‘Have you been here all the time?’
‘More or less. I work from home.’ She lowered her gaze momentarily.
‘And the guy that just left was the first job of the day, right?’ grinned Doyle.
She looked at him and the smile returned. She nodded.
‘I think my friend’s due back this morning but I don’t want to miss him,’
Doyle lied. ‘He never answers his phone either.’
The counter terrorist held the woman’s gaze with his piercing grey eyes, a slight smile touching his lips. ‘It’s a raw morning to be waiting about,’ he said quietly, rubbing his hands together.
‘Do you want to come in?’
‘How much is it going to cost me?’
‘That depends.’
Doyle grinned and stepped inside.
Matthew Finan saw the dustcart blocking Dalton Road and sighed irritably. He banged his hooter but the driver could only shrug.
Finan realised he’d have to either wait for the vehicle to move or drive around the block and come in from the other direction.
He stuck the Renault in reverse, swung it into the next street and guided it around the rear of the flats. As he drove, he reached for his mobile phone and worked his way through the call index until he found the number he wanted.
It was answered on the second ring.
‘Declan, it’s me,’ he said. ‘I’ll be there in about five minutes. How long will you be?’
‘About a half an hour,’ Declan Leary told him.
‘See you then.’
Finan ended the call and parked the car.
The flat smelt of cheap perfume. The scent grew stronger as Doyle stepped into the small sitting room. There was a low coffee table in the centre with a large ashtray and four plastic coasters. Guests obviously didn’t bother with them because there were several circular marks on the surface of the scratched wood.
The single window was above a radiator shelf which sported several small ornaments, one of which, a ballerina, had an arm missing. Through the window, Doyle could see straight out on to the parapet. The walls were thin, and no one could pass the flat without him hearing.
As long as someone passed, of course.
He sat down on the mustard-coloured sofa, smoothed one hand over a cigarette burn in its arm and looked at his host.
‘So, what do you want to do?’ she asked, brushing her auburn hair behind her ears and moving towards Doyle.
‘What did the last guy do?’ he asked.
The usual.’
‘Which was?’
‘Same thing he always does when he comes here. Empties his balls into a Durex while he’s inside me. What do you think he does? What do you think they all do?’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Whatever you want it to be.’
‘I’m serious.’
‘So am I. You’re paying, I’ll be whoever you like.’
Doyle looked around, his gaze alighting on some photos on a sideboard to his
right. One of them showed the auburn-haired woman and an older couple.
‘Your parents?’ he wondered.
She nodded.
‘They must be very proud.’
‘They’re both dead,’ she snapped.
‘Mine too. Seems like we’ve got something in common.’
‘Listen, if you’re interested in spending some money then fair enough. If not, there are other guys who are.’
Doyle pulled out his wallet and pressed two twenties on to the coffee table.
‘What’ll that buy me?’ he wanted to know.
‘Whatever you want,’ she smiled.
‘Tell me your name.’
‘Karen,’ she said, reaching for the twenties.
Doyle shot out a hand and caught her wrist, pulling her towards him.
‘Just leave them there for now,’ he said. ‘I just want to talk.’
‘Oh, that’s your thing, is it?’ she purred, resting one hand on his thigh.
‘Okay, shall I tell you how I want your cock inside me?’
Doyle shook his head.‘I’m paying for your time, not your fanny,’ he said flatly.
She sat back, withdrawing her hand.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ she snapped. ‘If you’re a fucking copper, this—’
‘I’m not a copper. I’m just a poor cold soul paying for your time, keeping a roof over my head while I wait for a friend. That’s it. If you don’t want the money then fine.’
He reached forward to snatch up the notes.
‘No,’ she blurted. ‘All right, if you want to talk we’ll talk.’
Doyle settled back on the sofa.
His gaze moved occasionally in the direction of the window.
Matthew Finan paused as he reached the staircase and pulled the mobile phone from his pocket. He found the number and as he began to climb pressed call.
The ring tone buzzed in his ear as he made his way up the first flight of steps.
Still ringing.
He wondered if his sister was still out shopping. But he’d spoken to her the previous day and told her he’d pop in and see her towards lunchtime.
He reached the second flight and continued his climb, sucking in deep breaths every so often.
Still no answer.
He wondered if she was okay. He’d always looked out for her ever since they were kids. That was what older brothers were supposed to do for their little sisters his parents had told him. It was a credo he’d always lived by.
He and Shonagh were close. Even when they’d been growing up together, there had been little of the sibling rivalry that normally blights brother-sister relationships.
Perhaps, over the years, he’d been a little over-protective (using a length of lead piping on a man he’d
suspected of getting her pregnant when she was nineteen may have been a touch excessive) but, what the hell, he loved her and he wasn’t about to see any harm come to her.
He knew that one of her neighbours had a key to her house. He could always call her. Get her to check on Shonagh. If he could just remember the bloody number.
He began to climb the third flight of stairs.
Doyle held the mug of tea in both hands and looked again at the window.
‘How long are you going to be?’
Karen Mercer’s voice seemed to echo inside the small flat.
The counter terrorist heard but didn’t look at her.
‘What would you be doing if I wasn’t here?’ he asked.
‘Earning money.’
Doyle pulled another twenty from his wallet and slapped it down on the coffee
table.
She regarded the cash for a moment then sat back in her chair.
‘You’re not waiting for any friend, are you?’ Karen murmured.
‘I told you, he owes me money.’
Doyle sipped at his tea. He heard footsteps on the parapet. Heard them stop outside the flat next door. Heard a key turn in the lock.
About fucking time.
‘Put another sugar in there, will you, Karen?’
He handed her the mug then got to his feet, reaching in his jacket pocket for his mobile.
As she padded off to the kitchen, Doyle pressed the number he wanted.
‘Give me Robinson,’ he snapped before the voice at the other end even finished speaking. ‘It’s Doyle.’
Karen stood watching him from the living-room door.
‘Someone’s just gone inside the flat on Dalton Road,’ said Doyle. ‘Are the rest of your men in position?’
Robinson said that they were.
‘I want to wait until both of them are inside,’ Doyle continued. ‘If we take one of them out we’ll lose the other. Wait for my signal.’
‘You’re a fucking copper,’ Karen said. 1 knew it.’
Doyle finished the call and turned to face her.
‘I’m a guy who’s given you sixty quid to keep your fucking mouth shut. I suggest you do it. I’ll be out of here soon and you can get back to work. For the time being just sit down.’