Death Call by T S O'Rourke Page B

visualising a dark haired Manchester man with an Irish name and Italian looks. There couldn’t be too many O’Brien’s in Manchester. Besides, he had the guy’s address. It was just a matter of getting the Greater Manchester Police to ask a few questions. Grant would’ve preferred to do the questioning himself, if the truth were to be known. Apart from the fact that he hated other people doing his work, he didn’t particularly like enlisting the help of outside police forces – even if they were only a few hundred kilometres up the road. He was a firm believer in the old adage: if you want something done correctly, do it yourself. But time and resources weren’t his to spend on trips to Manchester. DCI Jones would surely put a halt to that little idea.
     
    When Carroll arrived back at the station, Grant was trying to ring the mobile number. It was out of range or switched off. Carroll had a cheesy grin on his face. The sort of grin that Grant was quickly coming to know as a sign of success. He looked like a schoolboy who’d just won a county level cross-country race for his school.
     
    ‘Well, what did you get?’
     
    ‘Evidence. I was given some more evidence.’
     
    ‘Well, are you going to share it with us then?’ Grant asked, turning his eyes to the heavens.
     
    ‘An earring. A meaty and bloody earring. It might even have prints on it. I’m gonna get it down to forensics straight away. I just thought I’d stop by and let you know what I’d found.’
     
    ‘Very kind of you.’
     
    ‘Any luck with the number?’
     
    ‘Yeah, Smith isn’t his real name, he’s called O’Brien. James O’Brien. Probably one of your crew.’
     
    ‘What crew would that be?’
     
    ‘A Paddy.’
     
    Carroll didn’t bother replying. Sometimes it was better to let insults hang in the air, so that the person who threw the insult could mull over their mistake. Instead, he invited Grant to have a drink with him. He knew he’d probably refuse, but it would make him feel even worse, and that in itself, was worth the effort. Surprisingly, Grant agreed to go for a pint, and arranged to meet him a little later in the King’s Head.
     
    Maybe Grant was all right after all, Carroll thought, leaving the squad room.
     

Chapter 8
     
    Carroll made his way back from the forensics office towards Essex Road, where he was due to meet Grant for a pint. On the way, he stopped off to check out a bet that he had made earlier in the day. £10 on the nose of a Dunwoody ride over hurdles. It had come in at seven-to-one. He had taken the earlier odds of five-to-one, and was a little pissed off that the odds had gone further out than he had anticipated. Still, fifty quid was fifty quid. It was a few weeks since he’d had a decent win on the nags, and it was welcome. The only problem was that he would have to wait until the next day to collect it. The shop had closed at half five on the dot and there was no way of getting around it.
     
    Grant hadn’t arrived by the time Carroll got to the King’s Head, so he just ordered a pint and sat at the bar, flicking through a newspaper he found lying on the counter.
     
    The King’s Head was a middle-ground sort of pub. A cross between a spit and sawdust job and a plush lounge bar. It was carpeted and wallpapered, with the walls bearing pictures and prints of Ireland. The landlord was Irish, like in most other London pubs. Irish and proud, if lacking a little taste in the decor stakes. His name was Cormac.
     
    Like Irish barmen and landlords everywhere, Cormac had an opinion on everything. The weather, the government, the state of affairs in Northern Ireland and, especially, the European Union. Cormac hated the whole idea of the EU. You could start talking to Cormac about the weather, but sure as there were pumps with stout and bitter on the bar, he would find his way around to talking about the EU. Dan didn’t care much for politics, and cared even less for European politics. The whole