27
The Traveller kept walking along the side street, his head down. He chanced one look back over his shoulder. No one followed. His Merc was parked on the next street north, the one tethered to Eglantine Avenue by this side street. He didn’t know its name. Belfast was starting to grate on him, with its red-brick houses and cars parked on top of one another. And the people, all smug and smiling now they’d gathered the wit to quit killing each other and start making money instead.
He reached the Merc and got in. He dialled the number.
‘For fuck’s sake, what now?’ Orla asked.
‘Jesus, love, don’t bite my face off.’
‘Don’t “love” me, you gyppo bastard. I’ll come up there and cut your balls off. Now what do you want?’
The Traveller sensed it was not an idle threat. Was she on the rag? ‘All right,’ he said. ‘That cop. What did you find out about him?’
‘Why?’
‘’Cause he’s sitting outside that McKenna blade’s flat again. What’s he doing hanging about there? Who is he?’
‘That cop’s the least of your worries, believe me,’ she said. ‘He’s Jack Lennon, a detective inspector. A smart cop. He should be higher up the ranks, but he’s been in some bother. He had a sexual harassment charge hanging over him a few years back, some tramp from the office tried to make a claim against him. The charge didn’t stick, but the reputation did. He’s in debt up to his eyeballs. He’s too friendly with some Loyalists. We’re told he might be taking payment in kind from the brothels, and another cop accused him of trying to pass on a bribe. His superiors are wary of him, think he’s bent. Don’t worry about him.’
‘Well, I
‘No,’ Orla said. ‘You have a go at a cop, even if he’s bent, you’ll fuck everything up.’
‘I’ll do it right,’ the Traveller said. ‘There’ll be nothing to connect him—’
‘No, I said. Look, certain people are indulging us by letting you clean up this mess. You tackle a cop, they won’t indulge us any more. You understand?’
‘Whatever you say, love,’ the Traveller said.
Hard silence for a moment, then she said, ‘What about Patsy Toner?’
‘I’ll call with him tonight.’
‘Good,’ Orla said. ‘You’re stretching my patience. Just do what we’re paying you to do.’
‘All right,’ the Traveller said.
He hung up and pocketed the phone. ‘Grumpy auld pishmire,’ he said. He started the Merc and went looking for Patsy Toner.
28
Lennon found him in the Crown Bar of all places. Despite the snugs, the Crown was the last pub in Belfast to drink in if you wanted privacy. Patsy Toner sat at the far end of the bar, staring at the red granite. Lennon could just see him beyond the wood and glass panels that divided the bar up.
The hubbub of locals and tourists combined to make a hearty rumble of laughter and raised voices. Lennon realised this was the perfect place for a frightened man to drink. Patsy Toner was probably safer here than in any bar in the city.
Lennon edged his way through the early evening drinkers towards Toner. Holidaymakers and office workers stood in clusters, the tourists with their pints of Guinness, the locals with their WKD and Magners cider.
He sidled up behind Toner and waved for the barman’s attention. ‘Stella,’ he called over the lawyer’s shoulder.
Toner turned his head a little to the side, to see who stood so close. Lennon wondered if he’d be recognised. He had interviewed many of Toner’s clients. A good lawyer remembered the names and faces of the cops he met in his work.
Sure enough, Toner’s shoulders tensed.
The bartender set the pint on the raised drain tray, letting the foam slop over the rim. Lennon leaned across Toner and put the money in the bartender’s hand. He lifted the pint, but stayed pressed against Toner’s back.
‘How’ve you been, Patsy?’ he asked.
Toner stared ahead. ‘Do I know you?’
‘We’ve met in a professional capacity,’ Lennon said.
Toner turned his head. ‘I don’t remember your name.’
‘DI Jack Lennon.’
Did Toner flinch? The lawyer looked back to his drink. ‘What do you want?’
‘A word,’ Lennon said.
Toner spread his hands flat on the bar. The fingers of his left looked thin and waxy. His shoulders slumped.
Lennon looked back over his shoulder. ‘There’s a snug free,’ he said. ‘Bring your drink.’
They sat at a table walled by ornate wood and stained glass. Lennon closed the snug’s door.
A waitress opened it again, pointed to the sign. ‘Sir, this snug’s reserved.’
Lennon showed her his ID. ‘I won’t be long.’
‘The party should be here any minute,’ she said.
‘I’ll get out when they come,’ he said. He smiled. ‘Just a minute or two. You’d be doing me a big favour. Please?’
She hesitated, then smiled. ‘Okay, I’ll—’
Lennon closed the door and sat down. He stared at Toner across the table. Toner’s hands shook as he raised his glass.
‘How’s it going, Patsy?’ Lennon asked.
Toner grimaced as he swallowed. His glass clinked on the tabletop. ‘What do you want?’
‘Just to see how you’re doing these days,’ Lennon said. He took a sip of Stella and leaned forward. ‘I heard you weren’t doing so well. I heard you had something on your mind.’
Toner forced a laugh. ‘Who told you that?’
A couple of people,’ Lennon said. ‘Friends of yours.’
Toner laughed again, this time shrill and jagged. ‘Friends? You’re talking shite. I don’t have any friends. Not any more.’
‘No?’ Lennon feigned surprise. ‘You used to be a popular fella. All sorts of friends in all sorts of places.’
‘Used to be,’ Toner echoed. He wiped whiskey from his moustache. Two days’ stubble lined his jowls. ‘Friendship’s a funny thing. You think it’s solid, for life, but it can blow away just like that.’
Lennon nodded. ‘I know what you mean,’ he said, truthfully.
Toner stared back at him, something turning behind his eyes for a few seconds before dying away. ‘Look, get to the point,’ he said. ‘You’re not here just to pass the time.’
Lennon laced his fingers together on the tabletop. ‘I heard you’ve been acting strange lately, like you’re scared. I want to know what you’re afraid of.’
Toner sat back and folded his arms. ‘Who told you that?’
‘People,’ Lennon said.
‘What did they say?’
‘That you’ve gone downhill since Paul McGinty died. That you’re drinking like a fish. That you know more about what happened than you’re letting on, and it’s ripping you to pieces.’
‘No.’ Toner shook his head, slow, his eyes unfocused. ‘No, that’s not … It’s not … Who said that?’
‘You’ve been talking when you’re drunk,’ Lennon said. You said it’s not over, they’ll come for you, it’s only a matter of time.’
Toner’s cheeks reddened. ‘Who said that?’
