Authors: Ray Banks
"You know the woman? The man who said he was Mr Farrell?" With his other hand, he flipped open my wallet. I hoped that the gram of coke wasn't tucked in one of the billfolds. "They had your wallet. So what was it? You came over here after this? A hell of a trip from Galway, isn't it?"
"You wouldn't believe. No direct flights."
"And that's what you were doing in the room?"
"Okay."
He looked at me for what felt like a full minute. "Nah, I don't think so. Where were you last night?"
"With a friend."
"Your friend got a name?"
"He's got two, first and second. If you charge me, I'll give them up. And I'll give you my solicitor's name too. You'll be able to direct any further enquiries through him."
McDonald half-sniffed – his nose was too blocked. He shook his head and turned away from me for a moment while he evacuated it. He checked the contents of his hankie and grimaced, then balled it up and tossed it into a wastepaper basket. "The blow to the head didn't kill her straight away." He tugged another tissue from a pack of Handy Andys. "She was conscious for a while after. From what I saw, I'd say she crawled for a good long way before she ended up outside that caravan. No evidence to suggest that she knew who was inside, but she definitely tried to get their attention. Wasn't a pretty death, I can tell you, though they rarely are." He was staring at my leather jacket. "Blood everywhere."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"We haven't got a confirmed ID as yet, but she's definitely the woman who checked in with your card." He waved a couple of fingers near his arse. "There was a hotel key card in her back pocket. Doesn't take a genius to put it together."
He was lying. He had to be. I thought I'd checked the pockets. I flashed on Nora's face, spotted with rain. I couldn't remember.
I must've shown something, because he was right in there. "Where did you say you were last night?"
"I told you."
"Right, this conveniently nameless mate of yours."
"Are you trying to say I murdered this woman?"
"Oh, I don't know about that." He pushed his tissue up his sleeve. "Just between us, I think it would be tough to prove conclusively that it was murder. Manslaughter, maybe. But I wouldn't accuse you of anything, Mr Farrell, unless I had concrete evidence to back me up." He smiled, showing solid teeth. "I'm a by-the-book kind of guy."
"So I can go then?"
He didn't blink. Another full minute passed. He moved his mouth before he spoke. "You're not thinking of going anywhere exotic, are you?"
"No."
"You have business in Newcastle?"
"I'm just visiting."
"Yeah, I'll need that friend's address before you go. A phone number."
"I don't know his number."
"You have a mobile?"
"No."
He looked shocked. "Really?"
"Really."
"I'd be lost without mine. You be sure to give your current address to PC Barker out there." He handed my wallet back. "Until then, I suppose you're free to go."
I tucked my wallet into my jacket and headed for the door. The manager was waiting outside. He looked at me, then McDonald, then back at me.
"You're not letting him go, are you, officer?"
McDonald gestured to the constable in the cap. "That's PC Barker over there."
"Wait, he wrecked one of my rooms. He tore it apart. Surely you're going to charge him?"
I gave Cobb's address to the midget copper. There was no point in lying. I wasn't going to be around long enough for a home visit.
"Breaking and entering." The manager's voice became shrill. "
Officer—
"
"It's Detective Sergeant." McDonald sniffed at him. "That's the full title. You can use Sergeant if you want. But I'm not an officer."
The manager blinked as if McDonald had thrown salt at him. "Sorry?"
McDonald ignored him and escorted me to the exit. I was about to push through when he said, "Keep yourself available, Mr Farrell. Don't get any daft ideas. I'd hate to have to look for you."
"I'm sure I'd hate to be found."
He smiled, then made a move for his tissue.
I headed down the street to the cab rank. I didn't need to look over my shoulder to know that McDonald was watching me. I needed to get out of here, but I couldn't phone Cobb just yet. Chances were, he'd been around at the agreed time, seen the uniforms and bolted. I would've done the same.
I got into the first black cab I saw and told the driver Cobb's address.
And as I settled in the back seat, I reckoned that home free was a pipe dream now the police were involved.
Now, it was all about damage control.
***
An old fella in a flat cap and pervert raincoat pushed out through the doors just as I arrived back at Cobb's block. I held the door open for him, but when I said hello, he hurried on. Irish accents obviously gave him the shits. I took the stairs.
When I reached Cobb's corridor, there was blood on the floor and the smell of smoke in the air. The smell got stronger the closer I got to the remains of Cobb's front door. It wasn't cigarette smoke, either. Someone had fired a gun in here. At my feet, the blood trail jumped over the books that were strewn across the carpet. And then I noticed the other smell: aftershave, some musky old man scent.
"Jimmy?"
I stopped. Listened. Nothing.
Wait, no. There was a sound. Muffled. Electronic. The kind of noise the phone made when you left it off the hook too long. I kicked through the books on the floor, saw the phone lying down by the side of the sofa, the receiver halfway underneath. I tugged it out and set it down. Then I picked it up again to hear a stuttered dial tone. I hit 1571, listened to the messages.
Goose: "Fuck's the matter with you, Jimmy, eh? Tell you something, marra, anyone comes looking for you, they won't have to look for long, know what I mean? I ever see you round my way again, I'll take your fuckin' balls." Click.
Baz: "Uhh, this is Baz." An uncomfortable pause. "Alright, I think you should give us a ring back, Jimmy. Or Sean. Give us a ring. Like, fuckin'
now
. I'm serious. Shit's flying." Click.
Orville: "Jimmy, I've got to tell you, man, you're keeping some bad company if you're after hanging out with Frank O'Brien. Anyway, I got some information for you if you want, which you do. Bring us a bottle, the good stuff. And you owe us a pound for the phone. Cheers." Click.
And nothing more.
I grabbed the bottle of Bushmills from Cobb's couch. It was half gone. And there that cheeky bastard was telling me I shouldn't be drinking. I took a long pull. It burned until I coughed. I lit a Dunhill, let the smoke drift out of my mouth. I needed a piss.
Normally I wouldn't have chanced Cobb's pit of a bathroom – the stink alone could blind a man at forty paces – but I couldn't wait around forever for Cobb to get back from wherever he was.
The door wouldn't open at first. I had to put my shoulder to it.
Christ, the smell was worse than I'd expected. I waved one hand, tried to waft it away, my other groping for the light cord. I moved into the bathroom blind, knocked something heavy on the floor. Found the light cord and pulled it.
The light flickered on. There was a free weight at my feet. Blood dulled the metal. And there was that smoke smell again, overpowering in the small room. I blinked hard, waiting for my eyes to adjust.
When I saw Cobb, I nearly dropped the bottle.
His face was a mask of blood, some of it congealed in sticky reddish-brown trails that snaked down his cheeks. His body was twisted painfully, his knees pressed up against the side of the bath, his back to the wall. Blood-tainted water had gathered in pools on the floor.
I put the bottle of Bushmills on the toilet and wiped my mouth. "Jimmy?"
I couldn't think of anything else to say. Just his name, and the overwhelming knowledge that I'd lost another one. I had to grab onto the side of the basin to steady myself and something sharp dug into my palm. I slumped onto the toilet and examined my hand. A small cut, more blood. There was a cufflink sat next to the soap dish. I must've knocked the other one into the basin. I picked it up, saw the Celtic cross design.
"You see what you did, Farrell?"
"Shut up."
"
You got him killed."
I twisted the cap from the Bushmills and took a swallow to kill the voice. I looked at the end of the cigarette. I didn't look at Cobb.
O'Brien.
He killed Nora.
He killed Cobb.
It was his revenge first, not mine. And that had all started with Nora and the plan to make Farrell big time. Or prove he already was.
"Preying on a man in prison, Farrell. Shame on you."
It should have been easy, should have been clean. But then these things never panned out the way you wanted them to.
"I'm sorry, Jimmy."
I needed to cough, still needed to piss. And I almost did both when Cobb breathed hard out through his nose. I twisted on the toilet. Didn't realise the Dunhill was out of my mouth until I went to extract it.
Cobb was breathing.
I couldn't believe it. Like Nora's voice, this was just my brain fucking around with me. I had already rushed full tilt into the arena of the mentally unsound; this was just another in a long line of symptoms.
Cobb opened one eye. He closed it. Then opened it again and looked right at me.
I didn't move.
Cobb's eye seemed to brighten. His face twisted slightly into what could have been a grin and he showed pink teeth. When he opened his mouth to speak, blood oozed from the cuts in his face. "Gonna help us?"
I snapped awake, moved to the bath. Cobb was in a state, but he was still alive. Dead men didn't talk like they were in pain. I shifted position and knocked Goose's .38 – or what was left of it – towards the toilet. The gun barrel looked as if someone had taken a hammer and a welding torch to it. The scorch mark on the side of Cobb's head told the rest of the story.
"Jesus, Jimmy, I thought you were dead."
Cobb's voice was thick. "Been better."
"What happened?"
He shook his head. "Can't feel hands."
The water was dirty, threaded with blood and tinged yellow, but I could still see the plastic tie around Cobb's wrists. "Hang on, cara, I'll be right back."
He huffed a breath. The movement opened cuts on his face.
I went to the kitchen, ransacked the drawers until I found a wicked-looking steak knife with a serrated blade. Then I went back to the bathroom and worked on the tie. It snapped loose and Cobb let out a shattered breath, moving forward to free his numb arms. He hung them over the side of the bath and closed his eyes.
"Drink."
"You sure?"
"Yes."
He rubbed his arms until he got the blood back and took the Bushmills from me. When the bottle touched his mouth, pain registered amongst the cuts on his face, but he kept going. He managed to get three good shots down him before he had to lower the bottle.
"Knife."
I gave him the knife. Cobb pulled himself forward and sawed the tie that bound his ankles. He slumped back against the bath. He raised the knife, the plastic tie hanging from the blade. "Fuckin' thing."
He tried to sit up, but it looked like a struggle.
"You need help getting out?"
"Like I need ... a new face."
He was treating us like a fuckin' invalid, but it was better than trying to walk by myself. My legs weren't working properly and it felt like my whole body was listing off to one side. Much as I hated to admit it, I was fucked up and stinking, and I was glad to have Farrell there.
We struggled to the settee and Farrell just about dumped us onto it. Once I got myself upright, he handed us the bottle. I took a belt and breathing came a bit easier.
"I need a piss," said Farrell. "You going to be alright?"
I nodded. Been alright so far, I didn't think I was going to cark it just because he had to go for a slash. When Farrell got back, he offered us one of his Dunhills. I would've said no, except my own tabs were pulp. Smoking one of Farrell's was like wrapping your lips round an exhaust pipe. I coughed. Felt blood. I couldn't move my face without pain. Christ knows what he'd done to us. From the look on Farrell's face, I was no longer in the running to become America's Next Top Model.
"What happened?"
"O'Brien." I pointed at the free weights with the tab. "Jumped us." I jerked a thumb to the bathroom. "Torture." Made a gun out of my hand and put it up to my head. "Goose's gun."
Farrell nodded, as if that happened every day to him. I wanted to smack the fuck out of him. It was his fault, all this.
The cuts on my face felt like they'd split again, but I ignored the pain. "He tried to
kill
us. Shoot us in the fuckin'
head
. I didn't know about the cash—"