Faithful Place (Dublin Murder Squad, #3)(108)

The cunning little bitch. “I bet she is. She’s the obliging type. If you know what I mean.”

“Oh, no. She’s not just trying to make me happy. Her evidence’ll hold up, if it comes to that.”

He let it hang there. The tiny smirk he couldn’t hide gave me the general idea, but I went along anyway. “Go on, then. Hit me. What’s she come up with?”

Scorch pursed up his lips, pretending to think about it. “She may end up being a witness, Frank. All depending. I can’t tell you her evidence if you’re going to try and harass her into changing it. I think we both know just how badly that could end, don’t we?”

I took my time. For a long, cold moment I stared him out of it; then I let my head fall back against the headrest and ran my hands over my face. “You know something, Scorch? This has been the longest week of my life.”

“I know that, old son. I’m hearing you. But, for everyone’s sake, you’re going to have to find somewhere more productive to direct that energy.”

“You’re right. I shouldn’t have gone looking for Imelda to begin with; that was well out of order. I just figured . . . she and Rosie were close, you know? I thought, if anyone knew anything . . .”

“You should have given me her name. I’d have talked to her for you. Same end result, none of this hassle.”

“Yes. You’re right again. It’s just . . . It’s hard to let go when there’s nothing definite one way or the other, you know? I like knowing what’s going on.”

Scorch said dryly, “Last time we talked, you sounded pretty sure you knew exactly what was going on.”

“I thought I did. I was positive.”

“But now . . . ?”

I said, “I’m tired, Scorch. Over the past week I’ve dealt with dead exes, dead brothers and a hefty dose of my parents, and I’m a very wrecked little puppy. Maybe that’s what’s doing it. I’m not positive about anything any more. Nothing at all.”

I could tell by the puffy look on Scorcher’s face that he was about to enlighten me, which was bound to put him in a better mood. “Sooner or later, Frank,” he told me, “we all end up getting a good kick in the certainties. That’s what life is. The trick is to turn that kick into a stepping-stone towards the next level of certainty. Do you get me?”

This time I swallowed my helping of tossed metaphor salad like a good boy. “Yeah, I do. And I bloody hate admitting this, to you of all people, but I need a hand up to that next level. I really do, mate. Put me out of my misery: what’s Imelda saying?”

“You’re not going to give her grief about it?”

“As far as I’m concerned, my life will be complete if I never see Imelda Tierney again.”

“I’m going to need your word on this, Frank. No dodging.”

“I give you my word I will not go near Imelda. Not about Kevin, not about Rosie, not about anything ever.”

“No matter what.”

“No matter what.”

“Believe me, I don’t want to complicate your life. And I won’t have to, as long as you don’t complicate mine. Don’t force my hand here.”

“I won’t.”

Scorcher smoothed his hair into place and snapped the sun visor shut. “In a way,” he said, “you were right to go after Imelda. Your technique may suck, my friend, but your instincts are spot-on.”

“She knew something.”

“She knew plenty. I’ve got a bit of a surprise for you, old son. I know you thought you and Rose Daly were keeping your relationship a big secret, but in my experience, when a woman says she won’t tell a soul, what she means is she’ll only tell her two very best friends. Imelda Tierney knew all along. The relationship, the plans to elope, everything.”

“God,” I said. I shook my head, did a shamefaced half laugh, let Scorcher inflate with satisfaction. “Right. She . . . wow. Now that I didn’t see coming.”

“You were only a kid. You didn’t know the rules of the game.”

“Still. Hard to believe I was ever that na?ve.”

“Here’s something else you may have missed: Imelda says Kevin had a massive thing for Rose, way back when. You’ve got to admit, that fits with what you’ve told me: she was the neighborhood babe, all the boys fancied her.”

“Well, sure. Yeah. But Kevin? He was only fifteen.”

“That’s old enough for the hormones to be going bananas. And old enough to wangle his way into clubs where he shouldn’t have been going. One night Imelda was in Bruxelles, and Kevin came up to her and offered to buy her a drink. They got talking, and he asked her—begged her—to put in a good word for him with Rose. That cracked Imelda up, but Kevin looked genuinely hurt, so once she stopped laughing, she told him it wasn’t personal: Rose was taken. That was as far as she was planning to go, but Kevin kept pestering her about who the guy was, and he kept buying her more drink . . .”

Scorch was managing to keep his face grave, but he was having a great old time. Right under the surface, he was still that deodorant-drenched teenager pumping his fist and hissing Score! “In the end, she spilled the whole thing. She didn’t see any harm in it: she thought he was a lovely sweet kid, plus she figured he’d back off once he knew they were talking about his own brother, right? Wrong. He lost the plot: shouting, kicking walls, throwing glasses . . . The bouncers had to boot him out of the place.”