door.
Callaghan used a toe to pull the card away from the door, over to the side. When he bent to pick it up he noticed a trembling in his legs. Maybe the after-effects of suddenly broken sleep, maybe fear. Maybe just the cold.
‘Come on, open up.’ The first voice again.
The card had the Garda insignia on the right, printed in gold, and
An Garda Siochana
along the top, with
Michael Wyndham
printed underneath and below that
Detective Sergeant
.
‘I could get a thousand of these run off in ten minutes. Not good enough.’
‘Maybe I should call the Commissioner, ask him to get out of bed and come down here and hold your hand.’
‘Or you could just fuck off.’
After a few moments, a pale green laminated ID card was pushed under the door. This one had the same name and rank, with a photo of someone Callaghan had never seen. Could be anyone. Unlikely, though, that the kind of people he feared would go to the bother of having two kinds of cards made. People like that, theydidn’t do subtle. People like that, chances were they’d have been blazing away already.
Careful not to make any noise, Callaghan slid the oiled bolt open. He took a deep breath and hefted the hammer, moved sideways a step to make room to swing his arm, then unlocked the door and jerked it quickly open. One of them matched the photo on the ID card, fat-faced, pursed lips. The other was a balding older man. Both of them stood casually, hands in the pockets of their overcoats. It was Fatface who nodded at the hammer. ‘Strange time of night to be doing a bit of DIY.’
The older one said, ‘You going to ask us in?’
The cushion Walter Bennett was using as a pillow had an embroidered map of Gran Canaria on it and when he woke up he could feel the pattern mark on his cheek. He held up his wrist to the faint light from the window.
Nearly half-six
.
Too early and too cold to get up, too late to try to go back to sleep. The sofa was old and sagging and he knew his back would hurt when he stood. He lay there for almost half an hour, twisting this way and that, before the discomfort of the sofa won out against the coldness of the room. Walter shuffled towards the kitchen. The air there was even more chilled, the tiles arctic under his bare feet. He filled the kettle and switched it on, then went back to the living room and hurriedly got dressed. The kettle was one of those rapid-boil ones and when he returned to the kitchen it was making a racket, so he closed the kitchen door to keep the noise from disturbing Sissy. She’d be up soon enough, hassling the kids to get ready for school.
Walter made a cup of tea, then checked his jacket. It was still damp.
Get going soon
.
Another hour or two before he could ring Mackendrick, but pretty soon two moody teenagers would be shuffling around the house and he didn’t want to get under Sissy’s feet. He’d do better to find a breakfast place where there was some warmth and wait there until it was time to ring Mackendrick.
One hell of a sister, Sissy. Gold dust
.
Didn’t take a feather out of her when he turned up last night, shivering and sniffling.
‘I don’t want to be trouble, Sis.’ Standing in the doorway, rain seeping down his face.
‘Get out of that jacket, it’s saturated.’
She was a dozen years younger than Walter, her husband long gone, the two boys entering the awkward stage. She treated Walter like she was the big sister. Since she’d been in her late teens she’d mothered him, though she was ten times the woman that bitch could ever have dreamt of being.
Before she went to bed Sissy ran the iron over his shirt, to get the dampness out, but the jacket was too soaked to do anything except leave it across the back of a chair, near the living-room fireplace. Sissy gave him her dressing gown to wear and he fitted into it comfortably.
Then, the house quiet, the boys in bed, they shared a soft conversation over the kitchen table. This was the second night he’d stayed here and
Callaghan used a toe to pull the card away from the door, over to the side. When he bent to pick it up he noticed a trembling in his legs. Maybe the after-effects of suddenly broken sleep, maybe fear. Maybe just the cold.
‘Come on, open up.’ The first voice again.
The card had the Garda insignia on the right, printed in gold, and
An Garda Siochana
along the top, with
Michael Wyndham
printed underneath and below that
Detective Sergeant
.
‘I could get a thousand of these run off in ten minutes. Not good enough.’
‘Maybe I should call the Commissioner, ask him to get out of bed and come down here and hold your hand.’
‘Or you could just fuck off.’
After a few moments, a pale green laminated ID card was pushed under the door. This one had the same name and rank, with a photo of someone Callaghan had never seen. Could be anyone. Unlikely, though, that the kind of people he feared would go to the bother of having two kinds of cards made. People like that, theydidn’t do subtle. People like that, chances were they’d have been blazing away already.
Careful not to make any noise, Callaghan slid the oiled bolt open. He took a deep breath and hefted the hammer, moved sideways a step to make room to swing his arm, then unlocked the door and jerked it quickly open. One of them matched the photo on the ID card, fat-faced, pursed lips. The other was a balding older man. Both of them stood casually, hands in the pockets of their overcoats. It was Fatface who nodded at the hammer. ‘Strange time of night to be doing a bit of DIY.’
The older one said, ‘You going to ask us in?’
The cushion Walter Bennett was using as a pillow had an embroidered map of Gran Canaria on it and when he woke up he could feel the pattern mark on his cheek. He held up his wrist to the faint light from the window.
Nearly half-six
.
Too early and too cold to get up, too late to try to go back to sleep. The sofa was old and sagging and he knew his back would hurt when he stood. He lay there for almost half an hour, twisting this way and that, before the discomfort of the sofa won out against the coldness of the room. Walter shuffled towards the kitchen. The air there was even more chilled, the tiles arctic under his bare feet. He filled the kettle and switched it on, then went back to the living room and hurriedly got dressed. The kettle was one of those rapid-boil ones and when he returned to the kitchen it was making a racket, so he closed the kitchen door to keep the noise from disturbing Sissy. She’d be up soon enough, hassling the kids to get ready for school.
Walter made a cup of tea, then checked his jacket. It was still damp.
Get going soon
.
Another hour or two before he could ring Mackendrick, but pretty soon two moody teenagers would be shuffling around the house and he didn’t want to get under Sissy’s feet. He’d do better to find a breakfast place where there was some warmth and wait there until it was time to ring Mackendrick.
One hell of a sister, Sissy. Gold dust
.
Didn’t take a feather out of her when he turned up last night, shivering and sniffling.
‘I don’t want to be trouble, Sis.’ Standing in the doorway, rain seeping down his face.
‘Get out of that jacket, it’s saturated.’
She was a dozen years younger than Walter, her husband long gone, the two boys entering the awkward stage. She treated Walter like she was the big sister. Since she’d been in her late teens she’d mothered him, though she was ten times the woman that bitch could ever have dreamt of being.
Before she went to bed Sissy ran the iron over his shirt, to get the dampness out, but the jacket was too soaked to do anything except leave it across the back of a chair, near the living-room fireplace. Sissy gave him her dressing gown to wear and he fitted into it comfortably.
Then, the house quiet, the boys in bed, they shared a soft conversation over the kitchen table. This was the second night he’d stayed here and
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