‘If he’s as devout as all that, there shouldn’t have been any danger of physical violence.’
‘Harry, where have you been the last twenty-five years? Haven’t you seen what people from my part of the world can do in the name of religion? If they can blow bits off the bodies of folk they don’t even know, who never did them a single injury, what chance is there for me if someone like Dermot decides I need to be taught a lesson?’
‘So what happened?’
‘She booked into a private clinic. It was my idea, I let her have a little nest egg of mine.’ Finbar closed his eyes. ‘Anyway, there were problems with the anaesthetic. God knows what went wrong, but she never came round again.’
‘She died in the clinic?’
‘With all the pricey medical expertise at hand,’ said Finbar bitterly. ‘Eileen, who’d never had a day’s illness in her life, who had so much left to look forward to, killed undergoing an operation that was all my fault.’
‘Shit,’ said Harry. ‘What did you tell the McCrays?’
Finbar shifted from foot to foot. ‘Fact is, Harry, I didn’t tell them anything. There was no point. I couldn’t bring her back. They had plenty to grieve about without knowing their daughter had been seduced by a man old enough to be her dad.’
‘And you didn’t relish the prospect of Dermot taking revenge?’
Finbar’s expression was grim. ‘There’s no telling what a bereaved father might do. Specially a hard man like Dermot McCray.’
‘So how did he find out you were Eileen’s boyfriend?’ Harry had already described his brief encounter with McCray at Fenwick Court. ‘From the clinic?’
‘They never knew who I was. I gave her the money, but she made all the arrangements. And not from Baz, either. Eileen told me she’d been talking to him on the bloody air, said she rang him when she was feeling low. Jases, with all those people listening! That sent me into a panic. But she swore she’d never mentioned my name to anyone.’
‘Yet Dermot and Sinead obviously know. They must have found out from someone.’
‘There’s only one explanation. A week or two ago, I was drinking in the De Valera. I’ve not seen Dermot there since Eileen died. Anyway, I’d had one over the eight. Melissa was away visiting some sick relation, so I was on my own. Maybe I got a bit maudlin and the booze began to talk … late in the night I was chatting to this old pal of mine, Liam Keogh. You’ve met him yourself, I introduced you once in the Dock Brief, remember? I started telling him about Eileen, and before I knew what I was saying, I’d spilled the whole bag of beans.’
‘Do you think he would have told Sinead? Or McCray?’
‘More than likely. Not out of devilment, but he couldn’t keep his mouth shut to save his life. Still, who am I to talk? Liam’s a decent feller, I should’ve kept my own counsel. After all, I’ve never said a word to anyone else. Except yourself.’
‘It’s time for you to tell the police. Unless you want Dermot to succeed with his next attack.’
‘So you think he’s the one who has it in for me?’
‘He has the opportunity as well as the motive. Who else do you know who is likely to be hand in glove with Irish terrorists, people with access to bomb-making equipment?’
‘Maybe you’re right. I must admit I’ve been mulling over the notion. Yet there’s one thing I can’t understand. Dermot never had anything to do with terrorism while I knew him. And this is a private grudge, nothing more.’
Harry leaned forward. ‘Leave Sladdin to ferret out the evidence,’ he urged. ‘Will you speak to him tomorrow?’
‘Maybe I will.’ Finbar exhaled. ‘Now, is there any chance of another glass of your excellent whisky?’
Harry passed the bottle and slumped back into his chair. He felt exhausted. It had been a long day and his headache had worsened. The story of Eileen’s death had dismayed him; although he realised the dangers of moral judgments, he felt he could never regard Finbar in the same way again. There would always be a barrier between them, built of his repugnance for the way his client used the women in his life. But at least it seemed the riddle of the attacks on Finbar had been solved. Harry began to yearn for nothing other than a darkened room and deep sleep.
Finbar kept him up late all the same, supping his booze and telling tall stories of tattoos he had drawn and the people who had worn them. As he dozed, Harry was vaguely aware of his guest illustrating an anecdote with pictures swiftly drawn on paper torn from a Counsel’s notebook he found in the hall, admiring his own handiwork then crumpling the sheets up and tossing them aside. Eventually Harry dropped off and began to dream. Strange creatures, come to life from Finbar’s tattoos, were menacing him: a furious phoenix and a blood-spitting dragon, hate filled tigers and a black butterfly which flapped vast intimidating wings.
When he awoke he became fuzzily aware that it was morning and he was lying on the couch in the living room. His neck was sore and at first he wondered if perhaps he, rather than his client, had been the victim of attempted strangulation. Finally he realised it was simply the result of lying in an uncomfortable position. He stretched complaining limbs and tried to ignore a roaring in his head reminiscent of the noise made by McCray’s navvies.
Finbar, wearing only his trousers, wandered into the living room. From his bare chest, Lady Godiva squinted at Harry with disdain. Her creator seemed well rested and in jovial mood.
‘Don’t you dare utter one cheerful word,’ mumbled Harry, ‘or I’ll finish the job Folley started.’
‘Not in the best of humours, are we? Shame, but the drink does have an effect. And as for Nick — well, we all get overexcited from time to time.’
‘So you’re in a forgiving mood?’
‘I’ve never been a man to hold grudges. It’s not as if it was a serious attempt to kill me, not slap-bang in the middle of a public exhibition.’ Finbar scratched himself under the arms. ‘And after the events of the last day or two, Nick Folley is the least of my worries. Now, can I get you an aspirin?’
‘Never mind the aspirin — why didn’t you put me to bed?’
‘Ah, you looked so peaceful it seemed wrong to disturb you! And since you’d taken my billet on the couch I thought the sensible thing was for me to borrow your bed for the night. No problem about the old sheets, I’m not that pernickety.’ He retuned Harry’s transistor to Radio Liverpool and switched on Pop In, where Baz was dedicating ‘This Guy’s In Love With You’ to Penny Newland. Finbar sang along with tuneless gusto.
Harry crawled off the couch and made himself a coffee. He responded to Finbar’s attempts at conversation with monosyllables which became emphatic only when Finbar said wistfully that he couldn’t expect to impose on Harry’s hospitality for another night. ‘No,’ Harry agreed.
‘Ah well,’ said Finbar with a sigh, ‘I suppose I’d better try and make my peace with Melissa.’
‘You’ll be lucky.’
‘That little — contretemps, shall we say? — last evening was unfortunate, I’ll agree. She was upset, it’s only natural. But she’ll get over it. Women do.’
‘And if not?’
‘Plenty more fish in the sea, Harry.’
There was no arguing with him. Harry finished his coffee. ‘I’ll be off now,’ he said. ‘I have a date in the police cells this morning. Stay here a while if you want. Slam the door behind you when you go. And for God’s sake talk to Sladdin.’
‘Thanks again, mate. I appreciate what you’ve done.’
‘Keep in touch,’ said Harry, unsure whether he meant it.
Harry spent the morning at court representing a couple of scoundrels who regarded arrest as a way of life. When he returned to Fenwick Court, the construction work had stopped, but a couple of McCray’s men were there, talking in low, angry voices. As Harry walked across the courtyard, the atmosphere seemed to him heavy with unspoken menace. He wondered whether he ought to ring the police himself if Finbar reneged on his promise to tell all to Sladdin.