‘Even if he’s married?’
‘No problemo. No one expects these lads to be monks, know what I mean? Not even their wives. If someone’s married to another of the lads’ sister, then OK, he’s not gonna shove his bit on the side in the brother-in-law’s face, but he’ll still be bragging about her to the rest of us. And the lads gossip like aul’ ones. Everyone knows who’s got a little side action going on.’ He’s still scanning the photo, but his knee is jiggling again: he’s losing interest. ‘She have any bling that’s not accounted for? Rolex, jewellery, designer gear?’
‘Not that I spotted,’ I say. ‘Her stuff was mid-range, things she could’ve afforded herself; nothing that said someone else was buying for her. But maybe she just wasn’t into the sugar-daddy thing.’
Fleas snorts. ‘Any extra cash?’
‘Not that we’ve found. Her financials look clean.’
‘Any trips away? A lily-white like that, the boyfriend wouldn’t be able to resist using her to carry something. And if she’s the type who’d go for a gangster, she’s not the type who’d say no.’
I shake my head. ‘Her best friend said she’d never been out of Ireland. We found a passport application form – first-time, not renewal. No passport.’
‘There you go,’ Fleas says. He passes the photo back to me. ‘I’m not swearing on my life or anything, but if I was a betting man, I’d bet plenty that she had nothing to do with the scene.’
And there it is. The cosy feeling burns out to dirty ash.
I say, ‘You can’t swear to it, but. She still could have had connections.’
He shrugs. ‘She could’ve, yeah. So could my ma.’
Fleas isn’t like Steve; he doesn’t make up ifs and maybes for kicks. If Fleas says something, it’s solid.
There goes our beautiful gang theory, spiralling down the jacks with a long sucking sound. I thought I was ready for that.
Me spending the last day and a half thinking I was a big badass sniper deep in enemy jungle, swinging my scope from Breslin to McCann, my blood clarifying to pure adrenaline while I waited to see which one I should pick off. Idiot, five-star fucking cretin. No different from Goggles getting off his tits on his own shipment and turning himself into a lifetime punchline. The only thing I’ve done right, since the moment I got this case, was hold on to just enough sense to keep my gob shut. Every other thought I’ve had was a joke.
I stuff the photo back into my satchel – I don’t want to see the thing any more. ‘Can you keep an eye out anyway? See if anyone’s a little off his stride this week, maybe, or anyone’s spending more time in the pub, getting drunker than usual?’ The begging under my voice is pathetic. ‘She only got killed on Saturday evening, so whoever did it should be feeling it.’
Fleas has gone back to his sandwich. ‘Might be, might not. Plenty of them are total psychopaths; could blow their own grannies’ brains out and never break a sweat.’
‘Someone knows about this who isn’t a total psycho, but. A guy called it in to the local station, looking for an ambulance. If that wasn’t our boy, it was a mate who he talked to.’
‘Fair enough. I’ll keep an eye out for anyone who’s off form.’
He’s humouring me, but he’ll do it. ‘If you spot anything,’ I say, ‘you e-mail me before you show up here. I swear to God, if I find you under my bed tomorrow night, I’m gonna shoot your bony arse.’
‘Come here, but,’ Fleas says, wiping mayo off his cheek with the back of his hand. ‘I wasn’t joking about you needing better security. I had that alarm disabled in twenty seconds, tops; took me maybe another minute to get past the locks. And probably you already know this, but there’s some fella casing your road.’
The air in the room hardens, scraping at me like sandpaper. ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I was wondering about that. Where’d you spot him?’
‘I took a stroll past the top of the road earlier on, just getting the feel of the place before I headed in. He was hanging about. Like he was waiting for someone, only I got the vibe – you know the vibe.’
‘Yeah.’ We all know the vibe. ‘Did you get a decent look?’
‘Tried. I went to bum a smoke off him’ – Fleas slumps forward, lets his face go junkie-vacant and whines through his nose, ‘“Here, bud, gis a fag?” ’ Back to normal: ‘Only he saw me coming and legged it. Could’ve been he just didn’t fancy the likes of me getting a hold of him, in fairness; but . . .’ Fleas shrugs. ‘Middle-aged fella, tall, medium build, pricey overcoat, big schnozz. That’s all I could see; he was well wrapped up, trilby and a scarf over half his face. Again, that’s fair enough, in this weather. But.’
‘Right. But.’ That rules out Creepy Crowley and his short arse and his slimy mac, anyway, which is a shame; I would’ve only loved a good excuse to mistake him for a stalker. ‘I think it’s this gaff he’s watching.’
Fleas nods, unsurprised. ‘I’d say so, all right. Got any clue who he’d be?’
I shake my head. ‘I was wondering about some gangster looking to warn me off. With that Courier photo, anyone could’ve waited outside work and followed me home. But if you figure the gang thing’s a dead end . . .’ Every time I say the word ‘gang’, it sounds stupider. I stretch out my legs farther along the sofa and try to get back some of that relaxed feel. It’s well gone. I can feel the sitting-room window behind my shoulder, the dark wind shoving up against it.
‘They’re a shower of bollixes, the Courier,’ Fleas says. ‘And just ’cause it’s not a gangster, that doesn’t mean it’s not the fella who killed your girl.’
‘I already thought of that. Do I look thick to you?’
‘I’m only saying. You’d want to get that alarm sorted rapid. Get PhoneWatch or something.’
‘No, thanks.’ If PhoneWatch doesn’t get an answer off you when there’s a breach, they ring the Guards. I’d rather have a serial killer use me for parts than have the squad find out I went squealing for uniform help like some civilian. ‘I’m grand. I got you good and proper, didn’t I?’
‘I wasn’t here to kill you,’ Fleas points out. ‘Not the same thing. I know you’re well able for anyone, and I pity the poor little bollix that takes you on, but you have to sleep sometime, yeah?’
‘I’ll get the locks looked at in the morning.’
‘And the alarm.’
‘And the alarm. Mammy.’
Fleas watches me, over the rim of his mug. For once he isn’t moving. He says, ‘Will I stay the night?’
There are a few different ways he could mean that. Tonight, all of them sound good. If it wasn’t for the guy at the top of the road, wasn’t for the shite I’m taking at work, I would say yes, one way or another.
I can’t handle either of us thinking I need him there. ‘You’re all right,’ I say. ‘Thanks, but.’
‘No one’ll miss me.’
‘Ahhh. Poor baby.’
‘You sure, yeah?’
‘Positive. Just: if you see this fella again on your way out, give us a text, yeah?’