Eight Ball Boogie - Declan Burke [55]
There was nothing about the accident Galway reported, the one involving a kid puncturing a windscreen. That meant no one had been killed, which was good news, which was why it hadn’t made the bulletin.
I tuned the radio to the local station, caught an update, but they had nothing on the Windscreen Kid either. Neither was there a mention of a shooting in the town the night before. I wasn’t surprised, or maybe it was just that I didn’t have the energy. I had nothing left to give, no synapses left to tingle. I was running on empty, the engine breathing fumes. All I had was the inclination to trundle on because I didn’t have the strength to apply the brakes.
The coffee helped. I was onto my third mug by the time Katie came downstairs, rubbing her hair with a towel. I poured her a coffee.
“Sugar?”
“One, and milk.”
We perched on stools beside the long pine counter, sipping the coffee and not looking at one another.
“So what happens now?” she asked.
“I keep my head down until I can get to Ben and Denise. When I get there, I’ll get them somewhere safer than where they are now.”
“You have somewhere in mind?”
“I’m hoping Bali is cheap off-season.”
“What about your brother?”
“What about him?”
“Won’t someone have to identify the body?”
“Probably. But it can wait, he’s not going anywhere.”
It came out callous but I let it carry on. She gave me a funny look, composed herself.
“Harry, if there’s anything I can do…”
I shook my head, reached out, squeezed her hand. She didn’t squeeze back.
“You’ve done more than enough. Most people would have screamed the house down, turned me over to the Dibble first chance they got.”
Her gaze didn’t waver.
“I’m not most people.”
“True enough. How come they know where you live?”
The change of pace caught her out. She stared long enough to blink twice, which was once too often.
“How do you mean?”
“I mean, you’re a reporter from out of town. How are they supposed to find you? Even know that you’re still around? I presume you gave Brady your number up at Sheridan’s place. You flip him the address too?”
She shook her head.
“No. Maybe they rang the magazine. I don’t know.”
“They rang the magazine? On Christmas Eve? Before eight in the morning?”
She stared, stayed cool.
“Harry, if I didn’t want to help I’d have turned you in when they were here. I don’t know how they got my address. I own the place, it was a sweet investment, and that kind of thing is down on record. Or maybe they stuck a pin in the phone book. You want me to ring and ask them how they found you?”
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. The way things are, I can’t trust myself to take a piss standing up. No offence intended.”
“Yeah, well, offence taken.”
She went to the sink, ran the cold tap over her mug. Left it on the draining board to drip dry, stared out the window.
“Nice place,” I said, changing the topic. “The magazine must be looking after you.”
She shot me a glance across her shoulder. Smiled, let the scene slide.
“Not as well as Tommy Finan.”
“Who he?”
“Assistant manager in the Ulster Bank, my local mole when I was buying here. He kept me posted on what bids were bullshit.” She winked. “He’s cute, too.”
“And you let him know it.”
“It was nothing he wasn’t already thinking.”
She left. When she returned she had her jacket on. She stood in front of the mirror, brushed her hair out with brisk strokes.
“So,” she said, fiddling with the hairbrush. “What’s the plan now?”
I told her what I’d told her the first time she asked, giving it a different spin.
“I was going to hang here for a while, if that’s okay. Chances are the Dibble are sitting around the corner waiting for me to stroll out.”
“Why would they be waiting?”
“Maybe they didn’t believe you.”