‘Do you want a coffee?’
‘Got anything stronger?’
‘Never touch the stuff,’ said Lynch with a smile. He took O’Riordan through to the sitting room and poured large measures of Jameson’s whiskey. They clinked glasses and drank. Lynch waved O’Riordan to the sofa.
‘It gets worse,’ said O’Riordan.
‘Worse? How can it get worse?’
‘You haven’t seen the papers, have you?’ Lynch shook his head. O’Riordan let out a sigh. ‘The guy who was driving the car, he’s related to an American politician. A member of the House of Representatives.’
‘Oh fuck,’ said Lynch. He rested his head on the back of his chair and stared up at the ceiling. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck.’
‘Yeah, tell me about it. He’s been one of the guys pushing for more Green Cards for the Irish.’
‘Oh Jesus.’
‘There’s more. His wife’s related to the Kennedys. The Kennedys, Dermott.’
Lynch closed his eyes. ‘Pat, if you tell me that she’s the Pope’s sister, I think I might just top myself.’
‘This is going to get very messy,’ said O’Riordan. ‘They’re going to move heaven and earth to get us. The Americans are going to put pressure on the Irish Government, and the Brits. We’re up shit creek.’
Lynch sat up and ran his hand through his beard. ‘Only if they know it was us,’ he said. ‘Davie’s dead, you say?’
‘Shot by the cops. He had a gun.’
‘Not one of ours?’
O’Riordan shook his head. ‘His father’s. From what I’ve heard, it wasn’t even loaded.’
‘Poor bastard.’
‘Yeah, well, if you ask me it serves them right for having the bloody thing.’ He paused. ‘You haven’t asked the big question,’ he said.
Lynch sat down on an overstuffed easy chair and put his bare feet up on the coffee table. ‘You mean why were the police at their house?’
O’Riordan raised one eyebrow. ‘Careless talk costs lives.’
‘It wouldn’t have been Davie. I’m sure of that.’ He took a mouthful of whiskey and rinsed it around his mouth before swallowing. ‘Paulie’s gone, you said?’
‘We’ve sent a solicitor to the family, and he’s trying to find out where he is. But we don’t think the RUC have got him any more.’
‘What, you think Five are holding him? If they are, he’ll talk.’
‘Yeah. I know.’
‘Can we reach him?’
‘We don’t even know where he is.’
The two men sat in silence for a while. Upstairs, Maggie had commandeered Lynch’s bathwater. O’Riordan grinned at the sound of splashing. ‘Anyone I know?’ he asked.
‘Aye. Your missus.’
O’Riordan pulled a face and finished his whiskey. He held out the empty glass but Lynch motioned with his head for O’Riordan to help himself.
‘You’ve already spoken to McCormack?’ asked Lynch.
‘Yeah. That’s why I’m here. He wants us to lie low. Until they’ve taken care of Paulie. He’s furious.’
‘Terrific,’ said Lynch. He banged his glass down on the table. ‘Shit, shit, shit. It was McCormack’s fucking idea to take the Quinns with us.’
‘He knows that, Dermott, but I wouldn’t go throwing it in his face, if I were you.’
‘What are you going to do?’ Upstairs, Maggie began to sing an Irish folk song.
‘I’m going south. I’ve got friends in Killarney, but I’ll keep moving.’
‘What about the farm?’
‘McCormack’s going to send someone to help out.’ O’Riordan leaned over and refilled Lynch’s glass. ‘He wants you out of the country.’
Lynch nodded. ‘No problem. I’ll cross the water.’
‘Where will you stay?’
‘Best you don’t know, Pat. I’ll keep in touch with McCormack.’ He took another drink. ‘This has got really messy, hasn’t it?’
‘Tell me about it.’ He looked up at the sound of splashing. ‘Are you going to introduce me to your friend?’
‘All I’m going to introduce is my foot to your arse,’ said Lynch.
O’Riordan put down his empty glass and got to his feet, grinning. He stuck out his hand and Lynch stood up and shook it, firmly. O’Riordan stepped forward and held Lynch in a bear hug, squeezing him so tightly that the air exploded from his lungs. ‘You take care of yourself, yer soft bastard,’ O’Riordan said.
‘Aye, you too,’ replied Lynch, gasping for breath.
After he’d shown O’Riordan out, Lynch went back upstairs. Maggie was in the bedroom, towelling herself dry. ‘Who was that?’ she asked.
‘No one,’ said Lynch.
Maggie smiled slyly and let the towel fall to the floor. She put her hands on her ample hips, glanced across at the bed and then back at Lynch. She raised one eyebrow invitingly, but he turned his back on her and headed for the bathroom. ‘Show yourself out, will you, love?’ he said.
He heard her slam the front door a few minutes later as he was shaving off his beard with short, careful strokes of a cut-throat razor.
When Cramer and Allan walked into the dining room, the Colonel was already tucking into bacon and eggs. Sitting opposite them was a new face, a big man with close-cropped dark hair, slightly shorter than Allan but with equally wide shoulders. He introduced himself as Martin, the second bodyguard and driver.
Cramer helped himself to scrambled eggs and then poured himself a mug of Mrs Elliott’s treacly tea. Martin’s plate was piled high — eggs, bacon, sausage, baked beans, black pudding, tomatoes, and on a side plate he had half a dozen slices of buttered toast. He smiled as he saw Cramer’s tiny portion of eggs. ‘No appetite, Mike?’ he asked through a mouthful of food.
The Colonel looked up at Cramer and Cramer saw his eyes narrow a fraction. He realised that Allan and Martin hadn’t been told about his illness. Cramer nodded almost imperceptibly and then grinned at Martin. ‘Never was one for early-morning scran,’ he said, using the SAS slang for food.
‘The haircut’s a big improvement,’ said the Colonel.
‘Yeah, she knows what she’s doing,’ agreed Cramer.
Allan sat down opposite Martin with a plate of fried food. ‘When did you get here?’ he asked.
‘Late last night. I was in London bodyguarding a Hollywood star and his boyfriend.’
‘Yeah? Going to name names?’
Martin shook his head. ‘The sort of money they pay me guarantees confidentiality.’
Allan laughed and told Cramer the names anyway. ‘I didn’t know he was queer,’ said Cramer.
‘Yeah, neither does his wife,’ said Martin, biting a chunk out of a slice of toast.
They were interrupted by the arrival of the tailor, bustling in with a suitcase in either hand. ‘Good morning, good morning,’ said the tailor, hefting the cases onto one of the tables.
Martin looked at Allan. ‘The tailor,’ said Allan. Martin nodded as if that explained everything.
Cramer put down his fork and tried on one of the suits as the tailor walked around him, nodding and biting his lip. ‘Good, good,’ he said, brushing Cramer’s shoulders and kneeling down to check the trousers.
‘A perfect fit,’ said Cramer, his arms out to the sides.
‘Of course,’ said the tailor primly. He helped Cramer on with the overcoat and then stood back to get a better view.
‘First class,’ said the Colonel. The tailor nodded enthusiastically, picked up his empty cases, and half ran out of the dining room.
‘Is that guy on something?’ asked Martin, shaking his head in amazement.
