Crossfire (14 page)

Siobhan was dressed in jeans, trainers and a
black sweatshirt. Her big brown eyes were red-rimmed,
and her short, straight hair needed a
brush. She looked like she hadn't slept in
days, but she was still beautiful. She must have
been at least ten years younger than her
husband.

'I know who you are.' She smiled weakly.
'You'll have to forgive me. I've been in bed for
two days. It's a flu thing.'

I smiled back. 'Is Dom home?'

'I wish.' She touched my arm gently. 'How are
you?'

'A few stitches, no bones broken.'

'He called me, and then I saw it on the news.'
She bit her lip. 'I feel so bad about Pete. When is
the funeral, do you know?'

I shook my head.

'His poor family . . .' Her voice was educated
and soft, full of compassion.

I nodded slowly. 'I've been calling him for
days and just get his voicemail. It's not like him.
I'm worried maybe he's not picking up because
he blames me. I feel responsible. I was supposed
to be the one protecting them. I want to find him,
clear the air.'

She started to look about her.

'Sorry for just turning up on the doorstep –
your number's ex-directory but he gave me the
address back in Basra. So . . .'

'Did you go to the studio? Did they tell you to
come here?'

'No. Listen, Siobhan . . .' I hesitated. 'OK – I'll
level with you. There's something about Pete's
death that doesn't add up. I really need to talk
to—'

She stepped aside. 'Please come in.'

I crossed the threshold and wondered if I
should be taking my shoes off altogether instead
of just wiping them like a madman to scrape off
the wet grime. The highly polished black-and-white
chequered tiles were clean enough to do
surgery on.

I put down my Bergen. A crystal chandelier
hung from the high ceiling. Landscape paintings
gazed down at us from every direction. I caught
a faint whiff of cigarette smoke.

'Nice place.'

'Thanks.' She was already walking down the
hall. 'What can I offer you? Coffee, tea?'

We passed two antique half-tables. Glass trays
held keys and change.

'Coffee would be great.'

We passed the open door to a front room or
reception room, or whatever they called it in a
house this size. I saw no framed prints on the
walls of Dom being heroic with a microphone,
just lots more landscapes. The mountains were
too big to be Irish. Maybe they were Polish, or
Transylvanian.

We finally arrived in the kitchen.

'After Pete got killed Dom just left me a
message and did a runner. He OK? I was worried
about him.'

It was a large knock-through that took up the
whole of the rear of the building. In the far left
corner, the steel banister of a spiral staircase disappeared
into a round hole in the floor.

'Yes, he's fine, still out there. Moira got all
excited about another story and Dom said he'd
stay on and research it. He needed something to
throw himself into, get his mind off things – you
know Dom . . .'

There couldn't have been a bigger contrast
with the antique stuff in the hall. We were in a
world of stainless steel and glass, limed oak and
spotlights. Four gas rings seemed to float in a
polished granite island in the middle of the
room. Nearby were a BlackBerry and a pack of
Marlboro Lights, a lighter and the day's
unopened mail. A dead, half-smoked cigarette
balanced precariously on a mountain of ash and
butts in a nearby ashtray. And, by the look of it,
nicotine wasn't the only medicine Siobhan was
taking for her flu. A bottle of white wine stood
next to a glass. Both were half empty.

She followed my gaze. 'I'm sorry, would you
prefer something stronger?'

'Thanks, but no.' I tapped my arm.
'Antibiotics . . .'

She selected a coloured capsule from a tin and
dropped it into a sleek, cube-shaped coffee
machine and closed a lever. They really did live
in a Sunday supplement. One where the necks of
two empty wine bottles stuck out of the recycle
bin.

I didn't buy into the flu thing.

She'd been crying.

Mourning Pete? Possibly. But had they ever
met? Pete said he'd never been to the house.

'Do you know how I can get hold of him? Has
he got another number? I'd really like to talk to
him.'

The machine spat a thin stream of coffee into a
small cup.

'Me too.'

They were the first words she'd said that I
really believed.

Her eyes stayed on the coffee machine. 'It's
nothing unusual for him to be out of reach for
weeks sometimes, while he's up in the mountains
or wherever. It hasn't been a week yet.
Work, it's just his way of dealing with things.'
She fiddled about in a tin for another capsule. 'I
think I'll join you.'

'So he's in the mountains? Still in Iraq?'

She shoved another capsule into the machine.
'I think he left some time yesterday. Sorry, my
head's all over the place. Sugar?'

I shook my head. She placed stuff on a tray and
got ready to move. 'Let's go in the front room.'

I followed her through double doors that had
been punched through the dividing wall. She
offered me a blue velvet two-seater on one side of
the low coffee-table and sat down opposite.

The fireplace to my left was tiled. The black
grate was far too shiny ever to have been used.
The mantelpiece was covered with all the usual
pictures of two people's lives together, but
instead of picnics on the beach or family gatherings,
they featured sailing boats or horses. There
were also several of the same boy, from about ten
to his teens.

'That Finbar? He's twenty now, isn't he?' There
hadn't been much in the file about the boy either,
only his name and DOB.

She stared at the row of grinning faces.
'Twenty-one this August.'

'He's the spitting image of you.' I kept my eyes
on the frames. 'He still living here, or has he
legged it?'

She turned back to her coffee. 'He's gone now.'

'This is the time you get to see more of Dom,
eh?'

She gave another weak smile, but concentrated
on her cup. The silence quickly became
uncomfortable.

'He at uni?'

'He works. He's in the financial sector.' There
was no gush of pride from a beaming mother.

'Here in Dublin?'

She put down her cup and gave a couple of
short sharp nods instead of an answer. 'Excuse
me – my cigarettes.' She waved in the general
direction of the kitchen. 'It's a filthy habit, do you
mind?'

I stood up with her, all smiles. 'Course not. I
won't send you to smoke on the street.'

I sat down again and sipped the brew. She
returned in a cloud of smoke. Her hand shook
slightly as she sucked at her cigarette. She hadn't
brought the packet and the lighter with her. She
wanted me out.

I raised my cup. 'Thanks for the coffee,
Siobhan. Sorry again to barge in on you. Can I
leave my mobile number in case you need to get
in touch?'

She went over to a small table covered with
style magazines. She pulled open a drawer
stuffed with pens, pencils, electricity bills, all the
normal shit. Nestling among it all was a grey
mobile phone.

I stood up. 'Can I use your loo before I head
off?'

She did her general wave once more. 'Through
the kitchen, down the stairs. First on the right.'

I left as she pulled out a pen and something to
write on.

Once in the toilet the first thing I checked was the
window. It was a wooden sash, as I'd have
expected in one of these houses, but this one was
new. The frosted glass was double-glazed, with a
decorative brass latch in the centre of the frame.
A hole each side indicated an internal deadlock
operated by a star key. It didn't worry me. Keys
tend to be left in toilets so no one gets embarrassed
after a big hot curry. I dug about in the
unit under the sink cabinet and found what I was
looking for, right next to the Toilet Duck.

I pressed the flush, and unwound both deadlocks
while it was noisy. I left the latch closed, so
everything looked normal.

I replaced the key in the cabinet, and washed
my hands with plenty of scented liquid soap. I
wanted her to know I'd gone where I'd said
I would.

As I came out again, a motion detector in the
hallway gave me a flicker of blue LED. So did
another at the top of the stairs.

The door opposite opened easily. It was a
teenager's room. There were posters on the wall
but no bedding, just a folded duvet on the mattress.

I took a step inside. Even if Finbar had moved
out, there might be something that would give
me a clue as to where he was now. I didn't care
what the Yes Man had said about the boy not
being important. If I found him, I might find
Dom. That was why the Yes Man hadn't got a
river view.

Nothing stood out at first glance. The laptop
looked steam-driven, and the GameBoy wasn't
even from this century.

Then something caught my eye. A Vodafone
USB modem. They'd only come out a few
months ago, but you couldn't move for the
adverts.

By the time I rejoined Siobhan, there was a
blank index card and a pen waiting for me on the
coffee-table. I sat down with a big smile. I could
smell the soap on my hands as I wrote out my
number.

I got to my feet and handed her the card.

She looked at it as we headed towards the front
door. I kept my eyes busy. The alarm-system
keypad was midway up the wall. Another
little blue light flickered below the picture rail.

I hooked my holdall over my shoulder.

She glanced past me at the dark wet street.
'Don't you want me to call you a cab?'

'It's OK. I'm going to walk for a while.'

We shared a nod. 'Thanks again for the coffee.'

I headed down the steps, and when I hit the
street, I turned right. My mobile was out
the moment I heard the door shut.

I hit the new number I'd burnt into my brain.
It was fine to talk in clear. These mobiles were
secure. Calls were masked by white noise,
courtesy of the Firm's version of the Brahms
secure speech system, developed by GCHQ. Not
even the NSA could eavesdrop.

It gave four rings.

I pulled up my collar against the damp. 'You're
sure the house only has their two registered
mobiles and the landline?'

I heard the rustle of paper at the other end.
'Only three numbers registered. Why?'

'And just a PC desktop on broadband, yeah?'

'Correct.'

'I need to check something out tonight. I'll call
you.'

There was no reply. The telephone went dead.
Not much of a one for small-talk, the Yes Man.

I didn't give a fuck. I was in control, and I
planned to keep it that way.

I must have looked a complete dickhead as I
checked into the Conrad with my holdall and
the world's supply of cheap shopping bags. The
other guests' bags said Gucci and Hugo Boss, but
mine were from Spar, a corner chemist's, an
electronics shack and a charity shop. The
receptionist had raised an eyebrow at the half-drunk
two-litre bottle of own-brand cola sticking
out of one of the carriers.

It was just as well she hadn't seen the rest of
the stuff now spread out on the bed in my very
swanky room. There were a couple of shower
caps, floral-patterned with some frilly stuff
round the sides, a notebook and pencil, a box of
forty pairs of surgical gloves, a pair of scissors, a
little keyring torch, and a SIM-card reader that
I'd have to work out how to use before I left.

I also had some fishing-line. I hadn't been able
to find an angling shop, so I'd bought a reel of
four-pound breaking-strain stuff off one of the
guys on the banks of the Liffey. Twenty-pound
would have been ideal, but this would have to
do.

There'd been an amazing number of druggies
down by the river. Even at this time of night,
young guys looking like ghosts shivered under
blankets beneath a bridge not a stone's throw
from Bertie's Pole. I tried to talk to one to ask
where the fishermen hung out, but he just stared
back, too out of it to string an answer together.
This city really did have a problem. But then
again, show me one that didn't.

I had also bought new boxers and socks and a
couple of long-sleeved T-shirts. I might be spending
the Firm's money on this posh room but even
I wouldn't squander it on hotel laundry when it
was cheaper to buy new.

Especially for tonight, I'd bought some grey
trousers in a charity shop and yet another shitty
brown fleece. I'd also picked up a black balaclava
I'd found on a shelf of odd gloves and woolly
hats. In the old days, the housing-trust shop
would have made a few bob selling them in this
part of the world. I'd given the old dear at the till
a big grin when I'd handed it over. 'Let the good
times roll.'

None of the stuff needed much doing to it,
apart from a bit of remodelling to the cola bottle.
I poured myself another glass before tipping the
rest away and giving it a rinse. Then I took off the
wrapper, and cut off the top and bottom to leave
an open cylinder. It was
Blue Peter
time. I cut up
the side of the cylinder and flattened out the
rectangle I'd created on the floor, then cut
the biggest circle I could from its centre. It curled
into a tight brandy snap as soon as I let it go and
that was it, I was almost done.

All I had to do now was shove everything in
the cupboard, jump on the bed, get my boots off
and check out the room-service menu while I
read the instructions for the SIM-card reader. I
wouldn't be leaving until dark o'clock.

I finished off the glass of flat cola. It was just
like old times. I remembered being pissed off as a
nine-year-old when my mum wouldn't buy real
Coke because it was too expensive. I wondered if
it had been the same for Pete over Brockwell Park
way. I shoved a couple of antibiotics down
my neck and ordered up a steak sandwich and
chips.

Siobhan's compassion for Pete had been convincing,
I supposed. And she clearly missed Dom
terribly. But she'd avoided eye contact on every
other subject. She had to be the only mother on
earth who wouldn't open up about her little boy
when given half a chance. Well, tonight we'd be
finding out what she was hiding.

After my sandwich, it was downstairs to the
business suite to get online and see if I could find
Finbar on the electoral register. I'd trawl
Facebook and MySpace too. I had a few hours to
kill.