“New York. I’m looking for a couple of guys. Martin Grogan and Frank Roche. Do you know if they’re here?”
“Martin didn’t come in tonight. Frank’s at his usual table over there,” she said, pointing into a crowd of customers.
“What does he drink?”
“Guinness,” came the quick reply.
“A pint of Guinness then.”
He paid for the drinks then made his way carefully through the crowd until he spotted Roche at a table in the corner of the room.
“Frank Roche?” Graham said when he reached the table.
Roche looked up sharply. “Who wants to know?”
“I’m a friend of Gerard McGuire’s,” Graham replied then placed the Guinness in front of Roche. He pulled up a chair and sat down.
Roche’s body tensed and his eyes automatically flickered toward the door.
“I have both the front and back doors covered,” Graham said, opening his jacket just enough for Roche to see the Beretta. “And you’d have to get past me first.”
“What do you want?” Roche asked, wiping a drop of sweat from his forehead.
“I’ve got five hundred pounds in my pocket for you. But how I give it to you is entirely up to you.”
“What do you mean?” Roche replied suspiciously.
“Well, if you cooperate I’ll pass it to you under the table. If not, I’ll make sure enough people around here know it’s for information you passed on to the cops. I don’t think they’d take too kindly to having a snitch in their midst, do you?”
“I ain’t no tout, mister,” Roche shot back, using the IRA’s term for an informer.
“Try explaining that to them,” Graham said, gesturing around him.
“You say you’re a friend of Gerry’s. How come I don’t know you?”
“I guess we just move in different circles,” Graham replied. “Where is he?”
Roche shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
“I hope not, for your sake.”
“Look, I don’t know where he is.”
“It’s your funeral,” Graham said, reaching into his jacket pocket.
“Wait!” Roche hissed. “I haven’t seen Gerry for a couple of days. I heard a rumor that he left town in a hurry last night. But I don’t know why or where he’s gone.”
“Has he got any close friends on the continent?”
“I don’t know all his close friends. I don’t know you, do I?”
“We were never that close,” Graham replied, then pushed aside his Budweiser and leaned forward on the table. “You didn’t answer my question. Is there anyone he’d go to if he were in trouble?”
“Is he?” Roche countered.
“Yeah.”
“Who with? The law?”
“The IRA,” Graham said.
“Jesus,” Roche muttered and rubbed his hands over his face. He looked up at Graham. “I’ve got nothing more to say to you, mister. I don’t want no trouble with the Provos.”
“It’s a bit late for that now. If word leaks back to them that you’ve been touting–”
“That’s a lie,” Roche cut in sharply.
“That’s not how they’d hear it.”
Roche was sweating. “OK, I’ll tell you what you want to know. Then you leave me alone.”
“Suits me,” Graham replied.
“He has a sister living somewhere in Belgium,” Roche said at length. “I don’t know where. He’s also got a couple of friends in France.”
“Names?”
“I don’t know. One of them lives near Paris. He’s a builder. That’s all I know about him.”
“And the other one?”
Roche shrugged. “I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t.”
“What about here in Britain?”
“Martin was his closest friend.”
“Martin Grogan?”
“Yes. They’re like brothers.”
“So I believe,” Graham replied.
“He lives in Stroud Green. Granville Road.” Roche looked around him nervously. “OK, I’ve kept to my side of the bargain. Now you keep yours. Get out of here and leave me alone.”
“One last question,” Graham said, remembering what Eastman had told him in the car. “Where’s this so-called safe house that only the three of you know about?”
Roche went pale. “How do you know about that?”
“I have my sources. But like everyone else, they don’t know where it is.”
“We’ve managed to keep its location a secret for the past six months. From the law and from the Provos. And I intend to keep it that way.”
“Fair enough. I’ll get on to my contact in Belfast. He’s just waiting for the word to stitch you up. You’ll be lucky to see out the week by the time the Provos have finished with you,” Graham said, making to get up.
“It’s a flat in Leyton,” Roche blurted out. “Fifty-six Mews Heights. Langthorne Road. Close to the cemetery.”
“That wasn’t so difficult, was it?” Graham said, reaching for the money in his pocket.
“I don’t want your money, mister,” Roche spat indignantly.
“I know you won’t let on to the IRA about our little chat. You’d have too much explaining to do. But you might think about warning Grogan. If I find out you have contacted him, the Provos will receive an anonymous call tonight telling them that you’re a police tout.”
“Get out,” Roche snarled, stressing each word carefully.
Graham got to his feet, snaking his way through the crowd and out into the street. Eastman was talking to someone in the shadows of the alleyway across the street. Graham was curious as to who it might be but first he headed up the alley to find Sabrina. She was perched on the edge of a dustbin outside the back door.
“Well?” she asked, standing up.
“I spoke to Roche. It’s possible that Grogan may know where McGuire’s hiding out.”
“Was Grogan there?”
“No, but I’ve got the address.” They crossed the street to where the Ford was parked. “Who was that you were talking to when I came out of the bar?” he asked Eastman as they got back into the car.
“One of my colleagues. As I said, I’ve had a team watching the pub all day. They’re cold, tired and well pissed off that McGuire didn’t show.” Eastman started the car. “Any luck with the safe house?”
As Graham gave the address Eastman immediately set off for Leyton.
Martin Grogan was drunk. A bottle of whiskey stood on the table beside his chair. It was almost empty. He poured himself another measure then picked up the remote control and flicked through the channels on the television set. As usual, nothing worth watching. He cursed loudly but settled on a pop concert on Channel 4. Though he hated pop music the noise seemed strangely comforting.
He had been drinking steadily for most of the day in an attempt to forget. He was torn between two loyalties. A friendship and a cause. McGuire had been his best friend for over thirty years. They had grown up together in the slums of Belfast. A tough, uncompromising childhood. They had joined the IRA in their late teens and served in the same unit for eight years in their twenties. When McGuire decided to head for London five years earlier, it had seemed only natural for Grogan to go with him. Those were the good times …
Then McGuire had called him the previous evening. Distraught, agitated, and clearly in fear for his life. An IRA cell had just tried to kill him. Grogan didn’t believe it. Well, at least not at first. Why would the IRA want to kill one of their most trusted operatives on the British mainland? Then McGuire had told him. He had been a tout for the past two years. And now the IRA had found out about his deception. He begged Grogan to help him. He was his last chance. Although devastated by McGuire’s admission, Grogan had reluctantly agreed to take him some money and a change of clothing. But after that he was on his own. The friendship was over …
There was a knock at the door.