Cross

Ridge rang to say that Mr King was a respected businessman who exported canned delicacies. He'd never been in trouble and was in every sense an upstanding citizen.

I asked, 'Fond of dogs, is he?'

She paused.

'What sort of silly question is that?'

'That's exactly what I intend to find out.'

I hung up on her protests.

The phone had exhausted me. When your hearing is wonky, it's a real strain and I felt knackered. Checked my calendar and, wouldn't you know, it was my day to get fitted with the hearing aid.

I might not be able to see the full picture, but I'd certainly soon be able to hear the machinations behind it.

Told meself, I'd almost the makings of a Zen quote right there.

17

'At the moment of commitment,

the universe conspires to assist you.'

Goethe

The girl was planning to go to the funeral of the girl she'd burned.

Her father had cautioned against it, saying, 'They'll be right on this now. It can't be long till they figure it out.'

The girl wondered if he was losing his commitment. He was starting to look old and was always moaning about pains in his chest. What the fuck did he expect? They were killing people, did he expect to be uplifted? And her brother was a loser, whining as if he was born to it. Doing what he did best – like most men, sulking.

She said, 'We wanted them to suffer. What's the bloody point if we don't see it?'

Jesus, what was wrong with them?

Her brother said, 'I think we should keep a low profile.'

The girl stepped in, said in a cold measured tone, 'Rory, remember him?' She paused, making sure she had their full attention, then said, 'The one who mowed Mum down like an animal, who fled the scene, left her to die in agony by the side of the road. Are we going to let him dance away?'

They were suitably abashed.

Then her brother said, 'He won't come back, he'd be mad to.'

'His whole family have been wiped out. Even a pig like him will have to show.'

I got fitted with my hearing aid. It was smaller than I'd expected, less obtrusive, but still made me feel odd.

I asked the specialist, 'Does it show?'

He smiled.

'Depends on what you're looking for.'

A philosopher to boot.

I snapped, 'I don't want to seem like . . . you know, feeble.'

He laughed. 'I don't really think you can blame the hearing aid.'

Ireland, everyone feels they can speak freely, just lay it out. The fuckers never lie at the most crucial times. Save that for when you really need the truth.

I stared at him. He had a full head of hair so I asked, 'That a jig?'

He was horrified, tried, 'I'm not sure what you mean.'

'Sure you do. A jig . . . rhymes with wig.'

He touched his hair and said, 'It's my own hair.'

On my way out I said, 'Most people would believe you.'

When I saw the bill, I was very sorry about my flippancy.

The bandages were off my hands but you could see welts, bruises on the knuckles, and they hurt, but that was a familiar feeling. Ridge had given me some more info on King, the warehouse guy, and I put on my best charity-shop suit, added a white shirt and dark tie and I was good to go.

Though good is probably not the right term. More like antsy. I'd made up some documents. Between the internet and business centres, you could create just about any accreditation you wished for. I put mine in a small black leather case and practised flicking it open. I looked like a broken-down FBI agent and could only hope the hearing aid testified to gunfire.

King's warehouse was large and had an air of intense industry. Lots of vans coming and going. Business was brisk, but was it, dare I say, kosher? A receptionist in her early twenties greeted me warmly.

I flicked my ID, said, 'Department of Health. I wish to see Mr King.'

It's a constant source of amazement that any type of official document impresses people.

She was suitably impressed and said, 'I'll just buzz him, let him know you're here.' Then, with a worried frown, 'There's nothing wrong, is there?'

I kept my expression in neutral.

'That's what I'm here to find out.'

She spoke on the phone for a moment then announced, 'Mr King will see you now. Just go on through.'

I said, 'Don't leave town.'

Freud said, 'The most dangerous thing in the world is an angry baby.'

King looked like an angry baby, albeit a sixty-year-old one. He was completely bald, and seemed to have no eyebrows. There was not a line on his face, yet he had an air of having been round the block many times and each trip having been rough. He sat behind a massive desk and I bet he drove a massive car. He didn't rise to meet me, or offer his hand, just glared at me. I knew it wasn't personal, least not yet. Glaring was his gig. The world had his toys and, by Jesus, he was intent on getting them back.

I flipped the ID. 'Department of Health.'

He took a small container out of his impressive suit jacket, rammed snuff up his nose, least I think it was that. If it was coke, he had me full admiration. Then he did that irritating clearing of his nostrils and I waited.

He bawled, if you can do such a thing with a thin wispy voice, 'What's the problem?'

I sighed – always helps if you're weary too – said, 'We've had a complaint.'

He was on his feet, demanding, 'From whom? About what?'

I took out my notebook.

'I'm of course not at liberty to divulge our source, but I can tell you that some concern has been raised as to what you're exporting.'

He looked ready to explode.

'We export fish delicacies, sealed in tins. I just take delivery of the tins and send them on to our markets.'

I mused on this and then said, 'There's been a suggestion that something . . . erm, something other than fish is going into your product.'

He was on the verge of a major explosion.

'What the hell are you suggesting?'

I could have attempted to mollify him, ease him down a notch, but you know what, I didn't like the bollocks, he was an arrogant prick used to shouting and having tantrums, so I decided to push a little more.

'Our source mentioned you might be using . . . how should I put it . . . canine parts.'

Took him a moment to digest this and then he laughed. Not a sound like most laughter, more a mix of cackle and spite.

'I get it. Jesus H. Christ, that drunk who was here, a total burn-out, trying to say that dogs have been snatched and we're using them for our Asian markets.'

I fiddled with the hearing aid, trying to turn this guy down. He accused, 'Are you tuning me out?'

As if.

So I stayed with the needle, asked, 'And are you using such material?'

He seemed like he might physically attack me, but reconsidered and said, 'That's slander. What's your name again? I'll have your job for that.'

I kept my voice level, said, 'I haven't accused you of anything, simply posed a query. If you're clean, why are you bothered?'

He made a cutting gesture with his right palm, said, 'This charade is over. You want to talk to me again, contact my solicitor. Now get the hell out of my office.'

I stood up.

'Thank you for the coffee.'

Threw him, then he rallied.

'You're some kind of wise arse, that it? You won't be so smug when I get your job reviewed. And that drunk, tell him to stay away from here.'

I said at the door, 'That might be a tad difficult.'

Always wanted to try tad in a sentence, see if it was as priggish as I thought.