Eight Ball Boogie - Declan Burke [68]
She went to look for Ben. I scouted out the cupboards for something edible. I settled for some soup, a sandwich and a glass of Maalox, turning the mobile on when I’d finished. It was almost three-thirty.
The phone rang before I had a chance to dial Dutchie’s number, letting me know I had a message waiting. There were two. The first was from Dutchie, telling me Conway was dead. I thought about Conway for about three seconds, his cold, black piggy eyes. Then the second message arrived. It was from Katie.
“Harry –”
A northern voice, deadpan, cut in.
“The Odeon, ten bells. Play it straight and everyone walks away.”
I heard a gentle click, the sound of a giant jigsaw piece slotting neatly into place. I looked at the picture and wanted to cry, then wasted half-an-hour trying to think of people I could trust, coming up with a one-name list, but then I have high standards. I made the call and filled in the details, devised a plan. I turned the mobile off, not feeling entirely confident.
Denise came back in, red-eyed. I rolled a smoke, braced myself. Told her I was heading back to town.
“You’re what?” She was angry, bewildered and scared. I could empathise. “You said we were going to sit tight. Don’t even open the curtains, you said.”
“I said you were going to sit tight,” I lied. “I have to go back to town.”
“Why, for Christ’s sake?”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“Doesn’t matter?” She was distraught, working herself into a frenzy. I couldn’t blame her. I was pretty strung out at the prospect myself. “Someone tried to kill you last night and the reason you’re going back doesn’t matter? What are you, suicidal?”
“I need to get us sorted. To get us somewhere safer than this.”
It was a bargain-basement answer and Denise wasn’t buying.
“What can you do back there that you can’t do from here?” She thought for a second, and her face took on a stricken expression. “And why do we need somewhere safer? What’s wrong with here?”
And suddenly I was tired again, my nervous system steeling itself for the onslaught of adrenaline.
“You wouldn’t understand, Dee.”
“I wouldn’t understand?”
There was menace in her voice, the implication impossible to ignore, but Katie had something I needed, something Denise couldn’t give me, and you only start that kind of conversation with a woman once. You don’t get to finish it, either.
“What number were you ringing this morning?” I asked.
“What?”
“The mobile number, Dee. What number did you ring?”
She told me, sullen.
“It’s oh-eight-four,” I said. “Not oh-eight-three.”
“You told me oh-eight-three.”
“Yeah well, now I’m telling you it’s oh-eight-four.”
I pulled on the Puffa and the fleece. Stood there, hands in pockets, sweating in the warm kitchen. The smell of soup made me want to puke. My fingers touched something cold. I put the key of the bicycle lock on the kitchen table.
“Ben’s bike is locked to a skip behind the shopping centre. Give it a while, send a taxi down to collect it.”
“Fuck Ben’s bike!”
I made for the door.
“If you go,” she warned, “I won’t be here when you get back.”
“If I get back.”
I stopped at the door. She was leaning against the table, arms folded, defiant, struggling to hold back the tears. That made two of us, except I had nothing to lean on.
21
The snow was coming down hard. Visibility was almost zero, the wipers barely able to cope, and the road was glassy under two or three inches of soft snow. It was impossible to drive faster than twenty miles an hour without running the very real risk of saving the pros a bullet or two. I pushed the needle up to forty and prayed that Dutchie hadn’t skimped on the radials.
I made town just after eight. The storm was blowing itself out, the streets deserted, all sound muffled under the coloured lights. Everyone was at home, wrapping presents and knocking back the mulled wine, or in the pub, hoping they wouldn’t be chucked out early and already too pissed to know what time it was.
I pulled into the car park, crossed the river by the footbridge, slipped in the side door of The Cellars. The place was heaving, the punters