Joe felt the urge to shake Frank by his shoulders and roar at him, ‘It’s too little, too late.’ He went to the den and got the fax. He folded it up and put it in a brown envelope. He steadied himself on the desk as a sharp pain sliced a path between his temples. He pulled open the desk drawer and saw an empty bottle of Advil. He shut the drawer quickly. Even if there had been twenty tablets in there, he had promised himself that until this was over, he wouldn’t take any medication…unless the pain was extreme.
He saw Danny’s card on the desk and ripped it open in case it was important. It was a print of The Scream by Munch. Joe shook his head and tried to smile. Inside it said, ‘Remind you of anyone? Happy fortieth, partner. Have a good one.’ Joe wished he could.
‘Here,’ he said when he came down, handing Frank the fax. ‘Put it in your inside pocket now.’
Frank frowned. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Why?’
‘Doesn’t matter. Is that everything?’
‘No. I need to speak with Anna.’
‘Oh. She’s in Paris, sorry.’
Frank shook his head. ‘Do you have a number where I could contact her?’
‘No,’ said Joe. ‘Her parents don’t have a phone.’
‘Really? Well, I might as well tell you that she saw this mug shot. She was in the house with Nora the other day. She had a very bad reaction. It was as if—’
Joe’s heart pounded. ‘I hadn’t told her I was checking things out,’ he said quickly. ‘She was annoyed with me for not telling her. That’s why she’s gone to Paris.’
‘Tell me why you phoned me about Siobhan Fallon,’ Frank said suddenly. ‘Have you seen her?’
‘No. But I thought I might have the other day.’
‘Where?’
‘In town. But it wasn’t her. Frank, I really can’t hang around talking.’ He pressed his hand to his jaw. Frank turned around and opened the front door.
‘I’ll send Ali out to you.’
‘Right, so. Thanks for the fax, Joe. I appreciate that.’ He stepped outside, then looked back. ‘What I don’t appreciate is being lied to.’
Oran Butler and Keith Twomey sat in their Ford Mondeo in the car park of Tobin’s Supermarket. It was a grim, red-brick building in a bad neighbourhood. Two fat butchers in bloodied aprons stood at a corner, gunning cigarettes. A group of longhaired boys in baggy pants and big sweatshirts skateboarded by them along the smooth concrete.
‘How long have we been here?’ asked Oran, picking toffee out of his teeth. A pile of empty wrappers were gathered between his legs.
‘Two hours,’ said Keith.
‘Have you seen
‘Nope,’ said Keith as they watched another skateboarder try to jump onto a railing. He stumbled down the steps instead, his board smacking onto the tarmac.
‘The fucking noise is going through me,’ said Keith.
Oran swept the sweet wrappers onto the floor and started on a new pile. Keith glanced down.
‘Of all the people to be sharing a place with Richie Bates, it’s the messiest fucker around. I don’t know which one of you to feel sorrier for.’
Another skateboarder flipped his board halfway over, then landed with his feet on the ground at either side.
The two men looked at each other and shook their heads. When they looked back, a man was walking past the boys towards the entrance. He moved jerkily, like his joints were popping in and out of their sockets with each step. He led with his chin, his narrow mouth downturned, his eyes like slits. He smoothed his greasy red Caesar forward onto his zitty forehead and slowed as he approached the eldest of the boys.
‘I don’t believe it,’ said Keith, sitting up. ‘Let’s see what happens here. That’s Marcus Canney, total scumbag.’
They watched as Canney spoke, then reached into his pocket, pulling something out, extending his arm towards the boy, giving him more than a handshake. Oran and Keith bolted and were on the pair in seconds.
Joe spoke before Duke could – as soon as he hit the green button to answer the call.
‘Why are you doing this?’
‘You know why,’ said Duke.
‘OK, yeah, I do. But you’ve got it all wrong, buddy. I need you to take in some new information, see if you still want to do what you came all this way to do.’
‘This is not a dialogue situation.’
‘But two people work better for you, Rawlins, don’t they?’
‘What the fuck are you talkin’ about?’
‘Two on one makes it a bit easier?’
He could hear Duke’s breathing, slow and laboured.
‘I notice things,’ said Joe. ‘I have eyes…like a hawk.’
Duke said nothing.
‘I know what you were doing today,’ said Joe, ‘and I pity that girl you’ve found to shovel your shit. But, then you wouldn’t be able to do it on your own…’ He paused. ‘You think you’re a man? You’re nothing but a piece of shit, a cowardly piece of shit.’
‘Fuck you,’ said Duke. ‘You know nothin’.’
‘You’re wrong. Here’s one thing I know for sure: Mrs Duke Rawlins is with the Stinger’s Creek police department right now making some pretty serious allegations against you.’
Duke snorted. ‘BullSHIT. Now I KNOW you’re talkin’ bullshit.’
‘You might remember some murders a while back,’ said Joe, slipping into the same patterns of speech as Duke, using the same trick he used with junkies and hookers.
‘Turns out,’ said Joe, ‘your wife’s telling whoever’s gonna listen that you’re the guy they should be looking for. The Crosscut Killer. One guy. Just you. That she covered your ass for too long.’
Duke said nothing.
‘Now, why would your wife suddenly want you locked up when you’ve just gotten out?’ said Joe. ‘Maybe so’s you won’t come after her and kill her for banging your friend.’ He waited a beat. ‘It was Donnie, Duke. Your wife was fucking Donnie.’
Duke laughed loud and hard.
‘I’ve got proof,’ said Joe quickly. When Duke didn’t stop him, he continued, ‘The name Rawlins was familiar to me because your wife was there the day Donnie died. She was a witness at the wrong side of a police cordon. She had to give her name. She was searched. She had a passport. Bet you didn’t know your wife had a passport. She was there to help Donnie—’
‘What proof?’
‘The case file. Her name is on it. I have it here.’
‘Show me a look at that,’ said Duke.
‘Show
As soon as he put down the phone, Joe sensed something behind him in the room. He turned his head slowly. Shaun stood, shaken and pale, in the doorway.
Joe stared at him. ‘How long…’
‘How long what? Could you keep lying to me?’
‘What did you hear?’
‘Where’s Mom? Who were you talking to?’ He fought back tears.
‘I’m taking care of this.’
‘What? Who’s got her? Who’s taken her? Where is she?’
‘You don’t need to know the details.’
‘Did you call the cops?’
