Death in Dublin - Peter McGarr 16 by Bartholomew Gill Page A

morning, noon, and night.”
    Turning her back to her customers, she lowered her voice. “But Raymond was different. He was better at fi?rst, then better than better, if you catch me drift. More . . . alive, smiling, happy”—her sad old eyes scanned McGarr’s face—“too feckin’ happy.
    “Chattin’ everybody up a mile a minute. Then he was, like, gone. Not there with you. You could say, ‘Raymond, you just won the Sweeps.’ He’d give you his contented cow look and say, ‘That’s gas, Lizzie. Gas.’
    “Pink feckin’ substantial cloud, says I to meself. Without a penny in it for me, more’s the pity.” Again she paused, as though to assess McGarr’s reaction.
    “Tell me now—why would anybody want to kill Raymond Sloane? So you nick the Book of Kells and them other two yokes. So you’re all dressed up in black and balaclavas, and you’ve disguised your feckin’ voices and all. Why off a feckin’ security guard like Raymond, who’d probably messed his britches the m o ment he sussed out what was happening?
    “Because”—she glanced down at McGarr’s drink, which was untouched—“because Raymond must have been in on it.
    “Because the moment they got the goods in their hands, it was nightie-night, Raymond. No probable touts allowed, no druggie informers. They clapped him in the box and sucked out the air.”
    Although bemused by her detailed knowledge of the crime, McGarr waited. She had more to tell him.
    A cigarette came out of the pocket of her cardigan jumper, then a lighter. Her wrinkled lips jetted smoke at the teley. Then, with the palm of her hand, she vi g orously worked the crook of gray fl?esh that was her nose.
    “Itchy. Bad air in here. The worst. But”—she drew on the cigarette—“I suppose it’s a condition of life, as I’ve known it.
    “Take them chancers behind me.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “Years ago, a good half of them were beggin’ me to throw a leg over their lousy hides, don’t you know. Eyein’ me, buyin’ me little thises and thats, reachin’ for me hip when I passed.
    “Says I to meself, says I, Whatever would I want with anybody who comes in here? All they see in me is this bar, sorry as it is. The till. And me, an only child with an aged father. I’d only get the best of a bad lot.
    “No, I wanted a gent who would take me out of this motley shite. Somebody like the bloody tall man who came into the lounge over there with a lady maybe a fortnight ago to speak to Raymond.” She jabbed the cigarette at a low battered door, which was closed.
    “It’s hardly used. There’s a separate entrance. A buzzer goes off when the other door gets opened from the street, is how I knew they was in there.”
    “You get a look at them?” McGarr touched the drink to his lips.
    “Only when the door opened and closed. Raymond had been in here at least an hour before, nervous like.”
    “Playin’ with himself, as ever,” put in one of the men at the bar. “Sloane was a feckin’ wanker, if there ever was one.”
    “You too,” she warned through the laughter. “You can go as well.”
    “Nervous, how?”
    “Pacin’, looking at his wristwatch. Must have smoked a packet of fags.”
    “Describe the gent.” McGarr reached for his drink. “What did he look like?”
    “I only got a look at him when the door opened and closed, don’t you know. But I’d say he was a tall man. Early forties. Soap star looks. Cashmere top coat, silk scarf.
    “When Raymond come out saying he needed a gin martini and a glass of white wine, says I, ‘The feck would I be doing with vermouth?’ Says he, ‘Just fi?ll it up with gin. Fecker’s got the bag on, he won’t notice.’ Fortunately, I found the bottle of white wine I made the mistake of buying years ago. For the lady.”
    “What did she look like?”
    “Had her back to the door, but upmarket altogether. Tasteful coat, good shoes. Legs crossed to make a show of them. It’s all I saw of her.”
    “Hear