife’s little black number was out of date.
“Is she any good?”
“What’s good got to do with it?”
I made more notes. Then, the biggie: “I’ll need to know about the other bloke too.”
He coughed, quick and too dry.
“Like what?”
“Like, any idea who he might be?”
He stared so long I began to suspect myself. Then, with a brief shake of his head: “No.”
“Affairs rarely happen between strangers. They usually happen between acquaintances, social partners, workmates.”
Again with the sharp, nasal bark. He sounded like a sick seal.
“Helen doesn’t work.”
“And you’ve no reason to suspect any of your own associates?”
“That’s what I want you to find out.”
“Alright, I’ll take it from here. The less you know, the better you’ll sleep. If nothing turns up inside a month, six weeks, chances are there’s nothing to turn up.”
“That soon?”
“Everybody’s so worried that everyone’s watching them, they don’t notice when it’s just anyone watching them. Strange but true. If anything does turn up, I’ll document it and turn the file over to you, negatives included.”
“Photographs?”
“Incontrovertible evidence in a court of law. Come in handy if you want to avoid one too.”
“That’s it?”
“I’ll need a retainer.”
“What for?”
“Expenses. Soft drugs. Lunar real estate, maybe. Who knows?”
Another long stare. He scribbled a cheque.
“When do I hear from you?”
“When I call. You’re away when?”
“Thursday usually, most of Friday. Sometimes Friday night too.”
“Next week, come back Saturday. And let Helen – Mrs Conway – know you’ll be away both nights. If you can do it two weeks running, better still.”
He got up like he’d forgotten how to stand. Pawed at the creases in his trousers, turned for the door. He looked back.
“So what’s the J stand for?” He seemed composed again, a man in control of his own destiny, and he looked all the more plaintive for believing it.
“It’s a joke.”
“It’s not funny.”
“You’re not paying for funny. Funny’s extra.”
He banged the door so hard my ulcer started tingling. I slipped