Martin Edwards: I Remember You

‘When did the news break?’

‘First thing this morning. He’s been paying the men late, they’ve been threatening to walk out on the job for long enough. Seems he told them he hoped to put some deal in place last night. It didn’t come off and there were no wage packets this morning, so that was that as far as they were concerned.’ The rabbity man spat on the ground before adding, ‘Can’t say I bloody blame ’em either — thought it puts me in a spot. I have to check everything’s secure till we get another outfit in to take over the contract. Even on a night like this, stuff walks if you don’t keep an eye out.’

Harry leaned forward, conviction that he must talk to the builder growing within him. ‘So what’s happened to Dermot McCray?’

‘Christ knows. Drowning his sorrows, if I know him. He’s been at it for months, that’s why he’s let the business run down.’

‘His daughter died, didn’t she?’

‘Right. He’s not been the same bloody feller since.’

‘Any idea where he drinks?’

‘The De Valera, as a rule. It’s that Irish club at the top end of town. The lads used to reckon he spends more time there than he does at home. Why d’you ask?’

‘I’d like to have a word with him.’

‘Owes you a few bob, does he?’ The rabbity face brightened at the prospect of someone else’s misfortune. ‘You’ll get no change out of Dermot McCray. He’s a hard bugger at the best of times. You’ll be whistling for your cash.’

Harry hurried to his MG. The fog was starting to thicken and as he drove the poor visibility tested concentration to its limits. But his mind kept straying from the road as he tried to decide how to tackle Dermot McCray.

A couple of hundred yards up Islington, he parked on a double yellow line and threaded through an alley clogged with broken bottles and polythene sacks overflowing with noxious rubbish. An amber-eyed cat hissed in warning as he approached the entrance to the De Valera. He banged on the door and was answered by a nattily suited man barely half the size of Mad Max at the Dangerous Liaison.

‘If it isn’t Harry Devlin!’

‘Evening, Liam.’

They had met before, in the Dock Brief; Finbar had done the introductions. Liam Keogh was an amiable, balding man whose fondness for the sound of his own voice combined dangerously with an excessive interest in other people’s affairs. He was the friend to whom Finbar had unwisely confided his involvement with Eileen McCray — events had proved that equivalent to taking out a prime time slot on commercial television. The McCrays had learned the story and before long Sinead had got to hear of it too. Liam’s careless talk might easily have cost lives. Yet there was little malice in him and Harry did not doubt the genuineness of his grief when he spoke again.

‘Harry, it’s grand to see you. But faith, what a bad business about Finbar!’

They exchanged words of reminiscence. Here was someone else who had been fond of Finbar, Harry thought. It wasn’t true that everyone his client met had become an enemy. He’d roused strong reactions in people — that was nearer the mark.

‘I need to speak to someone and he may be here,’ said Harry as soon as an opportunity presented itself. ‘I’m not a member, and I’m not after a drink, so I wondered if — ’

‘We don’t stand on ceremony with people we know. Who is it you’re after seeing?’

‘Dermot McCray.’

Liam’s eyebrows shot up. He lowered his voice and with a conspiratorial glance said, ‘You know that Finbar and Dermot’s daughter…’

‘Yes. Is Dermot here?’

Liam took a look at Harry and decided the time was not ripe for casual gossip. ‘You’re in luck. He showed up not half an hour ago. You’ll find him downstairs, supping a pint of Guinness and keeping his own counsel. He’s had a lot on his mind since Eileen died. She was the very apple of his eye. And now people say his business is on the skids.’

‘Listen, last time McCray and I met, we got off on the wrong foot. Can you keep him from slamming his pint pot in my face while I ask him a few questions?’

Liam tapped his finger against his nose. ‘Trust me.’ He led Harry down an ill-lit corridor lined with sepia-tinted pictures from the 1916 Rebellion. The decor was a dull dark green; a musty smell hung in the air. Harry sensed this was a place for brooding over old battles, a place where grievances could harden into bigotry and anger corrode into a lust for violence.

Dermot McCray was sitting on a stool at the far end of the bar, nursing his Guinness and contemplating the dreariness of his surroundings without visible emotion.

‘Dermot, lad, can I crave a boon? A good friend of mine would welcome a word with you.’

McCray looked at Harry. Scorn tugged at the corners of his mouth. ‘You ought to choose your pals with more care, Liam Keogh.’

‘Dermot, I gather you and Harry haven’t altogether seen eye to eye in the past. But why don’t you let the feller buy you another pint and see if you can’t both bury the hatchet?’

‘Best place for the hatchet is in this sod’s back.’ McCray drained his glass. ‘Anyway, what’s it to do with you, Devlin? Your client, that fucking tattooist — he’s dead, isn’t he?’

‘I expect you’re celebrating,’ said Harry.

‘Finest news I’ve heard in a long while.’ But McCray’s face betrayed no satisfaction. His eyes were bloodshot, his skin grey. Eileen’s death had eaten at him like a cancer; Harry could identify the signs. He suddenly experienced a burst of fellow feeling for the big brutish Irishman.

‘I do need to talk to you.’

McCray grunted in derision. ‘Come to make another accusation?’

‘I want to ask you about Pearse Cato.’

‘What’s this got to do with Rogan?’ asked Dermot McCray ten minutes later.

‘It might explain why he was killed,’ said Harry. He felt excited but dazed. Every hour that passed was bringing him closer to the truth.

McCray glared at Liam and jerked a thumb towards Harry. ‘Your mate’s off his head. Thought so the first time I met him. He reckoned I’d tried to murder Rogan.’ A sour quirk of the lips. ‘Wish I had.’

Liam looked bewildered by the conversation. ‘Harry, I haven’t a whore’s notion of what you’re trying to prove, but you’re treading on risky ground for sure.’

‘The story of my life,’ said Harry. He extended his hand to McCray. ‘Thanks for your help — I appreciate it. And I apologise for what I said to you at Fenwick Court the other day. I was on the wrong track.’

McCray looked at the hand, then grunted and looked away. ‘Rogan killed my Eileen. Same as if he’d shot her between the eyes.’

‘He’s dead now,’ said Harry. ‘She’s been avenged.’

McCray’s face might have been part of Mount Rushmore. He gazed into the depths of his glass as Harry and Liam walked slowly back to the stairs.

‘You mind how you go,’ said the doorman as they approached the exit. ‘Lord knows what you’re up to, but whatever it is, I don’t like it. You’re talking about serious business here.’

‘Cato’s even colder than Finbar,’ said Harry. ‘There’s nothing to fear from him.’

‘You don’t understand what you’re messing with. If the men in balaclavas killed Finbar…’

‘No, they never touched him.’

‘What? I thought you were suggesting…’

Harry pulled open the door giving on to the alley. Curls of mist wafted inside the building and the fog outside had thickened.

‘I was suggesting nothing, Liam. Thanks for introducing me to McCray. Without you, I’d not have got a word out of him.’

Spreading his arms, Liam waved away gratitude. ‘All I ask is, when you do figure out who ran Finbar down, you let me know. I’d like five minutes with the bastard before the police get involved.