Faithful Place (Dublin Murder Squad, #3)(110)
She aimed an elbow at my stomach; when I tightened my hold, she tried to bite my hand. I pressed it down harder, pulling her head back, till her neck arched and I could feel her teeth crushing against her lip. I said, “When I take my hand away, I want you to think about two things. The first one is that I’m a whole lot closer than anyone else. The second one is what Deco upstairs would think if he knew there was an informer living here, because it would be very, very easy for him to find out. Do you think he’d take it out on you, personally, or would he decide Isabelle’s juicier? Or maybe Genevieve? You tell me, Imelda. I don’t know what kind of taste he’s got.”
Her eyes were lit up with pure fury, like a trapped animal’s. If she could have bitten my throat out, she would have done it. I said, “So what’s the plan? Are you going to scream?”
After a moment, her muscles slowly loosened and she shook her head. I let go, tossed a bunch of Burberry off an armchair onto the floor and settled in. “There,” I said. “Isn’t this cozy?”
Imelda rubbed tenderly at her jaw. “Prick,” she said.
“This wasn’t my choice, babe, now was it? I gave you two separate chances to talk to me like a civilized person, but no: you wanted it this way.”
“My fella’ll be home any minute now. He does the security. You don’t want to be messing with him.”
“That’s funny, because he wasn’t home last night and there’s nothing in this room that says he’s ever existed.” I kicked the Burberry out of the way so I could stretch out my legs. “Why would you lie about something like that, Imelda? Don’t tell me you’re afraid of me.”
She was sulking in the corner of the sofa, arms and legs crossed tight, but that got a rise out of her. “You wish, Francis Mackey. I’ve bet the shite out of a lot tougher than you.”
“Oh, I’m sure you have. And if you can’t beat the shite out of them, you run and tell someone who might. You squelt on me to Scorcher Kennedy—no, shut your bloody great gob and don’t be trying to lie your way out—and I’m not one bit happy about it. But it’s easily fixed. All you have to do is tell me who you ran to about me and Rosie, and hey presto, all will be forgiven.”
Imelda shrugged. In the background, the TV baboons were still belting each other with studio chairs; I leaned over, keeping a sharp eye on Imelda just in case, and yanked the plug out of the wall. Then I said, “I didn’t hear you.”
Another shrug. I said, “I think I’ve been more than patient. But this right here, what you’re looking at? This is the last of my patience, sweetheart. Take a good long look. It’s a whole lot prettier than what comes next.”
“So?”
“So I thought you’d been warned about me.”
I caught the flash of fear across her face. I said, “I know what they’re saying around here. Which one do you think I killed, Imelda? Rosie or Kevin? Or is it both?”
“I never said—”
“See, I’m betting on Kevin. Am I right? I thought he killed Rosie, so I booted him out that window. Is that what you’ve figured out?”
Imelda had better sense than to answer. My voice was rising fast, but I didn’t care if Deco and his drug buddies heard every word. I had been waiting all week for a chance to lose my temper like this. “Tell me this: how thick do you have to be, how incredibly stupid, to play games with someone who would do that to his own brother? I’m in no mood to be f*cked with, Imelda, and you spent yesterday afternoon f*cking with me. Do you think that was a good idea?”
“I just wanted—”
“And now here you are, doing it again. Are you deliberately trying to push me that extra inch? Do you want me to snap, is that it?”
“No—”
I was up out of the armchair, gripping the sofa back on either side of her head, shoving my face so close to hers I could smell cheese-and-onion crisps on her breath. “Let me explain something, Imelda. I’ll use small words, so it’ll get through your thick skull. Inside the next ten minutes, I swear to Christ, you’re going to answer my question. I know you’d rather stick to the story you told Kennedy, but you don’t have that option. Your only choice is whether you want to answer with a few slaps or without.”
She tried to duck her head away from me, but I got one hand cupped around her jaw and forced her face up to mine. “And before you decide, think about this: how hard would it be for me to get carried away and wring your neck like a chicken’s? Everyone around here already thinks I’m Hannibal Lecter. What the hell have I got to lose?” Maybe she was ready to talk by then, but I didn’t give her the chance. “Your friend Detective Kennedy may not be my biggest fan, but he’s a cop, just like me. If you turn up beaten to pulp, or God forbid dead as a doornail, don’t you think he’s going to look after his own? Or do you seriously think he’ll care more about some bone-stupid skanger tramp whose life wasn’t worth a fiver to anyone in this world? He’ll throw you away in a heartbeat, Imelda. Like the piece of shite you are.”
I knew the look on her face, the slack jaw, the blind black eyes stretched too wide to blink. I had seen it on my ma a hundred times, in the second when she knew she was about to get hit. I didn’t care. The thought of the back of my hand cracking across Imelda’s mouth almost choked me with how badly I wanted it. “You didn’t mind opening your ugly yap for anyone else who asked. Now, by Jesus, you’re going to open it for me. Who’d you tell about me and Rosie? Who, Imelda? Who was it? Was it your slut ma? Who the f*ck did you—”