Eight Ball Boogie - Declan Burke [36]
He answered the door wearing shades, a spliff smouldering. Better still, his death metal T-shirt had ‘First Served, First Cum’ scrawled across the chest.
“Classy stuff, Herb.”
“Whatever.” There was something on his mind. “That camera, Harry?”
“What about it?”
“That my camera?”
“I know you wouldn’t trust it with anyone else.”
“Fucking wondering where that got to. State of the art, that camera.”
He handed me a cold beer, took me upstairs to his computer room. The camera was sitting on the desk, so I slipped it into my pocket while he was printed out Frank Conway’s file. I figured I was doing him a favour, both of us using it. I like to see people get value for money.
He handed me a sheaf of papers, Frank Conway’s details. A quick scan revealed nothing of note. His finances weren’t as healthy as I’d presumed they’d be, providing Dutchie’s information on Conway’s real-estate ventures was on the ball, but they weren’t so sick they needed therapy either. There was a blip of about a year-and-a-half, where nothing showed up, which suggested Frank Conway had gone to ground, but so far they haven’t decided that that’s against the law.
“So, what?”
He sat down at the computer, clicked the mouse. A murky image came up on screen, two people walking through a wood, obscured by a huge golf umbrella. It was the Ice Queen and her beau at Hughes Point, although I’d never have known if I hadn’t been the one behind the lens. The fact that I hadn’t been able to use the flash didn’t help.
“That,” he said, “is about as useful as a blind hippy.”
“No argument.”
“But this,” he said, clicking the mouse again, “was a little more interesting.” Another image came up on screen. It was the picnic area, deserted except for the big Volvo on the other side of the clearing. The picture was dark, the evening a lot gloomier than I remembered.
“I know they were driving a Volvo, Herb.”
He used the mouse to square off the Volvo. Another click doubled the squared-off image in size, maintaining the clarity of the original. Another couple of clicks and I was able to tell that the Volvo was navy blue, there was a dent in the front bumper, the seat covers were composed of tightly strung wooden beads and the driver liked wine gums. All we were missing was the chassis number.
“I ran a check on the registration,” he said, smug.
“Really?” I patted him on the shoulder. “I’d have tried tracing the seat covers myself.”
He rose above it, on a roll.
“The car is registered to one Della McGowan. Address: The Priory, Foynes Hill.”
I stared at him. I was getting a bad feeling.
“Herb – who’s Della McGowan?”
“McGowan was her maiden name.”
“And now it’s…?”
“Sheridan.”
“Della Sheridan? Imelda Sheridan? The car is Imelda fucking Sheridan’s?”
“Was,” he corrected.
“You’re winding me up.”
This time he shook his head.
“Jesus, Herb. Tony Sheridan’s banging Helen Conway?”
“Unless the car was stolen. By the way.”
“What?”
“Who’s this Helen Conway?”
“You don’t want to know. Trust me. Anyway, Tony Sheridan is enough.”
“Isn’t he, though?”
Herbie knew as well as I did that Tony Sheridan was in the social pages more often than he was in the Dail. Which was ironic, considering that he was one of three independent TDs the government was relying on to maintain its narrow majority. If Frank Conway sued for divorce and named Tony as the respondent, the story would make the Six-One News and the front page of every paper in the country, The Catholic Herald included. And it wasn’t inconceivable that his resignation – which would be inevitable given Tony’s cornpone pronouncements on the moral integrity of the family unit