Maxi was waiting at the bottom of the stairs. He did not seem unduly surprised to see me stagger into the vestibule supporting a blood-spattered and battered Derek Beattie. He came forward to help, and together we walked Derek along towards our car. As we passed the fenced-off patch of overgrown grass outside the church, I saw that the guy who had invited Maxi to play snooker was lying in there, on his back, with a hideous red weal across his face, and out for the count.
Maxi waited until we’d laid Derek across the back seat, then climbed into the front, before he looked at me and raised an eyebrow.
‘Go well?’
‘As can be expected. You?’
‘We had a disagreement. It was resolved.’
I put my hand to my chest. My heart was thumping like billy-o.
‘Thank fuck that’s over,’ I said. ‘They want twenty-four hours to—’
Maxi held up his hand. ‘I don’t want to know. I’ve done what I can. The rest is up to you.’
‘Okay. I appreciate that.’
He started the engine, indicated and pulled out. I glanced across at the church. Some of the Miller boys were trying to hoist their comrade out and over the fence, but without much success. It was like watching one of those crane games in an amusement arcade, endlessly frustrating but also ultimately disappointing when you realise that what you’ve won is completely worthless.
‘I can drop him at the RVH,’ said Maxi, nodding back, ‘and you anywhere you want within reason. But I have to get to my party.’
‘Wouldn’t be the same without you,’ I said.
We drove for a little bit in what would have been silence but for the whimpers from the back seat. Derek Beattie had lost half his teeth, his nose was broken, his fingers snapped back. But he was alive. I shuddered to think what state Paddy Barr must have been in before he was finally tossed into the Lagan.
And I was responsible for both of them. I had sent the photo of Paddy outside Jean Murray’s burning home to DC Hood. Hood had shown it to his boss, DI Springer. Springer was either in the employ of the Miller brothers, or he had an interesting hobby.
‘I know you don’t want to hear this,’ I said.
‘Don’t . . .’
‘But you need to . . .’
‘Just zip it.’
‘. . . know what I saw in there.’
‘I’m retired in about fifteen minutes.’
‘It wasn’t the Millers . . .’
‘I’m not listening . . .’
‘. . . who did this to him.’
He put one hand up to the closest ear and began to sing: ‘Lalalalalalalalal . . .’
‘They keep their hands clean . . . they employ someone else . . .’
‘Lalalalalalalalala . . .’
‘Someone to do their torturing, someone you know . . .’
‘Lalalalalalalalala . . .’
‘Detective Inspector Springer.’
Maxi threw the steering wheel to one side, forcing the car up and over the nearside kerb with a grind and a bump. The vehicle behind gave him a blast of the horn. He twisted round and gave it the fingers as it passed. Then he slapped the steering wheel.
‘Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it and God damn fuck it!’ He turned to me.
‘No,’ he said. ‘No, no, no, no, no and fucking no.’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘No, I am absolutely not getting involved in this.’
‘Springer’s as dirty as they come.’
‘I am out.’
‘I think he murdered a guy called Paddy Barr, and he’s done Derek here and God knows what else or who else for them.’
‘I don’t care.’
‘Yes you do.’
‘I tell you I—’
‘You didn’t do thirty years on the front line because you didn’t care.’
He waved a finger in my face. ‘Don’t you dare fucking give me that. I served my time. I did what was right. I can’t be accountable for everything. There’s always been fucking . . . fucking . . .’
‘Collusion.’
‘Whatever you want to call it, it was there when I joined, it’ll be there long after I’m gone. You do your best, that’s all you can do. And I’ve done it, and I’m moving on. Okay? All right?’
‘Springer is killing people.’
‘That’s not my problem.’
‘For the next ten minutes it is.’
‘Then we’ll wait here for the next ten minutes.’
He stared resolutely ahead.
Derek moaned. I motioned back to him. ‘What about . . .?’
‘He’ll keep.’
So we sat there until Maxi McDowell was no longer a cop.
He switched the radio on and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel along to some Radio Ulster country and western. The guy was singing about the rolling prairies and buffalo. He was from a time before the music got Shania Twained.
Maxi’s shoulders were hunched up, his back ramrod straight. He glanced across. ‘This cottage in Cushendall,’ he said. ‘I pretend to the wife that it’s not my thing, but it really is. It’s in the shadow of Lurigethan Mountain, just right at the meeting point of three of the Glens of Antrim. When you look out the window, the Mull of Kintyre is there, about fifteen miles away. You know something, Dan? You breathe in the air, it’s like heaven. The River Dall flows just past our place; that’s where I’m going to do my fishing. I’m just going to stand there, in the water, cast my line, catch my fish, and let all of this wash off me, that’s all I want to do. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Enough said, then.’
He glanced at his watch. He smiled. His shoulders settled down, the rigidity went out of his back. He started the engine again.
They took one look at Derek Beattie in Casualty and whisked him away to somewhere more serious. I gave the nurse behind the counter what he had in his wallet by way of ID, and said that was all I knew about him. I’d found him wandering on the Falls. She looked at me and said, ‘I’ll have to phone the police. Why don’t you take a seat over there?’
We both knew I wasn’t going to stay. She lifted the phone, and I lingered by the vending machine. When she glanced away, I slipped out.
I had already waved Maxi away. He was right, he’d done enough. It wasn’t his problem. He was entitled to his quiet retirement. I quite fancied it myself, with the exception of the fishing. And the fresh air, for that matter.
I stepped into a taxi and told the driver to take me back to my apartment. I was sore, exhausted, stressed. There was not one molecule of me that felt good about what had happened with the Millers even if, on the surface, it seemed to have gone well. They knew they weren’t in a great position, and sacrificing their pursuit of Bobby for continued freedom to extort money and supply drugs, would not be much of a sacrifice. But they were still murderous gangsters used to getting their own way. When they clicked their fingers, terrible things happened.
Before I approached my apartment, I watched it for a while. When there did not appear to be any suspicious activity around it, I cautiously entered. When I got in, I found that I couldn’t sit still.
I paced.
I phoned Trish and told her nothing of any substance; it was just good to hear her voice. It was not good enough for her just to hear mine. She pressed me for more details, and I gave her a few, but mostly I was evasive in a way that she did not guess I was being evasive. I wanted to ask about her car, and if the cash and drugs were safe, but there was no way to do it without arousing her suspicions. She was still in work. She had to go.
I paced some more.
I phoned Butcher Joe and asked how Bobby was getting on, and he said fine, he had the makings of a fine master butcher. I asked if there was some kind of butchers’ college he could apply for, and Joe said he was already attending one.
I paced right out of the apartment and down the stairs and round the corner and pulled up a stool in the Bob Shaw. Lenny was working. She got me a drink but stayed mostly at the end of the bar. When she did come up and I tried to say something, she said, ‘I’m married.’
I nodded, and asked for some nuts.
A woman came in I vaguely remembered from my time on the Telegraph. She was with two other reporters of a more recent generation. I bought her a drink. The other two kept to themselves and we got close. When I asked a different barman for drinks, Lenny brought them over and slapped them down hard enough to spill.
‘Sorry,’ she said, without conviction.
My companion said, ‘Charming.’
‘Can’t get the staff these days,’ I said, loud enough.
The woman left, I sat on for a while. Lenny lurked in the kitchen. I finished my pint and stepped outside. I took a breath of fresh air and started walking. I kept looking over my shoulder. When I got home, I investigated the notion of a mid-afternoon doze, and found it pleasing. It took me a while to realise that the bell-like sound I was hearing in my dream was in fact a bell sound.
Lacking a spyhole, I moved to one side of the door and said, ‘Who is it?’
‘Me.’
I recognised Lenny’s voice.
‘Are you being held out there against your will?’
She said, ‘Yes, I want to come in.’
‘I mean, are you alone?’
‘Of course.’
There was no way of knowing. I opened the door.
‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘he’s having me watched.’
‘And now?’
‘I went into the beauty parlour on the corner, and out the back.’
‘Devious,’ I said.