Eight Ball Boogie - Declan Burke [54]
“Katie?” I tucked my T-shirt into my jeans. Both were still damp but pneumonia was the least of my worries
“What?” Eyes closed, pawing at her fringe.
“There’s someone at the door.”
The buzzer rasped, paused, sounded again, angry this time. Which was bad news, they weren’t going away. The good news being, if they hadn’t already kicked the door down, they were unlikely to do it at all.
I peered through the narrow gap between curtain and window frame. All I could see was an empty front garden, a tiny lawn that needed its grass cut, tiny drifts of sleet in the corners. It looked like we were in for a white Christmas but the prospect didn’t fill me with the innocent glee it should have, mainly because there was a blue Mondeo parked in the street.
“Are you going to answer that?”
“Yeah, yeah,” she said, digging her fists into her eyes. She stumbled around the room, picking up jeans and a baggy sweater. Pulled them on over her T-shirt, hopping awkwardly when her foot got caught in one of the legs. When she was dressed she pulled her hair back off her face, tied it up with a scrunchy.
“It’s the Dibble,” I warned as she padded towards the door, barefoot.
“So?”
“Exactly. And Katie? Keep it neat.”
I left the door open, listening at the crack. She opened the front door and I heard mumbling. Then the mumbling became louder and the door closed again. I crept out onto the landing. They were in the front room, the hall door open.
“I know him, yeah,” she was saying. “What’s he done?”
“He hasn’t done anything.” Galway, reassuring, his tone dry. I could imagine Brady rocking on the balls of his feet, looking around for something to sneer at. He wouldn’t find too much. The house was smart and bright, all polished pine floors and airy rooms with high ceilings. You could have turned a tugboat in the living room and still had room to swing a cat, so long as you were prepared to answer hard questions from the animal rights wallahs. Even Brady would have had enough room to lumber around without breaking anything. “We just need to talk to him,” Galway added.
“You think he’s here?”
“We don’t know where he is. But you have been observed in his company in the past few days and we’re investigating all the options open to us at this time.”
“Well, he isn’t. Here, I mean.”
Brady sounded like he’d been into the whiskey again, a header into the vat followed by a couple of brisk lengths.
“Mind if we look around?” he rasped.
“Yes.” I nearly smiled – I could imagine her, half Brady’s size, hands on hips, defying him.
“How come?”
“Leave it.” Galway again, sharp. Then: “We can contact you again if we need to, Miss Donnelly?”
“Sure. Detective Brady has my number.”
“Thank you for your time. And if you do hear from Mister Rigby, please ask him to contact us as a matter of some urgency.”
“Of course.”
The front door closed again. I went back into the bedroom, peered through the gap in the curtains. Brady was driving. He turned the Mondeo in the narrow road and it rumbled off towards town. Katie trudged back upstairs.
“Contact the cops. It’s a matter of some urgency. And it’s your turn to put the coffee on.”
I turned at the door.
“How does it feel to be an accessory after the fact?”
“Sticks and stones, Harry. I’ve been called a lot worse.”
“I’m sure you have.”
“By better than you, too. So watch your mouth.”
I boiled the kettle, started a brew, stepped out into the back garden to air my lungs. It was mild out, and the jumble of dirty grey clouds massing out over the Atlantic meant there was snow on the way for sure. For now the morning was sharp and clear, the sun pale in a powder-blue sky. I coughed my approval, phlegmy and rich, went back inside.
I turned on the radio and listened to the news, drinking coffee and rolling a smoke. The lead story concerned a cabinet stalwart that didn’t avail of a tax amnesty, mainly because he couldn’t really admit to needing it, the tale nearly seventeen years old and coming of age