Number 41. The window in the front door was cracked.
Number 42. There was a kid’s battered tricycle outside.
He slowed his pace even more.
Number 43. As he reached the green painted door, it opened.
The man who emerged was in his early thirties. He glanced at Doyle then turned his attention back to the occupant of the flat.
The woman was roughly the same age. Auburn hair. Jeans. White T-shirt. She was barefoot.
She looked at Doyle then at the other man who rushed away.
‘You’ve frightened him off now.’ The woman smiled. ‘He might not come back.’
‘Sorry about that,’ Doyle said, switching to his impeccable Irish accent with ease.
She began to close the door.
‘Have you got a minute?’ he wanted to know.
The woman eyed him warily, her smile fading.
‘Maybe. What do you want?’
‘I want to know when you last saw your neighbour,’ he said, nodding in the direction of number 44.
‘Why should I tell you? Who are you anyway?’
I’m a friend of his. He owes me money. I think he’s been trying to avoid me.
If you know what I mean.’
‘i haven’t seen anyone go in or out of there for a couple of days.’
‘Have you been here all the time?’
‘More or less. I work from home.’ She lowered her gaze momentarily.
‘And the guy that just left was the first job of the day, right?’ grinned Doyle.
She looked at him and the smile returned. She nodded.
‘I think my friend’s due back this morning but I don’t want to miss him,’
Doyle lied. ‘He never answers his phone either.’
The counter terrorist held the woman’s gaze with his piercing grey eyes, a slight smile touching his lips. ‘It’s a raw morning to be waiting about,’ he said quietly, rubbing his hands together.
‘Do you want to come in?’
‘How much is it going to cost me?’
‘That depends.’
Doyle grinned and stepped inside.
Matthew Finan saw the dustcart blocking Dalton Road and sighed irritably. He banged his hooter but the driver could only shrug.
Finan realised he’d have to either wait for the vehicle to move or drive around the block and come in from the other direction.
He stuck the Renault in reverse, swung it into the next street and guided it around the rear of the flats. As he drove, he reached for his mobile phone and worked his way through the call index until he found the number he wanted.
It was answered on the second ring.
‘Declan, it’s me,’ he said. ‘I’ll be there in about five minutes. How long will you be?’
‘About a half an hour,’ Declan Leary told him.
‘See you then.’
Finan ended the call and parked the car.
The flat smelt of cheap perfume. The scent grew stronger as Doyle stepped into the small sitting room. There was a low coffee table in the centre with a large ashtray and four plastic coasters. Guests obviously didn’t bother with them because there were several circular marks on the surface of the scratched wood.
The single window was above a radiator shelf which sported several small ornaments, one of which, a ballerina, had an arm missing. Through the window, Doyle could see straight out on to the parapet. The walls were thin, and no one could pass the flat without him hearing.
As long as someone passed, of course.
He sat down on the mustard-coloured sofa, smoothed one hand over a cigarette burn in its arm and looked at his host.
‘So, what do you want to do?’ she asked, brushing her auburn hair behind her ears and moving towards Doyle.
‘What did the last guy do?’ he asked.
The usual.’
‘Which was?’
‘Same thing he always does when he comes here. Empties his balls into a Durex while he’s inside me. What do you think he does? What do you think they all do?’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Whatever you want it to be.’
‘I’m serious.’
‘So am I. You’re paying, I’ll be whoever you like.’
Doyle looked around, his gaze alighting on some photos on a sideboard to his
right. One of them showed the auburn-haired woman and an older couple.
‘Your parents?’ he wondered.
She nodded.
‘They must be very proud.’
‘They’re both dead,’ she snapped.
‘Mine too. Seems like we’ve got something in common.’
‘Listen, if you’re interested in spending some money then fair enough. If not, there are other guys who are.’
Doyle pulled out his wallet and pressed two twenties on to the coffee table.
‘What’ll that buy me?’ he wanted to know.
‘Whatever you want,’ she smiled.
‘Tell me your name.’
‘Karen,’ she said, reaching for the twenties.
Doyle shot out a hand and caught her wrist, pulling her towards him.
‘Just leave them there for now,’ he said. ‘I just want to talk.’
‘Oh, that’s your thing, is it?’ she purred, resting one hand on his thigh.
‘Okay, shall I tell you how I want your cock inside me?’
Doyle shook his head.‘I’m paying for your time, not your fanny,’ he said flatly.
She sat back, withdrawing her hand.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ she snapped. ‘If you’re a fucking copper, this—’
‘I’m not a copper. I’m just a poor cold soul paying for your time, keeping a roof over my head while I wait for a friend. That’s it. If you don’t want the money then fine.’
He reached forward to snatch up the notes.
‘No,’ she blurted. ‘All right, if you want to talk we’ll talk.’
Doyle settled back on the sofa.
His gaze moved occasionally in the direction of the window.
Matthew Finan paused as he reached the staircase and pulled the mobile phone from his pocket. He found the number and as he began to climb pressed call.
The ring tone buzzed in his ear as he made his way up the first flight of steps.
Still ringing.
He wondered if his sister was still out shopping. But he’d spoken to her the previous day and told her he’d pop in and see her towards lunchtime.
He reached the second flight and continued his climb, sucking in deep breaths every so often.
Still no answer.
