Maid of the Mist (6 page)

'I don't believe you're smiling. I really don't believe that.'

Bob opened a drawer and took out a cigar. He lit up and blew smoke across the desk towards Corrigan. 'I'm smiling because I'm fascinated, fascinated by what you plan to do about it. You try to steal
my
woman, and you come here to complain about
my
behaviour.'

'I gave her a peck on the cheek. You broke her fucking jaw, for God's sake.'

'You're right. For God's sake I did. And now she knows not to do it again.'

'I thought you were supposed to be a Christian?'

'I am.'

'What is it, some obscure branch of the Presbyterians, the "if thy wife offends thee beat her fucking brains in" branch?'

'There's no need for profanity, Corrigan.'

'There fucking well is. Lots of fucking profanity.'

Christians. He'd had enough of them back home in Ireland. Fighting with each other. Killing each other. All in the name of love. And now here was Big Fat Bob crowing over breaking his wife's jaw.

Corrigan removed his pistol from its holster.

'You needn't think you're going to scare me with that,' Bobby said. But suddenly he didn't sound quite so bullish.

'We've just got these,' Corrigan said, rubbing his hand down the barrel. 'Upgrades. Used to be .38-calibre service revolvers. This is a .40-calibre semi-automatic Glock pistol. It can do a lot of damage.'

He let it sit for a few moments, then smiled. Bobby didn't like the smile. He swallowed. He'd gone a little pale. He was remembering. One of the workers had gone postal with a gun five years before. Wounded fourteen. He looked at Corrigan, at his pale face and his red eyes, and wondered.

'You're pretty sure I'm not going to shoot you,' Corrigan said, keeping his eye on the gun. 'It would be pointless. Nicky's not dead, she doesn't want to press charges. Why lose my job, go to prison over a woman who betrayed me? But then you're thinking, what's to stop him claiming he was attacked? That someone angry enough to break a woman's jaw isn't going to go peacefully when a cop comes to arrest him. He's a cop, for godsake, he can make it look like there was a struggle. Are you thinking that, or am I reading you wrong?'

Bobby just looked at him. He wasn't thinking
anything.
His sweat glands were, though. It was a cool room, but there were suddenly puddles under his arms. They
dripped.

Corrigan turned the gun slowly until it was pointing at Big Fat Bob. 'The thing is,
Bobby,
I'm from Belfast. I was a cop there for five years. You ever hear of the Falls Road? I was stationed there. Toughest beat in Europe. We shot terrorists for breakfast. Do you understand what I'm saying? Once it gets in your blood, it stays in your blood. I could shoot you dead, right now, and not even think about it, because I'd get away with it. Back home, we did it all the time, because they were never going to end up in court. They were killers, but the law protected them. So we had to get rid of them our own way. Do you understand what I'm saying?'

Bobby nodded slowly.

'On the other hand,' Corrigan continued, 'this is Niagara Falls. It's a nice and peaceful land. There's really no need for a gun.' He set it down on the desk. Bobby's eyes flitted to the weapon, then back to Corrigan. 'I carry it with me all the time, but it isn't always loaded. Depends how I feel in the mornings. One morning I'll load it all up, just in case. Others, I'll empty it. Keep it empty. You can feel too secure with a gun; sometimes it's good not to carry that responsibility around with you. That
possibility.
Do you understand what I'm saying?'

Bobby nodded again.

'Thing is,' Corrigan said, 'I just can't remember whether I loaded it this morning or not.'

Bobby swallowed. Suddenly he knew what was coming.

Corrigan lifted his gun. He aimed at Bobby's chest. His finger slipped on to the trigger.

'You
know
it's not loaded,' Corrigan said.

Bobby nodded. But he was thinking of his last words.

'You
know
I wouldn't shoot you even if it was.'

Bobby nodded. He tried to picture the Lord, but he could only picture the gun.

'But I want you to swear to me that you'll never lay a finger on her again. Because if you do, I'll come and find you and I
will
shoot you. Do you swear that?'

Bobby nodded.

'Say it.'

'I swear I won't lay a finger on her.'

That's better. Now just remember it.'

Corrigan pushed his chair back and stood. He looked down at Bobby and said: 'You need an ashtray.'

Bobby followed his gaze and saw that the forgotten cigar clamped tightly in his hand had burnt clear down to the tip, burning his fingers in the process, and he hadn't even noticed. Now he did. Now he felt the pain. He gave a little yelp and let go of it, pushing back in his chair and cupping his burned fingers protectively in his other hand as the glowing remnants of the cigar peppered the paperwork on his desk.

Corrigan turned to the door. He still had the gun in his hand. When he reached it Bobby called after him. 'Corrigan – I'm sorry.'

'Don't apologize to me, Bobby. Apologize to her.'

Bobby nodded.

Corrigan opened the door.

'Just one thing,' Bobby said. 'Was it loaded?'

Corrigan looked at him. He raised the gun.

He pointed it.

He pulled the trigger.

Corrigan had just parked outside Turner House when a car door slammed behind him and a young woman in a black trouser suit and high-heeled ankle boots came clip-clipping up to him.

'Inspector Corrigan, isn't it?' she said, her head jutting forward and her smile small and slightly self-conscious, which made him think maybe she wasn't sure about her teeth. She looked to be roughly his age. She had red hair, cut short. Her nose was slightly turned up, as if it had been thumped repeatedly by a small person. 'Madeline Hume, Channel 4.1 left a message for you. You didn't get it?'

'I got it. Ignored it.'

'Oh. You gave the story to someone else.'

'I didn't give the story to anyone. It's not mine to give.'

He continued to walk towards Turner House. She followed after him. 'Why not?' she said to his back. 'She's being held here at your request.'

Before he rang the bell he said: 'Because I have a few loose ends to tie up.'

'Maybe I can help.'

'I doubt it.'

He rang. In the three weeks before it was answered she said: 'Are you being deliberately nasty, or have I done something to annoy you?'

'Deliberately nasty.'

'The woman's in there, isn't she? The one who went over the Falls?'

Corrigan nodded wearily.

'They wouldn't let me in to talk to her.'

The door opened. Annie Spitz nodded out at him, then rolled her eyes at Madeline Hume. 'I thought I told you to fuck off!' she barked.

Madeline turned to Corrigan. 'Sisters,' she said, 'always stick together.'

Corrigan was as surprised by Annie's venom as Annie herself evidently was. She blushed and waved her hand in front of her face. 'God, I'm sorry,' she said hurriedly, 'it's been pandemonium this morning.'

'Annie,' Corrigan said, peering forward to see if the big woman with the shotgun had him in her sights, 'tell me Tarriha's finished with her. Tell me I don't owe him any more money.'

'Who's Tarriha?' said Madeline.

'Tarriha,' said Annie, 'is not only finished, but gone. Split.'

'Oh for Jesus . . . what about Lelewala?'

'Who's Lelewala?' said Madeline.

'Lelewala's gone too. She wouldn't stay. What could I do? Before you ask, Nicola's gone too. Took Aimie. Must be the cooking.'

'Nicola . . . ?' began Madeline.

'Jesus, Annie, I thought this was a secure house . . .'

'Hey, c'mon, it's secure for those who want to be secure. It's not a prison.'

Corrigan tutted. Annie glared. 'Did they say anything? Did they give any indication of where they were going?'

'Who?' Annie said, exasperated. 'Which one? They weren't moving collectively.'

'Any
one.'

'Nicola's gone home. Said someone . . .'

'That fat bastard . . .'

'Listen to me . . . she said someone was coming to look at the house. At least, she
wrote
someone was coming to look at the house.'

Corrigan threw up his hands and blew out some air. 'OK.
OK.
Lelewala.
Did
she revert to English?'

'I don't know. She didn't say anything. She just ran out.'

Corrigan let out a deep sigh and leaned his head against the door frame.

'Could one of you tell me what's going on round here?' Madeline asked, looking from one to the other.

'Too much,' Corrigan said, 'and not enough.'

Corrigan let Madeline take him for coffee. He didn't know why. It just seemed like the least stressful option. It was a dingy cafe in downtown Niagara. Half a dozen tables. Packets of salt stolen from McDonald's sat in little cups. It saw maybe five or six tourists a year. There was a yellowing
Maid of the Mist
t-shirt for sale behind the counter.

'So,' he said half-heartedly, 'you operate out of Buffalo.'

'Channel 4. About a year. New owner brought in a fresh news team when he took over. I'm from Albany. You?'

'Niagara,' said Corrigan.

She looked doubtfully at him. 'Tell me about the woman,' she said.

'I could tell you,' Corrigan said, 'but then I'd have to kiss you.'

'Kiss
me?'

'Kill
you.'

'You said
kiss
me.'

'I did not.'

'You certainly did.'

'You may have wanted me to say kiss you. But I did not. Why would I want to kiss you?'

'You tell me.'

They looked at each other. Corrigan resisted a smile. Her face reddened. 'I'm sorry if I misheard,' she said.

She had a nice face. She was friendly. He lit a cigarette.

'If it's a question of money,' Madeline said, 'I'm sure we could sort something out.'

'Are you trying to bribe me?'

She smiled. 'I was thinking more in terms of paying for the coffee.' She reached over and took one of his cigarettes. She lit it, blew smoke in his direction.

The waitress stumped across with a glass ashtray and cracked it down on the table.

The ashtray said Budweiser across it. The waitress said nothing.

'I know a Native American went over the Falls,' Madeline said, 'and that there must be a reason for it, but every reporter in the state is on to it by now. The longer we leave it, the less valuable it becomes.'

Corrigan nodded. 'So meet my terms.'

'What
are
your terms?'

'Coffee
and
a danish.'

'I don't think that will be a problem.'

'And a five-hundred-dollar donation to Turner House.'

'What's got you so keen on Turner House?'

'They do a good job.'

'Who's Nicola?'

He took a sip of coffee. 'You ask a lot of questions.'

'Actually, I think that's my first. Or second.'

His mobile rang. He said, 'Excuse me,' and turned away.

It was Stirling. 'You better come in, Frank.' His voice sounded a little strained.

'What's the problem?'

'Pongo's the problem.'

'What's Pong. . .' He stopped. He looked at Madeline, then turned slightly to one side. 'What's happened? You get him talking yet?'

'Yes sir, I did.'

'So?'

'I think you better come down.'

There was silence for several moments, then Corrigan said: 'I'll be right there.' He clicked off, then stood suddenly, the chair squeaking on the dark linoleum floor. 'I'm sorry,' he said, 'but I have to go.'

'What's . . . ?'

'Police business.' He turned for the door. Madeline pushed her chair back and hurried after him.

'What about the girl?' she said.

'What girl?' He opened the door and stepped out on to the sidewalk.

'The girl that went over the Falls.'

'Sorry. You know as much as I do.'

'No I don't.'

He stopped. 'No, in fact you don't. I'm sorry. There's nothing much I can tell you. She's run away. I'll have to track her down. If you can do it, be my guest. Then give me a call.'

He smiled and turned away.

She tutted. He walked back to his car and opened it up. He started the engine. There was a tap on the window.

It was Madeline. 'Inspector?'

He rolled the window down. 'What?'

'Could you lend me a couple of bucks for the coffee?'

'What?'

'I came out without my purse. I'm sorry.'

He rolled his eyes.

'Sorry,' she said. 'You can arrest me if you want.'

He smiled. He checked his wallet. He'd given his smaller notes to Tarriha. There was just a single hundred-dollar note. He took it out and made a show of examining it. She smiled and plucked it out of his fingers. 'Thanks,' she said and hurried back to the cafe.

'I'll wait here for the change,' he called after her.

She didn't respond. He looked at her bum as she walked. It was nice and small. When he raised his eyes a little higher he realized that she was standing in the door of the cafe looking at him looking at her bum. He looked away.

A minute later she hurried back to the car. He rolled the window down again to collect the change. But she ignored him and walked round to the other side and slipped into the passenger seat. 'She looked like she'd never seen a hundred before,' Madeline said breezily, then looked expectantly at Corrigan. 'The least you could do,' she said, 'is give me a lift back to my car.' She handed the change to him. He started to count it.

'Don't you trust me?' she said.

'No,' said Corrigan. He took out five dollars and handed it back to her. She looked confused. 'What's that for?'

'A taxi.' He reached across her and pushed the door open again. 'I told you, I'm in a hurry.'

She nodded. Then she pulled the door closed again and said: 'Who's Tarriha?'

'What?'

'Annie Spitz mentioned Tarriha. What's he, another Indian?'

'That's Native American.'

'Native American. Is that what he is?' Corrigan nodded. 'What was he doing? He her lawyer?'