Faithful Place (Dublin Murder Squad, #3)(43)

Carmel gave the seat a suspicious look and a quick swipe with a tissue before she sat down. “Thank God Mammy didn’t come after all. This place’d put the heart crossways in her.”

“Christ,” Kevin said, his head jerking up. “Ma was going to come?”

“She’s worried about Francis.”

“Dying to pick his brains, more like. She’s not going to follow you or anything, is she?”

“Wouldn’t put it past her,” Jackie said. “Secret Agent Ma.”

“She won’t. I told her you were gone home,” Carmel said to me, fingertips over her mouth, between guilty and mischievous. “God forgive me.”

“You’re a genius,” Kevin said, heartfelt, slumping back into his seat.

“He’s right. She’d only have wrecked all our heads.” Jackie craned her neck, trying to catch the barman’s eye. “Will I get served in here these days, will I?”

“I’ll go up,” Kevin said. “What’ll you have?”

“Get us a gin and tonic.”

Carmel pulled her stool up to the table. “Would they have a Babycham, d’you think?”

“Ah, Jesus, Carmel.”

“I can’t drink the strong stuff. You know I can’t.”

“I’m not going up there and asking for a poxy Babycham. I’ll get the crap kicked out of me.”

“You’ll be grand,” I said. “It’s 1980 in here anyway; they’ve probably got a whole crate of Babycham behind the bar.”

“And a baseball bat waiting for any guy who asks for it.”

“I’ll go.”

“There’s Shay now.” Jackie half stood up and flapped a hand to get his attention. “He can go, sure; he’s up already.”

Kevin said, “Who invited him?”

“I did,” Carmel told him. “And the pair of yous can act your age and be civil to each other, for once. This evening’s about Francis, not about you.”

“I’ll drink to that,” I said. I was pleasantly pissed, just heading into the stage where everything looked colorful and soft-edged and nothing, not even the sight of Shay, could grate on me. Normally the first hint of the warm fuzzies makes me switch to coffee, fast. That night I intended to enjoy every second of them.

Shay lounged over to our corner, running a hand through his hair to get rid of the raindrops. “I’d never have guessed this place was up to your standards,” he said to me. “You brought your cop mate in here?”

“It was heartwarming. Everyone welcomed him like a brother.”

“I’d have paid to watch that. What’re you drinking?”

“Are you buying?”

“Why not.”

“Sweet,” I said. “Guinness for me and Kevin, Jackie’ll have a G and T, and Carmel wants a Babycham.”

Jackie said, “We just want to see you go up and order it.”

“No problem to me. Watch and learn.” Shay headed up to the bar, got the barman’s attention with an ease that said this was his local, and waved the bottle of Babycham at us triumphantly. Jackie said, “Bleeding show-off.”

Shay came back balancing all the glasses at once, with a precision that goes with plenty of practice. “So,” he said, putting them down on the table. “Tell us, Francis: was that your mot, that all this fuss is about?” and, when everyone froze, “Cop on, will yous; you’re all gagging to ask him the same thing. Was it, Francis?”

Carmel said in her best mammy-voice, “Leave Francis alone. I told Kevin and I’m telling you: you’ve to behave yourselves tonight.”

Shay laughed and pulled up a stool. I had had plenty of time during the last couple of hours, while my brain was still mainly unpickled, to consider exactly how much I wanted to share with the Place, or anyway with my family, which amounted to pretty much the same thing. “It’s all right, Melly,” I said. “Nothing’s definite yet, but yeah, it’s looking like that was probably Rosie.”

A quick suck of breath from Jackie, and then silence. Shay let out a long, low whistle.

“God rest,” Carmel said softly. She and Jackie crossed themselves.

“That’s what your man told the Dalys,” Jackie said. “The fella you were talking to. But, sure, no one knew whether to believe him or not . . . Cops, you know? They’ll say anything—not you, like, but the rest of them. He could’ve just wanted us to think that was her.”

“How do they know?” Kevin asked. He looked faintly sick.

I said, “They don’t, yet. They’ll run tests.”

“Like DNA stuff?”

“I wouldn’t know, Kev. Not my field.”

“Your field,” Shay said, turning his glass between his fingers. “I’ve been wondering: what is your field, exactly?”

I said, “This and that.” For obvious reasons, undercovers tend to tell civilians that we work in Intellectual Property Rights, or whatever else sounds dull enough to nip the conversation in the bud. Jackie thinks I implement strategic personnel utilization solutions.

Kevin asked, “Can they tell . . . you know. What happened to her?”

I opened my mouth, shut it again, shrugged and took a long swig of my pint. “Did Kennedy not talk to the Dalys about that?”