Folley spoke quietly, so quietly that the drunken businessman had to lean forward to hear. But there was no mistaking his venom. ‘This is all down to you, Rogan. All down to your having your balls where your fucking brains should be. Do you understand what I want to do to you? This!’
He lunged forward, put his hands round Finbar’s throat and began to squeeze.
Harry and the drunk’s companion caught Folley’s arms and tried to drag him off the Irishman. It wasn’t easy. Rage gave Folley the brute power of a back-street brawler and he gripped Finbar’s neck as if his own life depended on it.
The sudden onslaught had knocked Finbar backwards, but within seconds he was clawing at Folley, trying desperately to breathe. As the drunk cheered the combatants with incoherent delight, the strength of numbers began to tell and Harry forced Folley to release his hold. Losing his balance, Folley toppled on to the floor, where he lay panting as if on the brink of a coronary.
Finbar stood up gingerly and rubbed his neck. The flesh bore livid red marks where Folley had tried to throttle him, but he seemed more shocked by the ferocity of the attack than by the pain.
‘I was only trying to conciliate,’ he croaked.
Dusting himself down, Harry realised his exasperation was tinged with grim amusement. Despite all recent evidence, Finbar seemed unable to accept that anyone could wish to do him harm. There was something oddly irresistible about someone so thick-skinned. For Harry, Finbar was becoming a bad habit.
‘Come on,’ he said, nodding thanks to the drunk’s companion. ‘Let’s go before you destroy what’s left of Liverpool’s business community.’
He led his hobbling client away. Halfway down the aisle, he glanced over his shoulder to see Nick Folley following their progress, crouched on his haunches, breathing heavily and looking as if he had murder on his mind. Behind Folley stood Sophie Wilkins. She put a tentative hand on her lover’s shoulder, but he shrugged it off. Melissa was nowhere to be seen; during the rumpus she had disappeared.
Near the exit a pretty girl stopped them. ‘Excuse me, do you realise the importance of corporate hospitality? Taking the people who give you business to Wimbledon or Lord’s?’
Before Finbar could recover sufficiently to embark on a chat-up line, Harry intervened. ‘Wouldn’t suit my firm, love. Except if you’re offering an Away Day to Wormword Scrubs so my clients can visit their loved ones.’
Once out in the cold night air, Finbar rubbed his nose pensively. ‘Listen — any chance you could do me a favour? Your place is only round the corner. Could I spend the night on your couch? Melissa may have gone back to the flat and I don’t think she’s in the mood yet to kiss and make up.’
Harry’s heart sank but he reminded himself that Finbar had seen his business burnt down and his car blown up within the space of a couple of days. He couldn’t say no.
‘Just for one night?’
‘That’s all I need. Thanks, Harry, you’re very good to me. Not just a lawyer, but a pal. I know I shouldn’t have asked.’
Part of Harry wished Finbar hadn’t. But he made up his mind to exact a price for his hospitality. He was determined to satisfy his own urgent need to know. Never would he have a better chance than tonight to discover his client’s guilty secrets.
Chapter Fourteen
‘Look,’ said Finbar, draining his glass of Johnnie Walker, ‘I don’t come out of this very well.’
‘That’s the story of your life,’ said Harry unsympathetically. ‘You’re twenty years too late for worrying about your image. So tell me about Eileen. The truth, mind — the whole truth and nothing but.’
They were in Harry’s flat, far from the madding crowd of the Liverpool Business Day exhibition. Through the thick lined curtains they could hear the wind wailing down the Mersey: a wild, elemental sound. Harry could easily have believed there wasn’t another living soul within a hundred miles.
Finbar cleared his throat. ‘In the old days, back in Ireland, I knew a feller called Dermot McCray. A big bugger, muscles in his spit. He worked in the building trade, which is no place for Little Lord Fauntleroys. As young fellers we were pals, we’d drink together from time to time. To this day he has a line of dot tattoos I drew on the knuckles of each hand. I was only a lad then — hadn’t mastered the finer points of my craft.
‘At first, Dermot was one for the ladies himself, but he soon hooked up with a girl called Oonagh, a lovely creature with the most marvellous chestnut hair. They got married, she had a child and I didn’t see much of him after that. The last time we met in Dublin he told me he fancied coming over to England and setting up on his own. A few months later, I heard he’d crossed to Liverpool and done just that.’
Finbar paused and scratched his chin. He had the raconteur’s gift of spinning out any story, keeping his listener anxious for the next instalment.
‘The McCrays came back to Dublin from time to time. They kept in close touch with family and friends, but I hardly ever saw them until Sinead and I moved over here. I used to bump into him every now and then in the De Valera.’
‘The Irish club off Solvay Street?’
‘Right. Noted for good beer and bad company. By that time, Dermot had started making money and formed his own company. As you’ve gathered, Eileen was his daughter. He brought Oonagh and her to the De Valera one night and introduced me. Oonagh had put on weight; the dolce vita had got to her and no mistake. But Eileen was a different proposition altogether. Sweet sixteen and with the same chestnut hair her mother had in her prime. From the moment I saw her I was smitten.’
‘A bit young, even by your standards.’
‘Harry, don’t I know it? But there, you never know where Cupid’s dart may land. And Eileen was so perfect. Looked like a virgin and loved like her life depended on it.’ He coughed and became contrite. ‘Sorry. A poor choice of phrase, as things turned out.’
‘You started seeing her?’
‘She’d lately left school and taken a job in a travel agency. I used to tell her she deserved better. Anyway, she managed to sneak off from work two or three times a week. The boss had the hots for her too — he let her get away with murder.’
‘Did Dermot and Oonagh cotton on to what you were up to?’
‘Give me some credit. I’ve had years of experience in covering my tracks. Besides, I didn’t want to get on the wrong side of Dermot. He was a pal from way back and, anyway, it doesn’t pay to antagonise a tough man in the building trade. I didn’t fancy finishing up in a concrete overcoat as part of the foundations of a new supermarket or motorway flyover.’
‘So what happened?’
‘Eileen got herself pregnant, that’s what happened. Ah yes, you’ll say it takes two to tango, but she’d promised me she was on the Pill. She didn’t set out to trap me, that’s for sure. Maybe she simply forgot to take it one night. Ah, all this time and I’d never been caught before!’
‘I take it you didn’t offer to do what people used to call the decent thing?’
‘Harry, there was no future in marriage between Eileen and me. I’ve been through that malarkey once and I’m not for making the same mistake twice. She was a slip of a kid, less than half my age. We were good for each other, but neither of us wanted a lifetime commitment. That left only one solution.’
Finbar pulled a face at the memory. Harry said nothing.
‘I didn’t force the issue. She decided for herself that it was best to have an abortion. Dermot and Oonagh had brought her up to be a good Catholic girl, but Eileen didn’t want to be tied down too young.’
Baz had told the story differently, Harry recalled.
‘Did either of you discuss it with her parents?’
‘No way. We agreed they mustn’t be told. Dermot’s as devout as any man I know and the very idea of abortion would be enough to send him for his shotgun. To tell him I’d put his daughter up the spout would be like autographing a suicide note.’