Part 24 (2/2)
”Yeah well, now I'm telling you it's oh-eight-four.”
I pulled on the Puffa and the fleece. Stood there, hands in pockets, sweating in the warm kitchen. The smell of soup made me want to puke. My fingers touched something cold. I put the key of the bicycle lock on the kitchen table.
”Ben's bike is locked to a skip behind the shopping centre. Give it a while, send a taxi down to collect it.”
”f.u.c.k Ben's bike!”
I made for the door.
”If you go,” she warned, ”I won't be here when you get back.”
”If I get back.”
I stopped at the door. She was leaning against the table, arms folded, defiant, struggling to hold back the tears. That made two of us, except I had nothing to lean on.
21.
The snow was coming down hard. Visibility was almost zero, the wipers barely able to cope, and the road was gla.s.sy under two or three inches of soft snow. It was impossible to drive faster than twenty miles an hour without running the very real risk of saving the pros a bullet or two. I pushed the needle up to forty and prayed that Dutchie hadn't skimped on the radials.
I made town just after eight. The storm was blowing itself out, the streets deserted, all sound m.u.f.fled under the coloured lights. Everyone was at home, wrapping presents and knocking back the mulled wine, or in the pub, hoping they wouldn't be chucked out early and already too p.i.s.sed to know what time it was.
I pulled into the car park, crossed the river by the footbridge, slipped in the side door of The Cellars. The place was heaving, the punters three deep at the bar, a bloke with a fiddle giving it large just inside the front door. Dutchie was red-faced behind the ramp, taking three and four orders at a time. I shouted his name. He ignored me twice, but when he finally looked around his jaw dropped. He forced his way through the punters knotted around the hatch, leaving Marie to deal with the mob. He dragged me down to the poolroom, locked the door, gave me both barrels.
”You thick b.a.s.t.a.r.d! Are you looking to get killed? Get us all killed with you?”
”Easy, Dutch. I'm being cute, remember?”
”This is cute? You don't know who you're f.u.c.king with.”
”I'm not f.u.c.king with anyone, Dutch. Everyone's f.u.c.king with me.”
”The East Belfast boys want to f.u.c.k you, you bend over for the soap and wash their d.i.c.ks with it when they're finished. Alright?”
”East Belfast?”
”Your party favour buddies. The ones Conway was trying to screw.”
”They issue a press release or something?”
He stared.
”Jesus, Harry, this is serious. I don't think you realise what you're into here.”
”Hey, Dutch? It was me they tried to blow off the bridge last night. Alright?”
”Alright, alright.” He puffed out his cheeks, exhaled, chewed his gum. ”These boys are hardcore, though.”
”It was them? For certs?”
He nodded.
”I heard different, Dutch. So just cut to the chase. Tell me who.”
”Who what?”
”Who bought you who.”
He stopped chewing.
”What?”
”Come on, Dutch. You sold me out. You know it, I know it, Herbie knows it. Or he will, when he's able to hear again. I found him this morning, f.u.c.ked over like you wouldn't believe. They mashed his face in, Dutch.”
”Who mashed his face in?”
”Santa's little helpers. Who do you think mashed his f.u.c.king face in?”
”Jesus, Harry ”
”Whoever put the hammer on me mashed his face in. Whoever tried to blow me off the bridge. Whoever bought you. That's who mashed his face in.”
”f.u.c.k you.”
”Join the queue, Dutch. And you're last, because you've already blown your load.”
His face was a mask, hard set. I sympathised. He was mad at me for accusing him of selling me out, mad at himself for doing it, and mad at the world because he'd had no choice.
”It's simple, Dutch. The pros thought Herbie had compromising pictures of Tony Sheridan, and Herbie got hammered because they thought he was holding out. What I couldn't figure out was how they found out Herbie developed the pictures, and how they knew where to find him.” I shrugged. ”The answer to the first question is that I pretty much told them who developed the pictures. It was a stupid thing to do, but that's the kind of thing I do best and I'll deal with that later. But it shouldn't have mattered anyway, because even if they knew Herbie developed the shots they shouldn't have known who he was or where to find him. That's where you came in, Dutch. You put them on to Herbie. You had to. n.o.body else could have.”
He denied it with his eyes, pleading.
”You called me on the mobile, Dutch. I gave you the wrong number, like I gave it wrong to Dee and Katie, but you still called me. Who gave you the number?”
His face crumpled and his hands started to shake.
”Harry ”
I looked away.
”All I need to know is who, the who will do it. Don't tell me why, because I'm pretty sure it'll be a good enough reason and good enough is never good enough. Just tell me who.”
He took a deep breath that wobbled on the way down.
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