Crossfire ns-10 Page 11

  She wasn't what I'd been expecting. For starters, I wouldn't have predicted the inch-thick layer of makeup. She was maybe mid-fifties, and didn't show a wedding ring. Maybe she was trying hard to compete with the likes of Kate. A far-too-thin blouse revealed her bra, and the look continued with a mini-skirt and knee-high boots. Her hair was jet black. Her eyelashes were so long they looked like spiders' legs. Either everyone was too scared to tell her, or they disliked her so much they couldn't be bothered.

  'Come in, Nick.'

  Her accent was as Irish as Bertie's Pole, and her arrogance levels twice as high. She glanced at my friend. 'Coffee.'

  I turned to Kate. 'No, I'm fine.' I'd always hated the girl-go-get-coffee thing. I'd had enough of it myself when I was a young squaddy, getting pushed around from pillar to post. I didn't wish it on others, especially if the order came from someone like Moira.

  I sat down where she pointed. 'I'm sorry to have to let you go.' She settled back behind her desk. 'If it was up to me, I'd have kept you on. But the MD took the view he'd paid for close protection and not got it. Did you bring the invoice?'

  'Got nothing else to do, have I?'

  She leant forward, hoping her expression of deeply sincere concern would help us move on from the sacking. 'How's the arm, Nick?'

  'Fine. I had it cleaned up this morning in Harley Street.'

  She took a breath but I beat her to it. 'Don't worry, I'm not billing. Look, I've been calling Dom but still can't get an answer. You heard anything?'

  Her face fell. 'I was hoping you might have. That wife of his – you've met her?'

  'No.'

  There seemed to be no love lost there.

  'Well, she says he's taken a break. You know, clearing his fucking head or something. She won't say where he is, when he's coming back.' She raised her hands in frustration. 'I'm trying to run a news organization here.'

  'Has he done this before?'

  They dropped back on to the table. 'No – but, then, he hasn't had a cameraman killed before either. That bloody wife of his, she knows where he is.'

  'Did he say anything about filming in the city before we left?'

  'He's my war correspondent. He doesn't do new one-way systems. That was just the fucking cameraman trying to get some expenses out of me. Old habits die hard.'

  She sat back, her hands stretched out on the desk. The spiders' legs flashed up and down. 'Perhaps we could arrange some extra work? Here in the studio? We've got a great story, all this great footage, but no one to follow it up. We could get massive exposure on this. All the outlets have been clamouring.'

  She looked at my arm. 'You're a film star now, Nick. What about you giving an interview, just talking to camera, nothing hard, telling us what happened? You could talk us through it. They're hungry out there, Nick. People want to know the pain you've gone through. It would be a lasting tribute to Dom's cameraman.'

  Moira couldn't have pulled off concerned if there'd been a gun to her head.

  I stood up and so did she. She was waspish. 'You're wasting an opportunity to tell the world what happened. If you don't do it, there are others who will.'

  I had to put her right there and then, before she barged her way into their lives and fucked them up even more. 'Do not go near Pete's family. They've had enough shit already. If you do I'll go to the BBC – in fact, any fucker – and do the interview with them.'

  Her face went red with anger, which was quite an achievement, given the thickness of her makeup. 'Then your invoice will take a fucking long time coming through, that's all I can say.'

  I walked out.

  Kate had been hovering outside. She followed me to the lift. As the doors closed, she jumped in.

  'Mr Stone, I knew she wouldn't pay you if you said no, so here… I prepared.' Out of her bag came a wad of euros and a receipt for me to sign.

  'You'll burn in hell for this, Kate. Thank you.'

  She smiled, then got embarrassed and looked down. 'She's already asked Peter's family.'

  'What did they say?'

  'They said no. I think that is good thing.'

  'So do I, Kate. So do I.'

  We shook hands by the steel waterfall and I headed for the door.

  'There is one more thing, Mr Stone.'

  I turned.

  'She really didn't believe Peter's invoice. But he had been filming in St Stephen's Green. You wouldn't believe how tight she is. She wouldn't reimburse Dom for his donation to the refuge either.'

  'The one in their documentary?'

  She nodded. 'It's very close to his heart.'

  33

  'Herbert Park in Ballsbridge.'

  The cab edged out into traffic.

  'One of the embassies, sir?'

  'Nah, just an old mate who's moved there. Smart area, is it?'

  He chuckled. 'On the Dublin Monopoly board, the roads in Ballsbridge are the fockin' big bucks squares.' He threw a newspaper to me. 'Here, have a read of that. We're going to be stuck in the rush-hour for a while.'

  He wasn't wrong. We were surrounded by commuters with their heads down and telephones to their ears as they made their way home.

  The street-lights glowed on the paper through the rain-stained windows. I opened it up on a big spread about extraordinary rendition. A cleaning woman had boarded a supposedly empty American plane to find a prisoner handcuffed, hooded and wearing an adult nappy. The Irish government were hugely embarrassed: they'd given public assurances that war-on-terror 'rendered' prisoners didn't come anywhere near the place on their way to Guantanamo Bay or the CIA's secret prisons in Afghanistan, Pakistan or wherever their interrogators had been able to set up shop. The piece said: The practice has grown sharply since the 9/11 terrorist attacks, and now includes a form in which suspects are illegally arrested, sometimes straight off the street, and delivered to a third-party state. There, the suspects are tortured by many means, including 'waterboarding'…

  We used to do it out of this very city, only it wasn't called rendition in those days. They were just lifted. It got me wondering if Special Branch had ever used waterboarding. We never hung around at the castle long enough to see what went on. Better not to know, and have a clean pair of hands.

  I checked the property pages but there was nothing for sale in the whole suburb of Ballsbridge, let alone Herbert Park.

  'What do the houses go for round here?'

  'Put it this way, last time you were here you could have picked up one of these little beauties for fifty thousand punts. Last one I saw advertised went for well over seven million euros. We're nearly there. Which end?'

  I folded the newspaper. 'Drop us off here, mate. I'm going to walk down and surprise them.'

  I paid him thirty euros and walked along Herbert Park in the rain, looking for number eighty-eight. Actually, it wasn't really rain, not even drizzle, more a mist that soaked everything through. I pulled up the collar of my bomber, hooked my bag over my shoulder and started walking.

  If Pete had done good, Dom had hit the jackpot. These were substantial four-storey red-brick houses set back from the road, with large rectangular windows, designed for the grand and merchant classes during old Dublin's previous heyday. Raised stone staircases led one floor up to very solid and highly glossed front doors. The ground floor was reserved for the servants. Either Dom had married into money or the Polish celeb mags paid much more than I'd imagined for their double-page spreads. Or the Yes Man hadn't been talking bollocks.

  Lights were on in several of the houses, and curtains were open to display the gilded furniture and big chandeliers to best effect.

  I was still trying to work out what to say to Siobhan. Did she know Dom was an asset? I wasn't sure how that worked with spouses. I'd never been put to the test.

  I walked past 6 Series BMWs and shiny 4x4s.

  For all I knew, Dom could be sitting at home with his feet up watching telly, and Siobhan was putting the kettle on to make him a brew.

  I neared number eighty-eight. The hal
l light shone through a glass panel over a wide, shiny wooden door. I couldn't see any movement through the front windows or upstairs. There were no milk bottles on the front step, empty or full, but that meant nothing nowadays. There was no condensation on the windows, but I wouldn't expect it. This was no minging old council house with poor heating and no ventilation.

  I carried on past. Keeping a mental count of the houses, I reached the end of the street. The last time I'd walked past so many brand-new cars I'd been in a Kuwaiti showroom. This place was awash with money. I picked up a flyer from the pavement advertising a luxurious spa with a helipad on the roof in case you needed some emergency work on your cuticles.

  I turned left at the end of the terrace and worked my way round to the back of the houses. There was a small service road about four metres wide that the gardens on each side backed on to. I walked past all the wheelie-bins and counted up to sixteen. Each property had a six-foot brick wall and either an old wooden gate or a fancy wrought-iron one. Mature trees towered over the gardens.

  The lights were on at the back of eighty-eight on the first floor.

  There was movement in what looked like the kitchen, but the blinds were half down. I couldn't ID the shadow, but it seemed too small to be Dom.

  I turned back and it wasn't long before I was knocking with the heavy iron lion's head on the front door.

  'Who is it?'

  The voice was female and Irish.

  'My name's Nick. I'm a friend of Dom's. I was with him last week in Basra.'

  34

  Siobhan was dressed in jeans, trainers and a black sweatshirt. Her big brown eyes were red-rimmed, and her short, straight hair needed a brush. She looked like she hadn't slept in days, but she was still beautiful. She must have been at least ten years younger than her husband.

  'I know who you are.' She smiled weakly. 'You'll have to forgive me. I've been in bed for two days. It's a flu thing.'

  I smiled back. 'Is Dom home?'

  'I wish.' She touched my arm gently. 'How are you?'

  'A few stitches, no bones broken.'

  'He called me, and then I saw it on the news.' She bit her lip. 'I feel so bad about Pete. When is the funeral, do you know?'

  I shook my head.

  'His poor family…' Her voice was educated and soft, full of compassion.

  I nodded slowly. 'I've been calling him for days and just get his voicemail. It's not like him. I'm worried maybe he's not picking up because he blames me. I feel responsible. I was supposed to be the one protecting them. I want to find him, clear the air.'

  She started to look about her.

  'Sorry for just turning up on the doorstep – your number's ex-directory but he gave me the address back in Basra. So…'

  'Did you go to the studio? Did they tell you to come here?'

  'No. Listen, Siobhan…' I hesitated. 'OK – I'll level with you. There's something about Pete's death that doesn't add up. I really need to talk to-'

  She stepped aside. 'Please come in.'

  I crossed the threshold and wondered if I should be taking my shoes off altogether instead of just wiping them like a madman to scrape off the wet grime. The highly polished black-and-white chequered tiles were clean enough to do surgery on.

  I put down my Bergen. A crystal chandelier hung from the high ceiling. Landscape paintings gazed down at us from every direction. I caught a faint whiff of cigarette smoke.

  'Nice place.'

  'Thanks.' She was already walking down the hall. 'What can I offer you? Coffee, tea?'

  We passed two antique half-tables. Glass trays held keys and change.

  'Coffee would be great.'

  We passed the open door to a front room or reception room, or whatever they called it in a house this size. I saw no framed prints on the walls of Dom being heroic with a microphone, just lots more landscapes. The mountains were too big to be Irish. Maybe they were Polish, or Transylvanian.

  We finally arrived in the kitchen.

  'After Pete got killed Dom just left me a message and did a runner. He OK? I was worried about him.'

  It was a large knock-through that took up the whole of the rear of the building. In the far left corner, the steel banister of a spiral staircase disappeared into a round hole in the floor.

  'Yes, he's fine, still out there. Moira got all excited about another story and Dom said he'd stay on and research it. He needed something to throw himself into, get his mind off things – you know Dom…'

  There couldn't have been a bigger contrast with the antique stuff in the hall. We were in a world of stainless steel and glass, limed oak and spotlights. Four gas rings seemed to float in a polished granite island in the middle of the room. Nearby were a BlackBerry and a pack of Marlboro Lights, a lighter and the day's unopened mail. A dead, half-smoked cigarette balanced precariously on a mountain of ash and butts in a nearby ashtray. And, by the look of it, nicotine wasn't the only medicine Siobhan was taking for her flu. A bottle of white wine stood next to a glass. Both were half empty.

  She followed my gaze. 'I'm sorry, would you prefer something stronger?'

  'Thanks, but no.' I tapped my arm. 'Antibiotics…'

  She selected a coloured capsule from a tin and dropped it into a sleek, cube-shaped coffee machine and closed a lever. They really did live in a Sunday supplement. One where the necks of two empty wine bottles stuck out of the recycle bin.

  I didn't buy into the flu thing.

  She'd been crying.

  Mourning Pete? Possibly. But had they ever met? Pete said he'd never been to the house.

  'Do you know how I can get hold of him? Has he got another number? I'd really like to talk to him.'

  The machine spat a thin stream of coffee into a small cup.

  'Me too.'

  They were the first words she'd said that I really believed.

  Her eyes stayed on the coffee machine. 'It's nothing unusual for him to be out of reach for weeks sometimes, while he's up in the mountains or wherever. It hasn't been a week yet. Work, it's just his way of dealing with things.' She fiddled about in a tin for another capsule. 'I think I'll join you.'

  'So he's in the mountains? Still in Iraq?'

  She shoved another capsule into the machine. 'I think he left some time yesterday. Sorry, my head's all over the place. Sugar?'

  I shook my head. She placed stuff on a tray and got ready to move. 'Let's go in the front room.'

  I followed her through double doors that had been punched through the dividing wall. She offered me a blue velvet two-seater on one side of the low coffee-table and sat down opposite.

  The fireplace to my left was tiled. The black grate was far too shiny ever to have been used. The mantelpiece was covered with all the usual pictures of two people's lives together, but instead of picnics on the beach or family gatherings, they featured sailing boats or horses. There were also several of the same boy, from about ten to his teens.

  'That Finbar? He's twenty now, isn't he?' There hadn't been much in the file about the boy either, only his name and DOB.

  She stared at the row of grinning faces. 'Twenty-one this August.'

  'He's the spitting image of you.' I kept my eyes on the frames. 'He still living here, or has he legged it?'

  She turned back to her coffee. 'He's gone now.'

  'This is the time you get to see more of Dom, eh?'

  She gave another weak smile, but concentrated on her cup. The silence quickly became uncomfortable.

  'He at uni?'

  'He works. He's in the financial sector.' There was no gush of pride from a beaming mother.

  'Here in Dublin?'

  She put down her cup and gave a couple of short sharp nods instead of an answer. 'Excuse me – my cigarettes.' She waved in the general direction of the kitchen. 'It's a filthy habit, do you mind?'

  I stood up with her, all smiles. 'Course not. I won't send you to smoke on the street.'

  I sat down again and sipped the brew. She returned in a cloud of smoke. H
er hand shook slightly as she sucked at her cigarette. She hadn't brought the packet and the lighter with her. She wanted me out.

  I raised my cup. 'Thanks for the coffee, Siobhan. Sorry again to barge in on you. Can I leave my mobile number in case you need to get in touch?'

  She went over to a small table covered with style magazines. She pulled open a drawer stuffed with pens, pencils, electricity bills, all the normal shit. Nestling among it all was a grey mobile phone.

  I stood up. 'Can I use your loo before I head off?'

  She did her general wave once more. 'Through the kitchen, down the stairs. First on the right.'

  I left as she pulled out a pen and something to write on.

  35

  Once in the toilet the first thing I checked was the window. It was a wooden sash, as I'd have expected in one of these houses, but this one was new. The frosted glass was double-glazed, with a decorative brass latch in the centre of the frame. A hole each side indicated an internal deadlock operated by a star key. It didn't worry me. Keys tend to be left in toilets so no one gets embarrassed after a big hot curry. I dug about in the unit under the sink cabinet and found what I was looking for, right next to the Toilet Duck.

  I pressed the flush, and unwound both deadlocks while it was noisy. I left the latch closed, so everything looked normal.

  I replaced the key in the cabinet, and washed my hands with plenty of scented liquid soap. I wanted her to know I'd gone where I'd said I would.

  As I came out again, a motion detector in the hallway gave me a flicker of blue LED. So did another at the top of the stairs.

  The door opposite opened easily. It was a teenager's room. There were posters on the wall but no bedding, just a folded duvet on the mattress.

  I took a step inside. Even if Finbar had moved out, there might be something that would give me a clue as to where he was now. I didn't care what the Yes Man had said about the boy not being important. If I found him, I might find Dom. That was why the Yes Man hadn't got a river view.