We trundled towards the bypass and another set of lights, more traffic backed up. She cut left towards the quays, the atmosphere in the car a kind of cold simmering. Right onto the docks, more traffic lights, less traffic. I dug out the makings and rolled a smoke.
‘What happens when you’re caught?’ she said. She was staring straight ahead.
‘I don’t know.’
‘So why don’t you run?’
‘Where to?’
‘I don’t know.’ The lights turned green. ‘Anywhere,’ she said as we turned on to Hughes’ Bridge.
‘There’d be cops there too.’
‘Sure, but-’
‘If I run, I keep running. I don’t get to come back.’
A grimace. ‘I think I’d cope.’
‘You don’t have a kid.’
‘You won’t see much of him in prison.’
‘I wouldn’t imagine, after the last couple of days, that I’ll be seeing a lot of him anyway. Jesus, this fucking traffic.’
We were stuck in the middle lane on the bridge, aiming for the Bundoran Road, the main artery north out of town. The left lane, which filtered off at Cartron and headed for Rosses Point, was tipping along nicely. It was the long way round, but I was too tense for sitting still. Better to be moving. ‘Head for the Point,’ I said.
Maybe she thought I was having second thoughts about delivering the swag, because for once she didn’t protest. She indicated, eased into the left lane, put the Cooper into third. We sailed up over Cartron Hill and down again, out along the breakwater parallel to the Bundoran Road, the Atlantic lapping at the low stone wall.
‘Does Saoirse know about the drugs?’ she said.
‘No idea.’
‘I mean, that Finn was buying some that night.’
‘She didn’t hear it from me, if that’s what you’re asking.’
‘At least you managed to keep that much from her.’
‘The reason Saoirse knows so much,’ I said, ‘is because your sainted brother was a lying fuck. If he’d been straight with me, she’d know nothing. Alright?’ I turned in the seat to face her. ‘And before you start in with your but-fucking-buts, you should probably know that Finn wasn’t planning to smoke three bags of premium weed all on his lonesome. And I’m not talking about him handing it out for free at some surf-‘n’-bake, either.’
It took her a moment or two to digest that. ‘Finn,’ she said. ‘Dealing drugs.’
She said the word ‘dealing’ like she’d handle a moist turd.
‘That’s right,’ I said, ‘Finn was dealing, and I’d be shocked if you weren’t one of his best customers. You want me to tell Saoirse all that?’
‘But why would Finn need to sell drugs?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe people kept sponging off his own stash, he thought he’d try to break even.’
She laughed at that. ‘One thing Finn was never worried about,’ she said, ‘was money.’
‘Yeah, well, maybe that was it.’
‘What was what?’
‘Weed isn’t as lethal as money, Grainne. Nowhere as addictive. An entirely more pleasant drug to deal in. You get into peddling dope it’s like playing the markets in reverse, illegal but not immoral.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘Look, I could give a fuck about why Finn was dealing dope. Right now all that matters is the leverage it gives me.’
She considered that. ‘You’ll tell the cops,’ she said.
‘If it comes to it.’
‘What good will that do when he’s already dead?’
‘I said, if it comes to it. Saoirse plays ball, sets me up with a good legal team that buys me the minimum time served, then it doesn’t have to wash out.’
‘Fuck, you’re cold.’
‘I wasn’t born this way. Oh, and one more thing.’ I took a drag off the cigarette and turned my face away to exhale into the rear of the car, came back to her. Then glanced into the rear again, where I’d caught a glimpse of metallic-green through the back window. ‘Fuck,’ I said, settling back into the seat again. ‘Shit.’
‘What’s wrong?’
We were coming up on Ballincar, the Radisson visible to our right. ‘Cut across at Cregg House,’ I said.
‘Why?’
‘Just fucking do it.’
Thirty seconds later, she did it. Just as we passed the gates of Cregg House, the metallic-green Phaeton swung around in our wake, the unmistakably boxy nose of the classic Volkswagen, and followed us up the leafy lane. I gave it a couple of seconds, on the off-chance the driver was headed for Cregg, but once it passed the gates I knew.
‘Where’s your phone?’ I said.
‘What?’
‘Your phone. I need to make a call, and fast.’
She fumbled the phone from her pocket, and I rang directory enquiries, asked to be put through to the cop shop.
‘Sligo Garda Station.’
‘Detective Tohill, please. Criminal Assets, liaising with this station.’
‘And who shall I say is calling?’
It took a Homeric effort not to say Leonard Cohen. ‘Harry Rigby.’
‘Hold the line.’
We were out in the country by now, the road narrowing to a twisting lane between drystone walls and ditches of thorny hedge. Grainne tooling along in third gear, shifting down to second for some of the sharper bends. ‘Aim for the mountain,’ I told her, pointing at Benbulben. ‘You won’t go far wrong.’
Tohill came on the line.
‘Smart fucking bastard. Where are you?’
‘Forget that. I’m on my way in.’
A moment’s hiss. I wondered if the call was being recorded. ‘You’re coming in?’
‘Call off the dogs and give me an hour. I’ll be there.’
‘What dogs?’
‘The dogs in the Phaeton.’
‘What fucking Phaeton? Rigby, I’m only saying this-’
I killed the call. ‘Fuck.’
‘What is it?’ Grainne said.
‘That car behind us, I thought it was the cops. Jesus, watch the road.’
She clipped a pothole, swerved onto the verge, got us back on track. ‘So who is it?’
‘Dunno.’ I dipped into the green cotton bag, came up with the.38 and the paper-wrapped shells. ‘But they’re not out here for the good of their health. Ever seen Rebel Without a Cause?’
‘Harry …’
‘Before your time. Jimmy Dean. Gets in a chicky-run and dives out of the car before it goes over a cliff.’
‘You’re diving out of the car?’
‘You just watch me go.’ I slotted home the fifth shell, clicked the cylinder closed. Checked the safety was on. Glanced over at her. She had one eye on the road, one on the green cotton bag.
‘Grainne,’ I said, ‘listen to me now. That fucking laptop’s more trouble than it’s worth. I’m serious. Best thing you can do is take it home, hand it over. You’ll be better off in the long run.’
‘You mean, you’ll be better off. Twenty thousand euro’s worth.’
Which was true, in theory at least. And she knew she had me. Diving out of a moving car is one thing. Doing it with a laptop in tow, and expecting us both to survive intact, was another thing entirely.
‘Make me an offer,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘Cut me in. Twenty grand from the trust fund. I’ll help you track down this guy in Cyprus, we’ll screw Saoirse.’
We were on a straight section, the Phaeton a couple of hundred yards behind, coming up on a bend that cut a sharp left beyond a small copse. I tucked the.38 into my belt at the small of my back.
‘I should probably remind you,’ I said, ‘that yesterday I got rammed off the road, my kid ended up in a coma. So this would be a good time to-’
‘Deal, yeah, it’s a deal. Okay?’
‘Deadly. Whatever you do, don’t stop. Head back to Herb’s, she’ll never find you there. Right, this next bend’ll do it. Ready?’
She nodded again. We hit the bend past the copse and she jammed on, tyres skidding. I threw open the door and tumbled out, turning my shoulder so the impact caught me high on my back and bounced me sprawling into the long grass on the verge. A blackthorn branch ripped into my right arm, tore a gash as I pulled away reaching for the gun.