Dark Circles by Derek Fee Page A

dilated black pupils. He was surprised at the strength of the hold that Rice had on his throat. He was about the same height and weight as Rice but he wasn’t about to fight back. ‘We know who the guy is.’ His voice was a squeak.
    Rice released his grip on Boyle’s throat. ‘If you want something done, you have to do it yourself. I can trust no one. What’s the fucker’s name, and where do I find him?’
    ‘Why don’t you let me handle this Sammy?’ Boyle’s voice was reassuring. ‘We’re in the clear so far. Malone and Grant are out of the way, and no one is the wiser.’
    ‘Bloody bitch,’ Rice said returning to the table where another line of cocaine was waiting to be snorted.
    ‘What?’ Boyle asked. This was the new Sammy Rice. You never knew where Sammy’s brain was these days.
    Rice rolled up a £50 note. ‘Bloody bitch of a wife, she’s down in Spain shagging some no-talent golf pro. The boys in Malaga are laughing up their arses at me. As soon as we clear up the mess here, I’m going to go down there and give both of them concrete boots.’ He smiled then bent and snorted the remaining line of coke.
    Boyle watched as the coke hit Rice’s brain. His eyes followed Rice as he moved around the room. He wondered how much longer this could go on before their operation would be affected. Neither he nor many of the men in the organisation wanted to work for a drugged-up crazy.
    Rice whirled around. ‘What’s his name and where do I find him?’
    Boyle was confused. He wondered were they talking about the accountant or the golf pro. Since he had never been to Spain, he assumed it was the accountant. ‘His name is Mark O’Reilly and he works for Watson Accountants in Windsor House in Bedford Street.’
    ‘Where does he live?’
    ‘Apartment on the fifth floor of the Tannery Building in Castle Street.’
    Rice smiled. ‘Perfect. I have something in mind for Mister O’Reilly. Is he a Taig?’
    ‘I don’t know,’ Boyle said. ‘We’ll have the lads over from Glasgow again?’
    ‘No need. I’ll take care of this myself.’ Rice pointed at the figure of Big George sitting stoically in the chair. ‘Myself and George’ll handle it.’ He walked over to the table and cut another line of coke.
     
     
    Police Constable Jimmy Corr and his partner Rebecca Higgins were about to go out on patrol when Moira intercepted them. ‘You’re going to be a little late this afternoon,’ she said showing her warrant card.
    Corr raised his eyes to heaven. He was geared up for the evening, and he obviously didn’t want whatever it was Moira was offering. He made a big deal of examining her warrant card. ‘Big time detective, eh! Call my sergeant and he’ll arrange an interview.’
    ‘Detective Sergeant,’ Moira said sharply as she thrust her warrant card into Corr’s face. She looked at Higgins and saw a pained look on her face. Nobody liked being paired up with an arsehole.
    ‘What?’ Corr said pulling himself up to his full height of six feet two.
    Better men than Corr had tried to intimidate Moira. He was the old-school RUC man, big and broad and bluff. His face was craggy and what people called ‘lived in’, while the purple streaks on his nose indicated the sign of a little too much whiskey having been imbibed. She could imagine him yearning for the old days when he could bash a Catholic’s head in with impunity. Thankfully, those days were gone. Higgins was maybe fifteen years his junior. She was wearing a bulky stab vest, but Moira could see that beneath it she had an athletic body. She was not exactly pretty, her chin was a little too square and manly, and her blonde hair was tied back in a ponytail. ‘You address me as Sergeant, and if I want to interview you now, I’ll interview you now. I’ve arranged with your Sergeant for the soft interview room. You can lead the way.’  She saw Higgins smile.
    ‘What’s the problem?’ Corr asked when they had installed themselves in the easy