Macey’s face was very strange in color now. “I don’t feel well.”
“You’ll feel better when you’ve told me. Get on with it.”
“Tommy lives on his own about half a mile from here in Canal Street. He’s done up the old warehouse at the end. Calls himself Kelly, George Kelly.”
“I know that area well, every stick and stone.”
“Devlin asked for Tommy’s phone number and called him there and then. He said it was essential to see him. That it was to do with you. Tommy agreed to see him at two o’clock.”
“Fine,” Dillon said. “See how easy it was? Now I can call on him myself before Devlin does and discuss old times, only I won’t bother to phone. I think I’ll surprise him. Much more fun.”
“You’ll never get in to see him,” Macey said. “You can only get in at the front, all the other doors are welded. He’s been paranoid for years. Terrified someone’s going to knock him off. You’d never get in the front door. It’s all TV security cameras and that kind of stuff.”
“There’s always a way,” Dillon said.
“There always was for you.” Macey tore at his shirt collar, choking. “Pills,” he moaned and got the drawer in front of him open. The bottle he took fell from his hands.
He lay back on the chair and Dillon got up and went round and picked up the bottle. “Trouble is, Patrick, the moment I go out of the door you’ll be on the phone to Tommy and that wouldn’t do, would it?”
He walked across to the fireplace and dropped the pill bottle into the gleaming coals. There was a crash behind him and he turned to find Macey had tumbled from the chair to the floor. Dillon stood over him for a moment. Macey’s face was very suffused with purple now and his legs were jerking. Suddenly, he gave a great gasp like air escaping, his head turned to one side and he went completely still.
Dillon put the Colt in his pocket, went through the shop and opened the door, locking it with the Yale, leaving the blind down. A moment later he turned the corner into the Falls Road and walked back toward the hotel as fast as he could.
He laid the contents of the case on the bed in the shabby hotel room, then he undressed. First of all he put on the jeans, the old runners and a heavy jumper. Then came the wig. He sat in front of the mirror at the small dressing table, combing the gray hair until it looked wild and unkempt. He tied the headscarf over it and studied himself. Then he pulled on the skirt that reached his ankles. The old raincoat that was far too large completed the outfit.
He stood in front of the wardrobe examining himself in the mirror. He closed his eyes, thinking the role, and when he opened them again it wasn’t Dillon anymore, it was a decrepit, broken, bag lady.
He hardly needed any makeup, just a foundation to give him the sallow look and the slash of scarlet lipstick for the mouth. All wrong, of course, but totally right for the character. He took a half bottle of whisky from a pouch in the briefcase and poured some into his cupped hands, rubbing it over his face, then he splashed some more over the front of the raincoat. He put the Colt, a couple of newspapers and the whisky bottle into a plastic bag and was ready to leave.
He glanced in the mirror at that strange, nightmarish old woman. “Showtime,” he whispered and let himself out.
All was quiet as he went down the backstairs and went out into the yard. He closed the door behind him carefully and crossed to the door which led to the alley. As he reached it, the hotel door opened behind him.
A voice called, “Here, what do you think you’re doing?”
Dillon turned and saw a kitchen porter in a soiled white apron putting a cardboard box in the dustbin.
“Go fuck yourself,” Dillon croaked.
“Go on, get out of it, you old bag!” the porter shouted.
Dillon closed the door behind him. “Ten out of ten, Sean,” he said softly and went up the alley.
He turned into the Falls Road and started to shuffle along the pavement, acting so strangely that people stepped out of the way to avoid him.
It was almost one and Brosnan and Mary Tanner at the bar of the Europa were thinking about lunch when a young porter approached. “Mr Brosnan?”
“That’s right.”
“Your taxi is here, sir.”
“Taxi?” Mary said. “But we didn’t order one.”
“Yes we did,” Brosnan said.
He helped her on with her coat and they followed the young porter through the foyer, down the steps at the front entrance to the black cab waiting at the curb. Brosnan gave the porter a pound and they got in. The driver on the other side of the glass wore a tweed cap and an old reefer coat. Mary Tanner pulled the sliding glass partition to one side.
“I presume you know where we’re going?” she said.
“Oh, I certainly do, my love.” Liam Devlin smiled at her over his shoulder, moved into gear and drove away.
It was just after one-thirty when Devlin turned the taxi into Canal Street. “That’s the place at the end,” he said. “We’ll park in the yard at the side.” They got out and moved back into the street and approached the entrance. “Be on your best behavior, we’re on television,” he said and reached to a bell push beside the massive, iron-bound door.
“Not very homelike,” Mary commented.
“Yes, well, with Tommy McGuire’s background he needs a fortress rather than a cozy semidetached on some desirable estate.” Devlin turned to Brosnan. “Are you carrying, son?”
“No,” Brosnan said. “But she is. You are, I suppose?”
“Call it my innate caution or perhaps the wicked habits of a lifetime.”
A voice sounded through the box beside the door. “Is that you, Devlin?”
“And who else, you stupid bugger. I’ve got Martin Brosnan with me and a lady friend of his and we’re freezing in this damn cold, so get the door open.”
“You’re early. You said two o’clock.”
They could hear steps on the other side and then the door opened to reveal a tall, cadaverous man in his mid-sixties. He wore a heavy Arran pullover and baggy jeans and carried a Sterling sub-machine gun.
Devlin brushed past him, leading the way in. “What do you intend to do with that thing, start another war?”
McGuire closed the door and barred it. “Only if I have to.” He looked them over suspiciously. “Martin?” He held out a hand. “It’s been a long time. As for you, you old sod,” he said to Devlin, “whatever’s keeping you out of your grave you should bottle it. We’d make a fortune.” He looked Mary over. “And who might you be?”
“A friend,” Devlin told him. “So let’s get on with it.”
“All right, this way.”
The interior of the warehouse was totally bare except for a van parked to one side. A steel staircase led to a landing high above with what had once been glass-fronted offices. McGuire went first and turned into the first office on the landing. There was a desk and a bank of television equipment, one screen showing the street, another the entrance. He put the Sterling on the desk.
Devlin said, “You live here?”
“Upstairs. I’ve turned what used to be the storage loft into a flat. Now let’s get on with it, Devlin. What is it you want? You mentioned Sean Dillon.”
“He’s on the loose again,” Brosnan said.
“I thought he must have come to a bad end. I mean, it’s been so long.” McGuire lit a cigarette. “Anyway, what’s it to do with me?”
“He tried to knock off Martin here in Paris. Killed his girlfriend instead.”
“Jesus!” McGuire said.
“Now he’s on the loose in London and I want him,” Brosnan told him.
McGuire looked at Mary again. “And where does she fit in?”
“I’m a captain in the British Army,” she said crisply. “Tanner’s the name.”
“For God’s sake, Devlin, what is this?” McGuire demanded.
“It’s all right,” Devlin told him. “She hasn’t come to arrest you, although we all know that if Tommy McGuire was still in the land of the living he’d draw about twenty-five years.”