produced hanks of nylon cord and bags of nylon grip ties and rolls of silver duct tape. Regina Tyrrell stared at what was unfolding before her eyes in astonishment and fear, then made a rush for the door, only to be brought up short by Steno waving the MP5 at her.
'Karen,' she cried. 'Karen! What have you done with her?'
'Calm, calm, she's all right, she's fine,' Steno said.
'Where is she?' Regina said.
'She's locked in her room. Miranda has the key. We've left food and drink there for her. It's just for a short while, until Leopardstown is done. Miranda, why don't you get things tied up with our friends here?' Steno said. 'Take Mr. Loy first, if you would.'
I had quickly calculated that there was no percentage in trying to make a grab for the Glock: it wouldn't make much of a show against an SMG. But it might come into its own later on. Miranda looked as if she wanted to say several things, but she didn't say any of them; instead, she got her sports grip and Steno pointed me into a chair with the SMG, and without a word, Miranda tied me up with plastic grip ties around my wrists and ankles and nylon cord around my waist, and then frisked me. When her hand passed over my mobile phone in my jacket pocket, she tensed and looked me in the eye, and I waited for her to come to a decision. It was a moment in which time seemed to slow to a crawl, in which I sensed both her power over me and her powerlessness, now that she was in Steno's thrall. And the strange thing is, in that instant, I felt so much toward her, such a mix of feelings: compassion, and sympathy, and fear for her welfare, and, despite all I knew then and all I suspected and was subsequently to discover, the hope that she and her daughter could somehow escape together, and put all the bad history behind them. And even as I tried to hold the thought in my mind, it turned to dust, like all dreams that involve fighting the past again and winning this time do, turned to dust and was scattered on the relentless wind. She passed over my phone and leant into my ear.
'Please try and think kindly of me,' she said, and turned to Steno.
'He's clean,' she said, wafting past me, and I breathed her incense of oranges and salt, and the two things combined, the smell of love departed and the chirping of a tramp on the make, filled me with melancholy.
Miranda moved toward Tommy, but he waved her off and approached Steno.
'Steno, you remember me man,' he said. 'The back room of McGoldrick's, with Leo an' all. And then I was in with you the other day.'
Steno looked at Tommy's ruined foot and nodded.
'Sure. Tommy Owens? What's on your mind?'
Tommy looked at me, then approached Steno and spoke in a hushed, confidential voice, as if he'd been living a lie for a long time and was relieved finally to be able to come clean.
'I'm just a hired hand here man,' he said. 'I mean, I don't have any loyalty to your man Loy, know I mean? And frankly, I put him together with Leo, he beat the shite out of him for no reason, I think he's losing it man. So if you're putting something together you need an extra pair of hands, all I'm saying is, I'm here if you want me man, to drive, whatever.'
Steno stared at me, and I stared at Tommy. I knew Steno was trying to work out if Tommy was on the level. I was almost sure he wasn't. Almost was as good as it got with Tommy, but from where I was sitting, bound if not yet gagged, almost didn't feel like a lot. I let this curdle naturally into a glare of disgust at his betrayal; Tommy returned this with a shrug of indifferent scorn. We looked like thieves without honor. I prayed that's not what we were.
'You can drive?' Steno said.
'Sure,' Tommy said.
'All right. Good to have an extra pair of hands along.'
Then he poked the barrel of the SMG hard in Tommy's face, hard enough to bruise.
'I get so much as a glimmer you're not down the line with me, you're sneaking to Loy, or to the cops, you're gone, understand, and a day, an hour later, I won't even remember the hole you're buried in, let alone your name.'
I had to give it to him, Steno was a scary piece of work. He threatened to kill Tommy like he was warning a lounge boy about skimming from the till, and you felt it was of as great, or as little, consequence to him.
'All right Miranda, it's Regina 's turn,' Steno said.
Regina sat in a chair opposite me, and Miranda fastened her to it in the same way she had fastened me, ties to wrists and ankles, cord around her waist. Both women were trembling, and Miranda kept apologizing for being too rough. Or at any rate, she kept apologizing. When Regina was secured, Steno made a call on his mobile.
'All right,' he said. 'We're ready up here.'
Steno went to the windows and opened the curtains. Gray dawn light trickled quickly in, borne by showers of sleet that pelted against the panes.
Steno stood over me and spoke calmly to my face.
'Whatever happens next, know this: if you contradict anything I say, I'll take you out immediately. Plan A is the plan we're working, for Miranda's sake, for old times' sake: I don't claim to understand it myself, but that's the route we're taking. But if I think you're putting that in jeopardy, even for an instant: Plan B, baby.'
'And what's Plan B?'
Steno almost smiled, his fleshy face heavy and still, his eyes genial and dead.
'Kill every fucker standing, and get out of here fast. And don't think I won't.'
I didn't. Steno gave Miranda a Sig Sauer compact, looked like one of the Halligan cache I'd brought down. There was a knock at the door, and then Francis Xavier Tyrrell was led in by a red-faced, straw-haired man I didn't recognize, but whom I soon found out was Brian Rowan, the Tyrrells' head man. Tyrrell looked around the room, his cheeks aflame, his sharp, intelligent features quivering with quiet anger and indignation. He wore a sleeveless padded green jacket over tweeds and a brown fedora. No one spoke. It felt as if a bunch of teenagers had been having a party and the father who had expressly forbidden them such an event had arrived home.
'What the devil is all this?' he said.
Regina 's emotion overflowed into tears; she spoke through them now in a rush.
'Francis, they have Karen, they're holding her.'
'They have Karen? What do you mean, they're 'holding' her? What do they want?'
'They've kidnapped her, they want…'
Regina faltered under F. X. Tyrrell's glare. Steno looked to Miranda Hart, who beckoned F. X. Tyrrell to the open window.
'Can you see the gallops? See the rider there? How's he doing, do you think? Do you need binoculars?'
'My sight is perfect,' Tyrrell said.
The room fell silent as he watched.
'Good seat. Nice action. Who is that, one of the apprentices? Brian?'
'His name is Patrick, boss.'
'We want Patrick to ride today,' Miranda said. 'The third race, the juvenile hurdle for three year olds. Barry Dorgan hasn't made the weight for Bottle of Red. We want Patrick to start in Dorgan's place.'
Miranda's voice was shaky but firm; it also, for the first time, expressed for Patrick Hutton an emotion she hadn't betrayed before, at least, not in my hearing: love. As Miranda spoke, dawn light from the window shifted slowly across her face. F. X. Tyrrell transferred his gaze to her as if seeing her for the first time.
'You're…you're Mary Hart, aren't you?'
'Miranda.'
'Yes. Yes. Look at you child. All grown up.'
There was a silence, punctuated by Regina Tyrrell's quiet sobbing; Miranda Hart looked quickly from Regina to F. X. Tyrrell and shuddered; F. X. Tyrrell shook his head suddenly, as if a ghost from his past had asked him for help and he found he had nothing left to give. Tyrrell looked out toward the gallops again, then he pursed his lips and wrinkled his nose.
'You want Patrick to ride one of my horses? Patrick? Who the devil is Patrick?'
'Patrick Hutton, remember?' Miranda said. 'You remember Thurles? By Your Leave?'
Tyrrell looked out again at Hutton, and the blood drained from his face.
'I remember, yes; I remember what he did to my beautiful By Your Leave.'
His face was creased with sudden pain, and then his small dark eyes blazed.
