Ken Bruen - Cross

I had to ask.

'The tests, your, er… worry about your, er… health. Any word?'

She was amused at my hesitation to use the word breast , and it did me good to see her smile.

She said, 'I had a biopsy – not a pleasant ordeal – and they assure me they'll have the results soon.'

She was worried, added, 'But you, Jack, don't do anything reckless, OK?'

I looked round at Jury's, said, 'Me? No, I'll behave with class.'

Outside, I kicked a wall in frustration, and a guy passing quipped, 'Didn't win the Lotto, eh?'

City of fucking comedians.

Three days later, King's warehouse burned to the ground. The Guards came for me before noon, two of them, in uniform, with the new tunics, and of course the standard thick-soled shoes. Matched the expression in their eyes.

The first one, an older guy, said, 'The Super would like a word.'

The second one looked like he wanted to wallop me.

As I got in the squad car, I asked the older one, 'What's eating your partner?'

He shrugged. 'He doesn't like you.'

I looked at the guy, in his late twenties, full of spit and vinegar, the new breed, probably attended college at night.

'He doesn't even know me,' I said.

The guy laughed. 'Worse, he knows about you.'

I addressed the young gun. 'Don't suppose you want to tell me why you're bringing me in?'

He was a knot of suppressed anger, said, 'Shut your mouth.'

It's the Irish version of the Miranda deal.

They brought me straight to Clancy's office, the head honcho, the Super. My best mate once, we'd been on the beat together, learned the rudiments of policing. And then came my dismissal, my plummet down the toilet. And him, he rose through the ranks, slowly and surely. He was from Roscommon, they know how to play the game and few knew how to play it like he did. Over the years, our relationship had become outright war. He pulled me in from time to time, tried to, if not neutralize me, at least intimidate me.

He was sitting behind a massive desk, his full dress blues, decorations on his chest like a riot of bad taste. His face had caved in, and deep lines were etched on every available patch of skin. I guess the game has its own price. He didn't look up for a moment from the array of papers on his desk, then snapped a folder shut, glanced up and said, 'Timmins, you can go.'

That was the older Guard. And to the young gun he said, 'You'll be sitting in with Mr Taylor and I.'

Clancy indicated the hard chair in front and for me to sit.

I did.

The young gun stood behind me.

I waited.

Clancy leaned back in his swivel chair, said, 'You've been stirring it again.'

I said, 'I'll need a little more to go on.'

A look passed between him and the young guy, and I knew who was the new hatchet man – the young guy, who obviously didn't like me. There's always one, the guy who'll do the dirty work, the follow-orders robot.

Clancy said, 'Mr King, a prominent businessman, a pillar of the community, his warehouse burned to the ground and it was no accident.'

I acted like I was mulling this over, then asked, 'And let me hazard a guess, he's a member of the golf club, one of your buddies?'

I felt the young gun behind me stir, but resisted the impulse to turn round.

Clancy ignored that, continued.

'A few days ago, a Department of Health official visited him, a man who bears a striking likeness to you and makes thinly veiled threats. And prior to this, an alkie, a disgraced ex-Guard, also made similar threats. What the two had in common was a wild-arse theory that Mr King was stuffing his merchandise with dog parts.'

The guy behind me guffawed, there is no other description for it.

Clancy waited for my response, but I simply stared at him.

Then he asked, 'What are you now – pet detective? It's not enough you kill a child, cause the death of an innocent young man, now you hassle the solid citizens?'

I forced myself to let the comments slide and asked, 'Am I under arrest?'

He stood up.

'We've been in touch with the Department of Health, and if they want to press charges, we'll be happy to oblige. Meanwhile, a word to the wise – stay the hell away from Garda business. You want to investigate something, why don't you find out who shot the young man whose care you were responsible for?'

I had to grit my teeth. 'Oh I will.'

He came round the desk and leaned in real close. His aftershave was expensive, if overpowering.

'We already did, and you know what? Surprise, surprise, it was the mother of the little girl you killed.'

I tried not to show my amazement. 'So, did you arrest her?'

He straightened up, shook some lint off his shoulders. 'Soon as we locate her. Thing is, we're kind of hoping she might make another attempt and we can catch her in the act, after she's done the… dirty deed.'

And then he was gone.

Before I could stand up to leave, the young guy hit me on the ear with a powerhouse, the blow knocking me from the chair and dislodging my earpiece. He brought his heel down on it, ground it, then bent and shouted, 'Can you hear me, arsehole? Stay the fuck away from Guard affairs.'

I heard him.

The Americans have an expression for verbally attacking someone. When you want to really lash into someone, they say, tear 'em a new asshole .

I tore one for Ridge.

Like this.

'The fuck when you were going to tell me about Cathy Bellingham?'

I'd asked – no, amend that, I fucking ordered her to meet me in the Great Southern Hotel and slammed down the phone.

I got there first, went to the end of the lounge, under the bust of James Joyce, stared at him, near shouted, 'The fuck are you looking at?'

Yeah, you're screaming at a bronze head of one of Ireland's most famous writers, you've either gone completely mad or just heard you lost the Booker Prize.

The porter approached. He and I had history, most of it bad, and he ventured, 'Long time no see, Jack.'

His voice was quiet, as if he wasn't yet sure if I was drinking. If I was, he was heading for the hills. As I said, history.

I sat down, levelled dead eyes at him. 'Help you with something?'

He gave a nervous laugh. 'Actually, those are my lines. I'm the one who works here.'

Keeping it light, as if we were just a couple of old mates having a touch of merry banter.

I said, 'So go work, you see me preventing you?'

He looked round – for help?

None was forthcoming so he asked, 'I, er, wondered if I could get you something – tea, coffee?'

'Get out of my face, you could get me that.'

He did.

Ridge arrived, dressed in smart new suede jacket, tight jeans and those pointy-toed boots that have to be murder. The porter had a word with her and I could see her nodding, so I figured he'd warned her I was not exactly mellow. I don't think this was a surprise to her. She walked over, a purpose in her stride, like she wasn't going to take any shite from me.

'Yeah?'

I launched in straight away. She reeled for a moment then asked, 'How did you find out about Cathy Bellingham?'

Cathy… Oh God, our long and tortuous history. We'd met originally when she washed up in Galway from London. She'd just kicked heroin, was a real punk, had lived the life. She sang like an angel and had a tongue like a fishwife. We hit it off immediately. She'd helped me on a number of cases, then I introduced her to my best friend, Jeff, and damn it all to hell, they jelled, got married and had the little girl with Down's Syndrome, Serena May. She sure had reason to want me dead.