“I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
“I know you know something. And I will find out what you know if it takes me all fuckin’ night. I’m not asking for free, either. But if you insist on playing the eel with me, Kev, I’ll tell Morris Tiernan there’s a barman who needs his mouth broke.’
Kev’s cheek twitches. Could be a smile. Most likely, he’s panicking.
‘Yeah, you know that name, don’t you?’ I say. ‘Now how’s about I buy you a shot to go with that pint and we’ll talk.’
“I don’t know Rob Stokes,’ he says.
“I don’t care,’ I say and get the barman’s attention. ‘But you’re scared about something, and that’s a fine place to start.’
SEVENTEEN
Kev sparks one of my cigarettes with a red disposable. He’s already necked the shot, coughed his way through the burn.
I’m patient. I just watch him get used to the situation. Part of me thought that being a good detective meant being a friendly guy; open, willing to help people. I thought that if people saw that, they’d be cool with me. Turns out, it’s easier to bribe or threaten someone.
Whatever Kev needs, to keep his conscience clean.
‘Rob Stokes,’ I say.
‘Uh-huh. I told you, I don’t know him.’ He shrugs. The alcohol’s made his posture loose. I hope it does the same to his mouth.
‘Where’d he go?’
‘You listening to me?’
‘Just’because you don’t know him, doesn’t mean you don’t know where he went.’
‘Then I don’t know where he went,’ he says.
‘Okay.’ I drink my pint and stare at him over the rim of the glass. Try to think what Donkey would do in this situation.
He’d probably break the guy’s legs and piss in his mouth.
Not something I can do in a crowded bar, no matter how much it might help me. Besides, I went to the bog before I ordered my first pint. Starting to simmer down a little now in The Basement. The karaoke guy has just done his last cover for the night, stepped off the stage to a loud round of applause from the pissed-up Royals. As he comes past, I catch his eye.
‘Nice work,’ I say.
‘Thanks, son. I try me best.’
And he goes, a smile on his face. I turn back to Kev. ‘So you really don’t know anything.’
“I told you.’ ‘Okay.’ I pull out my mobile, put it on the table between us. ‘I want you to call Mo.’
‘Who?’
‘Mo. Morris’ son. I want you to pick up the phone, call him, tell him what you just told me.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘I’m serious, Kev. If you’re telling me the truth, you’ve got nothing to worry about. Make yourself known. Mo will believe you, I’m sure.’
‘What you playing at?’
I pick up the mobile and start punching in Mo’s number.
Hold it out to Kev. ‘There. All you need to do is connect. Just press the wee green button and tell him what you told me.’
‘I’m not gonna do that.’
‘Why not?’
His voice raises an octave. “I don’t know the dealers, alright? I don’t hang out with them. They’re fuckin’ arseholes, the lot of them.’
‘Then how do you know who Rob Stokes is?’
‘You mentioned him.’
‘But you don’t know him.’ I make a show of raising a finger to my temple, proper Columbo-style. ‘See, now I’m confused.
You know the name, but you don’t know the name. Which is it?’
“I don’t know the name.’
‘So you don’t know he did a runner,’ I say. ‘You didn’t hear anything like that.’
He pauses, looks at me. He’s thinking. Course it’s stupid to say he didn’t hear anything about a dealer doing a bunk, especially when there was cash involved. Kev is slowly coming to that realisation. He works his mouth.
‘Well?’ I say.
‘I heard someone left. They were pissing and moaning about the shifts they had to cover. And I was single- handed on the bar for a week.’
‘Stokes was a dealer.’
He frowns at me. ‘Yeah, and?’
‘So how come you were single-handed?’
‘Because Alison left too, man.’
I lean back in my chair, wait for him to follow that up.
When he doesn’t, I have to ask, ‘Who’s Alison?’
There’s a moment of panic in his face. He spilled too much and he knows it. But his thirst takes hold, becomes a moment of triumph because I don’t know the half of what’s going on.
And some blokes, no matter how scared they are, thrive on being smug. ‘Tell you what,’ he says. ‘You get another round in and I’ll tell you.’
Alison Tiernan.
No coincidences. Not anymore. Alison fucking Tiernan.
I keep buying the drinks, Kev keeps downing them. His mouth runs away from him, then he falls into a mumbling slur. This carries on, swings from one extreme to the other, but I end up with the whole story eventually. I have to keep asking him to repeat himself, because the rowdy Royals are singing their own songs on the other side of the bar.
Alison Tiernan, sixteen-year-old daughter of Morris Tiernan.
She worked behind the bar at Morris’ club. The way Kev told it, Alison was supposed to be learning the value of money, having to earn it herself. She confided in Kev. She reckoned they were the best of friends. But the barman didn’t know the difference between friendship and a come-on.
When she up and left, he got angry.
“I don’t owe her a fuckin’ thing,’ he says. ‘She was a fuckin’ prick tease.’
‘And you didn’t know she was planning to leave.’
He stares at his glass, his lips puckered. ‘Yeah, she talked about it. Christ, they all fuckin’ talk about it. Not an employee in there that doesn’t talk about leaving. You got to understand, we get all the shit in that place. The punters what’ve been thrown out of the other clubs. Punters with issues, man. Hygiene, anger management, you name it. It was no place for her. Christ’s sake, she was only sixteen.’
So you know that then. It’s a start. One click away from a paedo, Kev. Watch yourself.
‘What about the money?’ I say. I light an Embassy. His eyes flicker to the pack, so I offer him one.
‘I don’t normally smoke,’ he says. ‘I’m not a smoker.’
Social smoker, living in denial, never buys his own. This lad’s not doing anything to get himself off my shit list, that’s for certain. ‘The money, Kev. Did she say anything about the money?’
‘No.’ He lights up, takes a long pull and closes his eyes.
‘Gave them up five years ago, but I fuckin’ miss ‘em at times.’
‘Where’d she go?’
