He finally got the bow tie fixed and stood back from the mirror. From the dressing-table behind him, Karen’s voice piped up.
‘That policeman was back again today.’
She tried to feign indifference, as if she was asking about the weather or what he fancied for dinner. Spender turned and looked at his wife.
‘What did you say?’
‘I said the policeman called again. He was looking for you.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘He was asking about the body. I told him I didn’t know anything.’
‘You don’t know anything.’
‘That’s what I said.’
Spender walked to within striking distance and stood over his wife. He pointed a finger in her face.
‘What did I tell you about talking to people about my business?’
Karen tried not to look at her husband. It only made him angrier. She’d learned that a few years after they were married when the kids were still wee. She knew she needed to hang in there for them. Spender hadn’t raised his hand to her in years. But that person was still there, still inside him, she could see it now, just below the surface. She used to wonder if he had changed or whether she got better at reading the signs and staying out of trouble. Her husband’s eyes bored into her now and she sensed a storm brewing.
‘What else did you say?’
‘He knew about Phillip.’
Spender flew into a rage. ‘Did you invite the guy in?’
‘He just wanted to talk. Ask a few questions. What was I supposed to do?’
‘What did he want to talk to you about?’
‘I don’t know. The body. Phillip. Drugs.’
‘What did I tell you about running your mouth off? When it’s something you know nothing about. .’
Spender remembered the Cavehill Road development ten years earlier. He had been about to finalise contract negotiations for a block of shops with eight apartments. Karen had been talking to someone at the gym or the hairdresser’s, the wife of Paul Bartholomew, a property solicitor in Belfast. Next thing, Mrs Bartholomew goes home and tells her husband, who tells one of his clients — and bingo! The deal gets stolen, right from under Spender’s nose. The development was due to net him over half a million.
Spender took a deep breath and tried to rein in his temper. He needed to know everything that had been said. What the detective wanted to know and, more importantly, what she’d told him. Karen didn’t know anything, but you couldn’t be too careful. He knew he wasn’t going to get anything out of her if it turned into a slanging match.
He went downstairs and poured himself a large Bushmills. He made up a gin and tonic for his wife and set it on the kitchen table. They could be late for dinner. This was more important. After five minutes he heard Karen’s heels click along the hall.
‘Have a seat before we go out,’ Spender said calmly. ‘I’m not cross with you. It’s those frigging cops. They cost me thousands. . cost us thousands, shutting down the site for most of last week. If they have their way they’ll do it again. All over some wee hood that no one gives a damn about.’
He got Karen to talk him through the conversation with Ward. She told him about Phillip, about the drugs, the stealing, the fact he’d been gone for over a year. She told him about the black book, the one with the numbers. The one he had taken off her when she showed it to him.
‘Is that everything?’ Spender asked. Her eyes shifted.
‘He wanted to know where you were the Sunday night the boy was killed.’
‘I was here. You know that.’
‘That’s what I told him.’
Spender sensed there was more.
‘You were up late though.’
‘I’m up late most nights.’
‘Well, I was in bed. Asleep. But I thought I heard the car leave.’
‘No, you didn’t. I was working downstairs until three in the morning, getting figures ready for the accountant. Busting my balls, Karen, so you can go to dinner parties in frigging Yves Saint Laurent dresses.’
Spender felt the heat rising in him again. How could she be so stupid? The word ‘divorce’ popped into his head, as it did most weeks. He dismissed it. His solicitor had run out the numbers, twice now, on how much it would cost. It was cheaper to keep her around, keep her in haircuts and designer dresses. He could always get his kicks elsewhere.
‘How do you think all this gets paid for, Karen? The house, the new kitchen — that wee coupe you’re driving out there? I work for it. Me. I make it happen. Do you want it all to suddenly vanish? Are you that frigging stupid?’
Spender’s wife slowly shook her head. Her husband drained his glass.
‘They’re just trying to stir things up. They come out here, see we’re doing all right for ourselves and they want to have a go at us, try to take it all away.’
Karen looked at her husband. He smiled, wanting to let her know it was OK. She might have messed up but he forgave her. At the same time his head was racing, wondering what the cops were doing, what they would make of what his wife had told them.
‘Let’s get in the car and go. And if the cops call again, then you don’t answer the door. All right?’
Karen nodded her head and the two of them stood up from the table.
TWENTY-SIX
1.57 a.m. The road outside The George was deserted. From the mouth of the alley, Lynch could see the full length of the street. He’d been there since eleven. He looked at his watch. McCann’s boys wouldn’t be late.
He reached down to his ankle, running his hand over the duct tape that held the Browning in place. It was secure, still hidden. He knew it would be. He also knew there was a good chance he’d have to use it. They might be trying to get him back in the game but it could also be a set-up. McCann had a tendency to see things in black and white. It was an easy logic. People picked a side. You’re with us or you’re against us.
McCann had guessed that Lynch was behind Molloy’s accident, and Molloy was one of his boys, so anything that happened to him might as well have been directed at McCann. As far as he would be concerned, Lynch was a liability. People like him didn’t just settle down, get a nine to five, pint down the local, football on weekends. And if he could do that to Molloy, he couldn’t just be ignored. Lynch wondered if the operation was meant to test the waters, McCann giving him a chance. If he wasn’t interested, would there be instructions to get rid of him when the job was done? A working interview? Either way, Lynch knew there was no more stalling. He was backed into a corner and it was time to choose.
A grey Honda approached The George and parked up, turning off its headlights, but keeping the engine running. One man sat behind the wheel. Even from 40 yards, Lynch could make out Molloy’s profile. He jogged over, going behind the car to check the footwell of the back seat. It was an old trick, to hide someone in there. The target got in and before he knew it he had a gun at the side of his head. It didn’t leave much room for negotiation.
Molloy had lost the white bandage from his nose. The swelling in his eyes had gone down, and the purple bruising was a mild discolouration, a brown and yellow stain. Lynch got into the car. Pretending he hadn’t shut his door properly, he reopened it. It might have been tampered with, have the child lock flicked on. At least now he knew he could get out, make a run for it if he needed to. Molloy didn’t look at him and drove off without speaking.