Peter shook himself. He needed somewhere that would work longer term anyway. Or medium term, at least. Reilly had said he should give it at least a few months, but Peter knew his limits. He had already promised himself that he would give it eight weeks and not a day longer. If he hadn’t found a way back to Galway at the end of the two months, he would hand in his notice and find another way to earn a living. Still, two months was two months. He needed somewhere semi-permanent to lay his head. He tried a private holiday rentals website, scrolled through the listings and winced at the prices. There was one place – a one-bedroom flat, much cheaper than everywhere else. He squinted at the photographs, which were suspiciously blurry. Fuck it. Beggars can’t be choosers. He took a breath, sent a message. A few minutes later he’d made a deal for one month’s rental at a reduced price, a price that made his shoulders tighten and which would decimate his limited savings, his credit card limit and basically every bit of cash he had. He’d have to borrow a few quid from Aoife. She would say yes without a thought, and she could afford it. Aoife was estranged from her parents, who’d wanted a delicate, seen-and-not-heard blonde princess, and hadn’t known what to do with the rough-and-tumble extrovert they got. They’d dumped her in boarding school as soon as possible, in the misguided hope that the school would turn her into the child they’d always wanted. When at eighteen Aoife had come out as a lesbian, they had mouthed politically correct platitudes but had grown colder and even more absent. They had managed their middle-class guilt by giving her a generous lump sum on her twenty-first birthday, and then encouraging her to not bother visiting. She had that money sitting in a bank account somewhere, and her doctor’s salary, neither of which she had time to spend with the hours she worked. That didn’t make it all right, though. He would have done almost anything to avoid borrowing money from her, anything but live with his father. He called Aoife, asked her for the bare minimum he needed to survive. She said she would transfer double, and then hung up before he could argue.
Twenty minutes later he met the owner – a taciturn German – at the flat and took possession of the keys. The flat was one of four built cheaply during the Celtic Tiger, probably with the benefit of a tax break of some description. The plaster was grey and crumbling, struggling already with the onslaught of the weather and the proximity to the Atlantic. The German disappeared quickly. One look around told Peter why. There were no sheets on the bed and none in the linen closet. Just a thinning duvet, a lumpy pillow and a smallish threadbare towel. The place smelled of damp and neglect. It was very cold. Peter dumped his bags in the corner of the living room. He’d make it work. Figure out the heating, and if that couldn’t be made to work, there was a fireplace. He poked about in the kitchen. There was a fridge, an oven, a toaster and kettle and a washing machine, and the electricity was on. He felt a small sense of relief, of satisfaction. As long as he had a space of his own, he could get through these next weeks and get out. Maybe it wouldn’t be as bad as he had feared.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Cormac heard the broadcast on Tuesday evening. He had taken the time to prepare what was, by his standards, a fairly elaborate dinner. He really didn’t have much else to do. The radio was playing in the background.
The garda press office has confirmed that gardaí made a major heroin seizure off the coast of the West of Ireland on Saturday evening, amidst a worrying increase in the supply of the killer drug across Europe this year. A 35-year-old man and a 32-year-old woman, both Irish nationals, were arrested and are being held for questioning about the haul. Gardaí are yet to confirm quantities seized, but it is understood at least 32 kilos of heroin, worth 6.5 million euro, were discovered.
Cormac looked at his lamb, his untouched potato gratin. He took a single bite, chewed slowly, and swallowed. Then he stood, put his plate on the countertop and went upstairs to change into shorts and a T-shirt. He grabbed his runners, his jacket and headed out the door. He needed to run.
It was already dark, coming up on seven-thirty p.m., and the city traffic was quieting down. He turned his back to it, ran out towards the water. The setting sun cast a grey and pallid light over the ocean. It was a cold night but there were still walkers and other runners about. He recognised a few faces and upped his speed. He was in no mood for conversation, and pace was as good an isolator as a pair of headphones.
Cormac pushed on, running hard, taking little pleasure in the fact that he found the pace comfortable. The first four months after Emma had left he’d taken to going to the pub once or twice a week for a couple of pints, and that had slowly become his routine. One evening he found himself heading for the pub after work on a Tuesday evening, and knew that it was more likely than not that he’d be there every night until Saturday. It was boredom that drove him there, and a loneliness he wouldn’t admit to, rather than any particular yen for the drink. But the motivation didn’t matter when the outcome was the same. He’d knocked it on the head that night, packed a bag for the gym the following morning, and exercise had become his chosen method for passing the time. Now, as he ran, he had to acknowledge that though the gym was a healthier choice, it was no more satisfying. Oh, he was pleased enough that his burgeoning beer belly was a thing of the past, that despite long hours at the station, he was leaner and stronger than he had been in years. But after a month or two, an hour spent running or in the gym felt as empty as sinking pints in the pub. More so, maybe. He’d thought about finding a rugby team. A team of old farts like himself, men who were carrying enough old injuries that they had no urge to beat each other to a pulp just to prove a point. He’d been thinking about it for months, but had done nothing. The truth was that with Emma away he’d been in a holding pattern. Waiting for her. Waiting for change.
The run did what it was meant to do. By the time he got back to the house the clear night sky had given way to clouds, and there was a smattering of cold rain that he welcomed. He had a long shower, dressed and came downstairs. He stood for a minute in the doorway of the kitchen, letting his eyes drift around the room. With Emma away, he had taken to living small. Laundry once a week, meals for one. He was naturally disciplined so he tidied up after himself. His life had become almost military in its routine. He wished now it hadn’t. If the place were a tip, he’d have something to do at least. Could make some sort of project out of fixing things up. But the place was clean, everything more or less as it should be. Cormac turned and grabbed his keys. He didn’t want to be here anymore.
He went to the pub. To The Front Door, specifically. The task force was having drinks, a celebration of the record-breaking raid they’d just pulled off. He had no intention of missing it.
The place was heaving when he got there. Every cop in Galway wanted to get in on this, be a part of it, and some of them looked like they’d been at it all day. Everyone, that is, except for his own little team. There was no sign of Dave McCarthy, Deirdre Russell or Rory Mulcair. Reynolds must be working them hard. Anthony Healy was there, in position at the back bar. He was red-faced and sweaty, holding a pint in one hand, gesticulating with the other. No sign at first glance of Trevor Murphy. Cormac moved among the crowd, had a few words with some of the lads. Conversations quietened as he drew near, but they were still on a high and they wanted to talk. How many of them knew about his suspension? All of them, surely. Cormac took his time, worked hard at giving off a relaxed vibe, gave them a bit of encouragement. Soon enough he was hearing stories about cold nights sitting on one rocky shore or another, or out on a boat, chasing what felt like wisps of rumours. Stories about Saturday night, when it seemed that everything had changed. Operating on a tip-off from one of Trevor Murphy’s informants, they’d gone out with the coastguard, followed a small pleasure yacht coming in at a distance, and managed to take down both supplier and receiver. Cormac made all the right noises. He listened, nodded, smiled and bought a few pints. He spotted Carrie O’Halloran, momentarily alone at a corner table. He made his way over and joined her there. Her dark eyes assessed him.
/> ‘Well,’ he said.
‘Well yourself.’
‘Enjoying the party?’
She shrugged. ‘It’s a big win. You have to celebrate the wins. We don’t get enough of them.’
He nodded. ‘Not lately, anyway.’
‘I heard about the suspension,’ she said.
Cormac grimaced. ‘I didn’t see it coming.’
Carrie gave a tired sigh. ‘You need to get better at making friends, Cormac. Murphy’s not the worst. I know he’s not your kind of cop, but he does what he has to to survive.’
‘What he’s done over the last few months is rip the guts out of the station. Poured resources into his son’s pet project.’
Carrie gestured to the crowd in the pub. ‘Yeah. And look at the outcome. You might not like it, but you have to give credit where it’s due.’
Cormac nodded slowly, took a sip from his warming pint. He’d been nursing one since he arrived, was less than halfway through it.
‘I was hoping I’d bump into you this evening,’ he said.
‘You want to ask me about Peter.’
‘That too.’
She laughed ruefully, shook her head. ‘You probably know more about it than I do. I just did his debrief. I haven’t seen him since Saturday night.’
‘He’s been offered a transfer, to the sticks. Murphy intimated that if he went quietly, he might come out of this thing reasonably intact.’
‘That’s good,’ she said. She paused. ‘It might be better than he deserves.’
Cormac felt that. He put his pint down.
‘You know, Cormac, what happened with Fisher wasn’t their fault.’ Carrie gestured towards the crowded pub. ‘No one sent him out there after that car but himself. He was always too eager to please you.’
‘You’re saying he shot Kelly to please me?’
‘You know what I’m saying. He should have waited. Yes, you were short-staffed. And yes, he was worried for the girl, but he needs to be able to handle that sort of pressure, still make good decisions. You can’t blame Murphy for what Peter did.’
‘I never said I did,’ Cormac said, deliberately mildly.
That irritated her. He’d noticed that about Carrie. The more even-tempered he appeared, the more exasperated she seemed to get. She leaned forward across the table. ‘Then stop pissing people off,’ she hissed. ‘Make some friends and you might even be able to bring Fisher in from the cold. Keep it up and maybe you’ll end up in Siberia with him.’
He smiled at her, couldn’t help it, even though part of him knew it would probably annoy her even more. She was just so bloody decent, she was such a fighter. He liked that about her so much.
She scowled back at him and took a sip from her wine. ‘How’s Emma?’ she asked.
‘She’s grand. Working hard.’
‘Still in Brussels?’
He nodded.
‘See much of her?’
‘I booked a flight. I’m going tomorrow.’
‘That’s probably a good idea,’ she said, but after a moment she narrowed her eyes, leaned back. ‘It’s not like you to run away, Cormac.’
They were interrupted before anything more was said.
‘So this is where you’re hiding.’ Anthony Healy’s voice was loud, full of false bonhomie. He put a moist hand on Cormac’s shoulder, swaying a little on his feet. His eyes went from Carrie to Cormac and back again. ‘Did you hear about our little raid, Reilly?’ he asked.
‘Congratulations,’ Cormac said, his tone very dry. ‘It was quite a win.’
Healy pulled a stool out from under their table, sat down unsteadily. He put his pint down in front of him, lined it up carefully.
‘How’s your little protégé?’ he asked.
Cormac took a drink from his own pint, then pushed it away. ‘I’m not sure who you mean,’ he said.
‘I mean that young fella. Fisher. The guy with the heavy trigger finger. I hear he’s been banished.’
‘I haven’t spoken to him recently,’ Cormac said evenly. ‘I’m sure he’s fine.’
Healy was looking at him intently. Carrie had withdrawn a little and it seemed as if Healy had forgotten her presence. He sat up straighter, bloodshot eyes oozing sincerity.
‘You’re a good detective, Reilly. I know we haven’t been the best of friends, but you’re a good detective, I’ve never denied it. But you’ve got one problem, you know that?’
‘I’m sure you’ll tell me,’ Cormac said.
Healy waved a hand expansively as if Cormac had just made his point for him. ‘You think you’re better than everyone else.’ He smiled widely, let the silence fall and waited for Cormac to respond. When Cormac said nothing, he took it as an invitation to continue.
‘Look, what happened to Fisher could have happened to any of us. That’s my point. That’s why we need to stick together. Brotherhood.’ A clumsy gesture towards Carrie. ‘Sisterhood, if you want. It’s about trust. It’s about belief. You want to have friends you can call on when things go wrong? They need to know that you’ll be there for them too, that you’ve got their backs.’
It was so close to what Carrie had said just a few minutes before that for a second Cormac thought that they’d discussed it beforehand. Conspired. That this was some sort of clumsy intervention. Well intentioned, at least on Carrie’s part, but if she’d thrown in her lot with Healy, that was a colossal misjudgement, and he’d thought more of her. He tried to catch her eye, but she was looking at Healy and there was dislike in her eyes.
‘How’s the wife, Healy?’ she asked.
Healy’s face contorted in sudden anger. ‘That bitch,’ he said. ‘She’s sitting on her fat ass in my house in Spain, did you know that? She’s never worked a day in her life, but somehow I’m expected to keep her in style now that she’s left me. Fucking women.’ His eyes wandered from Carrie’s face to her breasts and lingered there. ‘You’d never do that, O’Halloran,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you this much. You’re a hard worker.’
Carrie finished her wine. ‘Oh, I’m a bitch in my own little way,’ she said. She stood, picked up her jacket from the back of her chair. ‘I’m off,’ she said. ‘Early night.’
Cormac followed her lead. He’d got what he’d come here for. He stood. Nodded to Healy. ‘Congratulations again,’ he said. ‘Great outcome.’
But Healy said nothing. He watched Cormac and Carrie leave, a curl to his lip. As soon as the door had closed behind them, he returned to the bar, and made sure to point out to anyone who’d listen that Carrie O’Halloran and Cormac Reilly had left the pub together.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Peter’s first night in the flat was a cold one. Fixing the boiler had proved beyond his limited abilities and Horan’s was closed when he went out in search of fuel for a fire. He was helped a little bit by the fact that the apartment was on the first floor. The unit below his was occupied, and some small amount of heat must have penetrated upwards from the rooms below. But he felt it. The cold that had seemed bearable when he climbed fully clothed under the duvet at ten o’clock was bitter when he woke at three a.m., and again at five. His breath condensed in the air. He couldn’t stop shivering.
By seven a.m. he gave up, got up, and searched through the cupboards in the little kitchenette. He filled the kettle and found some teabags, presumably abandoned by a previous tenant. There was no milk or sugar, but the comfort of hot tea was still welcome. At eight he left the apartment in search of food and warmth. Horan’s was open. Sharon was there, watching TV, well wrapped in a puffa jacket and hat, her gloved hands curled around a cup of coffee.
‘Christ but it takes ages for this place to heat up in the mornings,’ she said. She yawned widely, making no effort to cover her mouth. She nodded towards the back of the shop. ‘There’s a coffee machine back there. And if you’re looking for food, I can nuke one of those sausage rolls for you.’
‘Thanks – I’ll take two, please,’ Peter said. He got his coffee, returned to the counter.
> ‘So Sergeant Fisher’s your dad?’ she asked, as she swiped his card.
‘Technically, yes,’ he said.
‘Like that, is it?’
‘Yes,’ he said. He didn’t want to encourage conversation about this particular topic, but neither did he want anyone getting the impression that he and Des were close.
‘Same,’ she said. She didn’t say anything else, just bagged his sausage rolls and returned her gaze to her TV.
‘See ya, Sharon,’ he said.
‘Mm hmm.’ She didn’t look up and Peter smiled to himself as he left the shop.
Peter drove to the garda station, but the building was dark, still locked up. He sat in the car and ate his food and drank his coffee, with the heater on full blast. Nine a.m. came and went with no sign of Des. Nine-thirty. What a surprise. Peter yawned and blinked for what felt like the fortieth time. The heat in the car was knocking him out. Fuck it. He put his seat back, folded his arms, closed his eyes and fell asleep in moments.
He was woken, disoriented, by a knock on his car window. A man who was not his father was leaning over, grinning in at him.
‘You must be Peter,’ the man said, raising his voice and putting his face right up to the glass, squinting a little. ‘Come in and I’ll make the tea.’ He stepped back then stood, waiting, grin intact. Peter pulled himself together and climbed out of the car. The other man offered his hand and Peter shook it.
‘James Brennan. Jim. Your dad probably mentioned me.’
Peter, still half asleep, shook his head.
‘You haven’t seen Des yet today?’ Jim asked.
‘Not yet.’
‘He’ll be out in the community so,’ Jim said. ‘He’s great at the relationship-building. Always keeps a finger on the pulse. But you’ll know that yourself.’
The Good Turn Page 11
