For the remainder of the day I offered my evidence to the police, sat around while they checked that evidence, and talked with anyone who would listen, pumping them for information. At 11.20 p.m., I rolled into bed, but didn’t sleep. Actually, I did sleep from time to time, because I could still recall a series of vivid nightmares, including the image of Frankie Quinn’s right eye staring back at me from its position on the longhouse floorboards; a bullet had removed the eyeball from its socket and that eyeball sat there, bloodshot but intact.
In the morning, after a shower and breakfast, Faye and I called on Gina McBride.
“Can we come in?” I asked after I’d knocked on the door leading to her attic.
“You got a pizza?” Gina frowned, glancing at Faye.
“I’ll get you one later,” Faye said with a smile.
“Okay.” Gina opened the door and we walked into the attic. “Excuse the mess,” she said waving a sarcastic hand over the garret floor cum building site, “only I haven’t had time to tidy.”
“It’s early morning,” Faye noted, “not lunchtime; do you have a pregnancy craving for pizza?”
Gina eased herself on to the canvas chair. She sighed, “I have a craving for food.”
“Have you eaten today?” Faye asked.
“Not yet. I have a tin of soup lined up for dinner.”
We followed Gina’s gaze to a small cupboard, sitting on the floor, waiting for someone to screw it to the wall. On top of that cupboard, I spied a tin of low cost soup.
“Do you want anything with the pizza?” Faye asked.
“Fries would be nice. And a can of cola.”
While Faye made a mental note of Gina’s request, I asked, “Have you heard about Frankie?”
“Yes,” Gina nodded. She averted her gaze, stared down to the ground. “The police found my contact details in his wallet.”
“How do you feel?”
“Numb when they told me.” Gina looked up. As she answered my question, she glanced at Faye. “I guess I’m okay now.”
“Can we do anything for you?” Faye asked.
“Like what?”
“Do you need anything?”
“Money,” Gina said. “Food.”
“Anything else?”
Gina shrugged and akin to our previous visit, her over-sized tee-shirt drifted off her left shoulder. “What else could I need?” she asked.
“You’ll need a cot for the baby,” Faye said, “some toys, nappies, baby food...”
“Frankie said he’d take care of that.” Gina sniffed and, abruptly, wiped a tear from her left eye. She stared at the wall, lost in her own thoughts.
“Any idea who shot Frankie?” I asked.
Gina shook her head, “No.”
“He was looking to cut a deal, or several deals, with the police.”
She shrugged, “He never mentioned any of that to me.”
“Did he mention any names?”
Gina lapsed into silence. Meanwhile, overhead, a low rumble of thunder offered a prelude to a thunderstorm. That said, the thunder sounded like a long, reluctant groan, not the violent roar that would clear the humidity from the air.
“Frankie mentioned one name,” Gina said. “Morgan...Gawain Morgan. I remember that name because it’s weird.”
“It’s from Sir Gawain and the Green Knight,” I said. “A medieval poem.”
Gina shrugged, “I don’t know nothing about no poems.”
I smiled then asked, “Did Frankie mention anyone else?”
Gina shook her head. “He didn’t talk business with me. Didn’t want to upset me.”
With some effort, she eased herself away from the canvas chair. Then she placed a hand to the small of her back and waddled across the attic, to the sink. She was holding back her tears, I sensed, and suffering from the heat.
After Gina had splashed some water over her face, she turned to me and said, “You found Frankie?”
“I did.”
“What was it like?”
“Not pretty,” I confessed. “They didn’t ask you to formally identify his body?”
“A mate stepped forward to do that,” Gina said.
“Which mate?”
“Stan. Stan Livingstone; do you know him?”
“We met, a few days ago,” I said.
Gina walked over to the attic door. She opened the door then took a long, deep breath, sucking in lungfuls of air. She stared across the rooftops of Cardiff, across the city skyscape, looking west towards the satanic black clouds, and a fork of lightning, which flashed over the coastal towns and villages, including my father’s home town of Porthcawl.
“What are you going to do now?” Faye asked.
With her back to us, Gina replied, “Sit around and wait for the baby, I guess.”
“And after that?”
She shrugged, “I don’t know.”
“Has anyone talked with you?” I asked.
Gina walked out on to the metal staircase. She gazed at the sky then leaned against the safety rail. The rail was rusty, cracked in places, not fit for purpose. Indeed, you could say that about her attic abode.
“Only you and the police have talked with me,” she said.
“Anyone threatened you?” I asked, joining her on the staircase.
“Only my landlord for the rent.”
Another fork of lightning illuminated the sky, though we waited in vain for the delicate sound of thunder. Heavy, ponderous raindrops fell and Gina welcomed them. She tilted her head back, closed her eyes and poked her tongue out. After the raindrops had splashed on to her face, she turned to me and said, “How did the gunman find Frankie?”
“Good question,” I said.
“Someone tipped him off?”
I nodded, “Seems likely.”
“Who?” she asked.
“We don’t know,” I confessed. As usual, there were more questions than answers.
“You won’t forget the pizza, will you?” Gina asked as Faye appeared on the staircase. “And the fries. And the cola.”
“I won’t forget them,” Faye said. “I’ll be back, within the hour.”
The rain continued to fall, with more purpose this time. It soaked through Gina’s tee-shirt, outlined her heavy, pregnant curves, revealed that she was naked underneath.
“You know what,” Gina said, “with Frankie, I thought it would mean less trouble; I thought older guys would be easier to live with. Shows what I know, innit.”