Of course, of course. I’m sorry for holding you up.”
“ I really can’t understand why Francis is late. He’s usually so punctual. He hates it if someone keeps him waiting.”
“ Well, maybe something came up. I’ll ring him and make another appointment. At his office, perhaps.”
“ That might be for the best.” She stood up slowly, but not so slow that I wouldn’t get the hint. “I’m sorry you’ve had a wasted trip…”
“ Not at all. It was a fine cup of coffee.”
She chuckled a fluttery one out of politeness and my stomach took off, looking for a high building to bound over. I stuffed the brochures into my briefcase. She showed me to the door and shook hands. Her grip was dry and strong.
“ Goodbye, Mr Delaney.”
“ Bob.”
“ Of course.”
She was waiting at the bottom of the drive, hidden from the house by the high shrubbery. Arms folded, shivering in the biting wind, smoking. She had closed the gates and made no effort to open them. I got out of the car.
“ An insurance man.”
If you’re going to sneer, throw in a pout, it takes the sting out it. I slipped her the patter.
“ I sell ah-ssurance – there’s a difference. Insurance suggests a guarantee. I make the inevitable financially soluble.”
“ Bullshit.”
I didn’t take it personally. When you’re seventeen, everything is bullshit, especially the bullshit. I opened the gates, got back in the car. She came and stood beside it, giving it the once-over. I wound down the window. The sneer was toxic.
“ Nice car. I like old cars.”
“ I collect antiques.”
“ You collect antiques selling insurance?”
“ The money isn’t great,” I admitted, flashing her a leer, “but I know a bargain when I see one.”
She tossed her ponytail. The big blue eyes flashed and her face hardened.
“ You’re a cheap bastard,” she spat.
“ Oh do stop flirting,” I told her, grinding the gears. “I’ll get a nosebleed.”
I pulled into a lay-bye half a mile from town, changed the false number-plates. I was getting back into the car when a white soft-top Merc purred by. The Ice Queen was driving, and if her company had turned up they were all midgets or else they were riding in the trunk.
I caught her at the lights on the new bridge, three cars back, staying that way as the traffic snaked through town. She turned into the car park off Francis Street, behind the bank, parked facing out across the river. I slipped into a gap on the far side of the car park.
She sat for twenty minutes, checking the fishing maybe. Then she got out, beeped the alarm, strolled towards the footbridge. I slipped out of the Golf but I didn’t make five yards before she opened the door of a Volvo Estate and sat into the passenger seat. The Volvo’s engine was already running. It took off with a throaty roar.
There was no sign of the Volvo by the time I cut out into the rush hour traffic. I took a gamble, cut east along the river on the far side of the bridge, gunning the Golf south towards the Holy Well, where big houses meant lots of space and not so many people. Across the lake Foynes Hill lurched off towards Leitrim, to the left the fields fell away to the river. The lake beyond was a drop of mercury, silver, static and dull. In town it was murky, the dark clouds jumbling overhead. On Foynes Hill the sun was still shining, weak as orange squash. On Foynes Hill the sun always shone, winter or summer, night or day.
I caught them, the big Volvo neutered on the tortuous bends. Staying well back as they motored past the Holy Well, following the lakeshore and turning into the picnic site at Hughes Point. I turned into the next picnic site, maybe half a mile away through the winding tunnel of pines. I dug Herbie’s digital camera out of the glove compartment, jogged back through the trees.
Dusk was coming down, sleet sifting through the gloom. The picnic site was bounded on three sides by thick pines, on its fourth by the road. I
“ I really can’t understand why Francis is late. He’s usually so punctual. He hates it if someone keeps him waiting.”
“ Well, maybe something came up. I’ll ring him and make another appointment. At his office, perhaps.”
“ That might be for the best.” She stood up slowly, but not so slow that I wouldn’t get the hint. “I’m sorry you’ve had a wasted trip…”
“ Not at all. It was a fine cup of coffee.”
She chuckled a fluttery one out of politeness and my stomach took off, looking for a high building to bound over. I stuffed the brochures into my briefcase. She showed me to the door and shook hands. Her grip was dry and strong.
“ Goodbye, Mr Delaney.”
“ Bob.”
“ Of course.”
She was waiting at the bottom of the drive, hidden from the house by the high shrubbery. Arms folded, shivering in the biting wind, smoking. She had closed the gates and made no effort to open them. I got out of the car.
“ An insurance man.”
If you’re going to sneer, throw in a pout, it takes the sting out it. I slipped her the patter.
“ I sell ah-ssurance – there’s a difference. Insurance suggests a guarantee. I make the inevitable financially soluble.”
“ Bullshit.”
I didn’t take it personally. When you’re seventeen, everything is bullshit, especially the bullshit. I opened the gates, got back in the car. She came and stood beside it, giving it the once-over. I wound down the window. The sneer was toxic.
“ Nice car. I like old cars.”
“ I collect antiques.”
“ You collect antiques selling insurance?”
“ The money isn’t great,” I admitted, flashing her a leer, “but I know a bargain when I see one.”
She tossed her ponytail. The big blue eyes flashed and her face hardened.
“ You’re a cheap bastard,” she spat.
“ Oh do stop flirting,” I told her, grinding the gears. “I’ll get a nosebleed.”
I pulled into a lay-bye half a mile from town, changed the false number-plates. I was getting back into the car when a white soft-top Merc purred by. The Ice Queen was driving, and if her company had turned up they were all midgets or else they were riding in the trunk.
I caught her at the lights on the new bridge, three cars back, staying that way as the traffic snaked through town. She turned into the car park off Francis Street, behind the bank, parked facing out across the river. I slipped into a gap on the far side of the car park.
She sat for twenty minutes, checking the fishing maybe. Then she got out, beeped the alarm, strolled towards the footbridge. I slipped out of the Golf but I didn’t make five yards before she opened the door of a Volvo Estate and sat into the passenger seat. The Volvo’s engine was already running. It took off with a throaty roar.
There was no sign of the Volvo by the time I cut out into the rush hour traffic. I took a gamble, cut east along the river on the far side of the bridge, gunning the Golf south towards the Holy Well, where big houses meant lots of space and not so many people. Across the lake Foynes Hill lurched off towards Leitrim, to the left the fields fell away to the river. The lake beyond was a drop of mercury, silver, static and dull. In town it was murky, the dark clouds jumbling overhead. On Foynes Hill the sun was still shining, weak as orange squash. On Foynes Hill the sun always shone, winter or summer, night or day.
I caught them, the big Volvo neutered on the tortuous bends. Staying well back as they motored past the Holy Well, following the lakeshore and turning into the picnic site at Hughes Point. I turned into the next picnic site, maybe half a mile away through the winding tunnel of pines. I dug Herbie’s digital camera out of the glove compartment, jogged back through the trees.
Dusk was coming down, sleet sifting through the gloom. The picnic site was bounded on three sides by thick pines, on its fourth by the road. I
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