Fleas is a little runt who looks like his ma didn’t drink enough milk when she was having him, which given the block of flats he’s from is probably true. He got the nickname in training college – he was in my year – because he can’t stand still; even waiting for the coffee machine, he’s bouncing from foot to foot like he’s itchy. The two of us got on, back in training. I wasn’t there to make bosom buddies, and I didn’t need morons saying I was shagging a guy into looking after me; but if it hadn’t been for all that, we would have been friends.
Halfway through our second year, Fleas disappeared. The story we got was that he had been kicked out for being caught with hash on him – cue jokes about how you can put the skanger in a uniform, but you can’t put the uniform into the skanger – but I didn’t fall for it: Fleas was way too sharp for that. A few years later, when I got pulled off a desk to spend a few weeks being Fleas’s cousin Rachel who would be only delighted to take a suitcase full of drug money to his boss’s friend in Marbella, it turned out I’d been right all along. The sting went like clockwork, a few bad guys went down, and me and Fleas had a blast. Before I went back to my desk, we made Rachel an e-mail address so we could get in touch, if we ever needed to. We’ve never needed to before.
We take the coffee and sandwiches into the sitting room and stretch out at opposite ends of my sofa, with our feet up and our plates balanced on our laps. I’ve lit the fire; the wind is still going, but the thick walls turn it faint and almost cosy. ‘Ahhh,’ Fleas says, wriggling his shoulders comfortable against the cushions. ‘This is lovely, so it is. I’m gonna get myself a nice place like this, one of these days. You can teach me how to do it up.’
Which reminds me. ‘How’d you know where to find me?’
‘Ah, now. Where would you be if I hadn’t?’ He gives me his crinkly grin. ‘Murder now, yeah? The big time. How’s that going?’
Meaning he’s been asking after me, when he gets a chance. ‘Grand. Beats giving out penalty points.’
‘How’re the lads? Any crack?’
I can’t tell what that means. His face, full of food, gives away nothing. ‘All right, yeah,’ I say. ‘What’re you at these days?’
‘You know yourself. Bit of this, bit of that. Remember your man Goggles? The little fat fella with no neck?’
‘Jaysus, him.’ That makes me laugh. ‘You know he kept trying to chat me up, right? Every time you left me on my own, there he was, edging over and telling me he loved tall birds and the littlest jockeys have the biggest whips. He was always so bickied he kept forgetting he’d already tried and got nowhere.’
Fleas is grinning. ‘That’s the boyo. We finally landed him – we didn’t even want to, he was still useful, but the thick eejit . . . Himself and his pal Fonzie were in a B&B in Cork, right? Parcelling up a load of Es that had just come off a boat?’ He’s got the giggles; it’s catching, even before I know what we’re laughing at. ‘And Goggles was sampling the merchandise, only he went too far. Three in the morning, he’s out in the front garden in his jocks, singing – I heard it was “I Kissed a Girl”.’
By now I’m lying back on the sofa, laughing properly. It feels good.
‘When the landlord goes out to see what’s the story, Goggles gives him a hug, tells him he’s only gorgeous, then legs it back inside, hops in bed with the landlady and starts playing peekaboo under the covers. The uniforms arrive, take him back to his room to sleep it off, and there’s Fonzie crashed out in a chair and a hundred grand of Es spread out on the bed.’
‘Ah, Jaysus,’ I say, wiping my eyes. ‘That’s beautiful, that is. You couldn’t just seize the haul and let the lads go, no?’
‘We tried. The gaffer had half the squad looking for some way the uniforms had fucked up, illegal search or something, yeah? But they were watertight. Poor old Goggles is going down. Here’ – Fleas points his sandwich at me – ‘you should visit him, inside. Cheer him up a bit.’
He’s messing, but it sounds like there’s a corner of serious in there. ‘I’ll get him to do his Katy Perry for me,’ I say. ‘Cheer us both up.’
‘Not from what I heard, it wouldn’t.’
‘Come here,’ I say. ‘Speaking of the lads. The Courier’s after running my photo. Is that gonna fuck you up?’
Fleas is the reason I don’t let my photo out there. They did me up for the gig – curls, big hoop earrings, shitload of makeup, pink crop tops with cheeky and your boyfriend wants me across the front – but still: better safe. He shrugs. ‘No hassle so far. See what happens.’ It takes a lot more than this to panic an undercover. ‘I wouldn’t say anyone recognised you. You’re all fancy these days’ – a nod at my suit, half impressed, half amused – ‘and in fairness, it’s been a few years.’
‘Rub it in, why don’t you.’
Fleas examines me critically, chewing. ‘You’re looking all right. Not great, now; you look like you could do with a holiday. Or a tonic.’
‘I’m grand. I could use a bit of sunshine, just. What are the chances?’
‘Or a change of scene.’
I look up fast from my food, but he’s leaning to get his mug off the coffee table; I can’t see his eyes. Undercovers are like that – they can’t go at anything straight – but I’m pretty sure I get the message. Fleas knows Murder isn’t working out. He thinks I emailed him because I need him to put in a good word for me on Undercover.
For a flash I think about straightening my leg and putting my foot in his guts. Instead I say, ‘I’m happy enough with the scenery I’ve got. I’d love your opinion on one bit of it, though.’
‘Yeah?’ Fleas’s tone hasn’t changed, but something streaks across his face, something that almost looks like regret. ‘What’s that?’
‘Look at this.’ I sit up and stretch for my satchel, find a photo of Aislinn Version 2.0 and pass it to him. ‘Her name’s Aislinn Murray. Twenty-six, five foot seven, probably a middle-class Greystones accent. Seen her around?’
Fleas chews, bounces one knee and takes his time looking. ‘Hard to say for sure; a lot of ones look like her. I don’t think so, but. Who is she?’
‘Murder victim.’
That stops his knee bouncing. ‘Her? The one off the front pages?’
‘Yeah. Her best mate says she had a secret boyfriend, the last six months or so. We’re thinking it could’ve been a gangster. One of Cueball Lanigan’s lot, maybe.’
He looks longer. Shakes his head. ‘Nah. She wasn’t with any of Lanigan’s lads, anyway.’
‘You’re sure,’ I say. I already know from his voice: he’s sure. The warm cosy feeling is sinking fast. I could kick myself for dragging him out here for this.
‘Hundred per cent. I’d’ve met her. Probably if she was with anyone from Crumlin or Drimnagh, too.’
‘Maybe not. If she was keeping the relationship on the downlow, he might’ve been too.’
Fleas laughs. ‘Nah nah nah. A bird who looks like that, anyone who’s shagging her is gonna want the world to know. He’d be showing her off in the pub, at parties, every time he got a chance.’