Eightball Boogie (7 page)

“
I’m sure we don’t have a divorce clause, Mr Delaney.” Twisting her wedding ring absent-mindedly, the light snagging in the rocks and screaming for mercy. “Francis and I were married long before that kind of thing became necessary. As you know very well.”

She smiled, coy. My stomach sprinted across the hurdles and took a flyer at the pole vault.

“
I can’t imagine why Mr Conway would even contemplate divorce.” If Helen Conway was fishing she could count on reeling me in. “It’s just a standard question we ask at First Trust as part of our comprehensive customer package.”

Her eyebrows flickered under a brittle frown.

“
You mean First Option.”

I grinned, tried to look embarrassed.

“
First Option, of course. I’m not that long with the company…”

“
Yes, well, I’m sure I’m just wasting your time, Mr Delaney. Francis handles our finances and you really should be talking to him.” She checked her watch, a tiny gold number. “And I don’t want to be rude, but I am expecting some company…”

“
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 could make out two picnic tables, an overflowing rubbish bin and the Volvo parked on the other side of the clearing, and that was about as idyllic as I can ever handle. Three paths cut through the trees, curving up and away towards the Point, which faced north across the lake towards the town.

I skulked back in the trees, took a couple of shots of the car, considered wandering up one of the paths, just to see if my luck would hold. I’d decided not to push it when I heard footsteps crunching on the gravel path behind me, the Ice Queen, wearing a mauve silk scarf to keep her hair in place. The man was wearing a heavy tweed overcoat and olive-green Wellington boots, holding a golf umbrella in front of them to deflect the sleet. I hunkered down behind a massive pine, aimed the camera along the path, getting a couple of shots off.

They passed by about twenty yards away, the breeze carrying their conversation towards the road. I made out a pair of red jowls, a skiff of grey hair under the flat cap. He could have been anyone, including the Pope or a drag queen who didn’t get the joke.

They made straight across the picnic area for the Volvo. Its lights arced around, illuminating the pine I was hiding behind. Then it was gone. I sprinted back through the pines to the Golf, only tripping face-first into trees a couple of times, but even so there was no sign of the Volvo or the soft-top Merc when I finally made it back to the car park behind the bank.

It was a bust, the latest in the endless list of thrilling coups perpetrated by Harry J. Rigby, Research Consultant.

7

I strolled across the footbridge, crossed the street to the office, checked the answering machine. The metallic voice whined: “You have reached the offices of First Option Life Assurance. Our representatives are currently unavailable but we do value your call. If you leave your name, number and the nature of your request, one of our representatives will contact you as soon as possible. Thank for you calling. Please speak after the tone. Goodbye.”

Beeep.

“
Harry? It’s Dutch. Give us a buzz. Cheers.”

Beeep.

Dutchie didn’t like answering machines, said they reminded him of when he was a kid, making his Holy Communion, all that praying and half-afraid no one was getting the message. I changed the tape, rang Denise to tell her about Ben’s bike – with Gonzo back in town I was staying close to them both – but there was no answer. I left a message of my own, short and sweet, short because I knew Denise wouldn’t listen to it all and sweet because I didn’t know any other way to be. Then I closed up shop for the day, sidled back across the street to The Cellars.

I claimed a stool at the bar, beside the arch, where the pub sloped down to a bottleneck. Through the arch was a snug. Beyond, a narrow passageway led outside to the toilets. Opposite the toilet door was another door, a door Dutchie kept locked because Dutchie was particular about who played his pool table.

The bar itself was rough oak, two foot thick, broad. It faced four booths, in which all the tables had beer mats stuffed under their legs. The benches were upholstered in worn red velvet. The carpet was pocked with tiny scorch marks. The low ceiling was tuberculosis brown.

Dutchie ambled down the bar, dressed all in black, as always. Black denim shirt, black moleskin trousers, black motorcycle boots that buckled to the side and came with steel toecaps as an optional extra. The way he was built, Dutchie was never going to make a good accountant and his head was shaved to the skull.

“
Alright?” he drawled.

“
Dutch.”

“
What’ll it be?”

“
Cappuccino.”

“
Fucks sakes.”

Dutchie ran a clean shop. That meant no drugs, no knackers and no ties. The pub was quiet when you needed it to be and busy enough from its regular trade for Dutchie not to have to entertain undesirables, which in Dutchie’s book meant anyone who asked for mineral water, Cappuccinos or Irish coffees. I ignored his dispirited search among the sachets stuffed under the bar, nodding at Baluba Joe, sitting at far end of the bar, the pint in front of him standing sentry over a half one, the flying helmet placed to one side. Over his head, pinned to the bar, was the yellowing newspaper cutting that announced Joe and his mates were to be awarded their medals for not dying in the Congo.

“
Alright Joe?”

“
Fuggoff.”

“
Sound.”

Dutchie came back with the Cappuccino. He sat up on the dishwasher behind the bar, sipping from a bottle of orange juice. I nodded at Joe.

“
Thought he was inside?”

“
He went in Saturday.” Joe checked himself in every Christmas for the week that was in it. “Came back out today, said he didn’t want to peak too soon.”

“
Fair enough. So what’s up?”

“
Nothing much. Just wondering if you and Dee are on for a meal out tomorrow night. Michelle is booking a Chinkers.”

“
One step at a time, Dutch.”

“
It being Christmas and all…”

I filled him in on the morning’s events.

“
So she threw you out. How many times is that?”

“
Seven.”

“
Seven?”

“
I only count the times she’s sober.”

“
Smart.”

He chugged some orange juice. I changed the subject.

“
Know a Frank Conway?”

He choked on the juice, wiped a dribble from his chin with the back of his hand. Then he hopped down from the bar, dragged a tray of steaming glasses out of the dishwasher. He left them over the sink to drain dry, wiped his hands on a cloth.

“
Conway the auctioneer? Slimy bastard, drives a big dick substitute. Runs a sideline importing second-hand cars across the border. Thinks his wife is too good for him. She thinks she’s too good for everyone else.”

“
Someone has to be. Anything else?”

“
Why, what’s up?”

I sketched the outline of Frank Conway’s visit.

“
So why are you digging on him? Shouldn’t you be digging on her?”

“
I am.” I told him about my trip to Hughes Point. His mouth turned down at the corners.

“
So who’s the bloke?”

“
Fuck knows.”

“
Dirty bitch.”

“
That’s as may be. All this afternoon told me was, Helen Conway went for a walk at Hughes Point with some bloke drives a Volvo. He could be her father for all I know.” I took a deep breath, swallowed the Cappuccino in one gulp, wiped the froth from my lip. “But even if she is carrying on, Conway still isn’t kosher.”

“
Like how?”

“
Like he comes to me saying his wife is knocking out tricks, but kicks for touch anytime I try to get around the back of it. Gets agitated, knows more than he’s saying.”

“
If he knows so much why’d he come to you?”

“
I don’t know. Maybe Frank’s not worried about his wife screwing someone else. Maybe Frank’s worried about her screwing him, making off with the family jewels.”

He shook his head.

“
Conway might have problems. Cash isn’t one of them.”

“
What do you hear?”

“
You know there’s E in the motors, when they come across the border?”

“
Yeah. What else?”

“
There’s whispers about a knocking shop, on that new estate out the back of the college. Curtains are never open, there’s blokes coming and going all hours of the night. Sounds to me like a student nurse flop, but you never know.”

“
Anything legal?”

“
Last I heard he was involved in that development that went up out at Manor Grange. Bought the land for a hundred twenty, put forty houses on it at a hundred and eighty grand a pop. There’s another one planned for down at the river, opposite the new hotel. Apartments, state of the art, they look like something off a Polish industrial estate. The site cost him a hundred fifty, there’s seven pre-booked at one-sixty each and they won’t be ready to go for another six months.”

“
So maybe it isn’t real estate. Maybe he fancies the ponies, or the stocks.”