Doyle looked at his watch. He’d give her ten minutes.
Shonagh Finan heard the knocking on the front door and put down her mug of tea.
She wandered through from the kitchen into the small living room, then out into the hall as another knock echoed through the house.
‘All right, all right, don’t knock the door down,’ she called, unfastening the lock.
Doyle nodded a greeting as she opened the door, aware of her appraising gaze.
‘Hi, there,’ he said, his accent impeccable. ‘Shonagh, right?’
She nodded. ‘I don’t know you,’ she told him.
‘Matt sent me,’ Doyle lied. ‘Can I come in?’
She hesitated a moment, hand still on the door knob.
‘It’s important,’ Doyle continued.
She stepped back and ushered him inside.
Step one.
He kept his hands in his pockets and waited in the hall. ‘Matt told me to meet him here,’ the counter terrorist informed her.‘He said he’d ring you. Tell you I was coming.’
‘I haven’t spoken to him,’ she said. ‘And I still don’t know who you are.’
‘Frank McKean,’ Doyle lied, pulling his right hand from his pocket and pushing it towards her by way of greeting.
Shonagh looked at the proffered appendage but declined to grasp it.
Doyle, with all the accomplishment of a seasoned actor, waved the hand in the air, embarrassed, then jammed it back into his pocket again. He attempted a smile and shuffled nervously from one foot to the other.
‘I’m a friend of Matt’s,’ he persisted.
‘I know most of his friends. I’ve never heard him talk about you before. Frank…’
‘McKean.’
‘That’s not a Belfast accent.’
‘Neither is yours.’
She smiled wryly.
Keep going.
‘I’m from the South,’ he lied.
‘Where?’
‘A little place called Ennis.’
She nodded.
‘Do you know it?’ he said, almost hopefully.
Shonagh shook her head.
‘Look, I’m sorry to just turn up on your doorstep like this but Matt said that
I’d to meet him here,’ Doyle continued.‘Him and Declan are interested in something I’ve got.’
Her expression changed slightly. ‘You know Declan Leary?’ she asked.
Bingo.
Through Matt, yeah,’ he told her.
‘Perhaps I ought to ring Matt, tell him you’re here.’
Doyle nodded.That’d be grand,’ he said smiling.‘And if Declan answers the phone you can tell him he still owes me some money.’
The card was played now.
That’s it Call the bastard. Bring him straight to me.
She hesitated.
‘Listen, if I’m intruding, I’m sorry,’ said Doyle. ‘I was supposed to meet him at my place but he said to come here. I don’t want to put you out.’
‘It’s no trouble, Mr McKean, I …’
‘Frank,’ he said softly. ‘Please, call me Frank.’
Shonagh smiled.‘You might as well have a drink while you’re waiting,’ she said. ‘Come through.’
She ushered him into the kitchen and switched the kettle on.
Doyle looked around the small room then smiled at Shonagh once again. She pointed towards a chair and he sat
‘How long have you known Matt?’ she asked, standing close to the kettle as it boiled.
Doyle shrugged. ‘A few months,’ he said.
‘Where did you meet him?’
The lie was ready. ‘In a pub in Clonard,’ he told her.
The water inside the kettle was bubbling now.
‘He didn’t tell me his sister was so good looking,’ Doyle added with a grin.
‘Nob off,’ she chided, waving a hand at him dismissively, her cheeks colouring slightly.
The kettle boiled. She turned to pour the water into the mugs.
Doyle was on his feet in a second.
He caught Shonagh’s hair in one strong hand and grabbed the kettle with the other.
She tried to scream but Doyle jerked harder on her hair.
‘Keep your fucking mouth shut or I’ll break your neck,’ he hissed into her ear, all traces of his Irish accent now gone. ‘Where’s your brother? I want an address.’
‘Fuck you,’ she panted, struggling against him.
Doyle pushed her against the cupboards.
‘An address,’ he rasped.
She didn’t speak.
He lifted the kettle and held it over her head, tilting it down slightly. She could see steam billowing from the spout.
‘Tell me where I can find him or you’ll need skin grafts for the rest of your fucking life,’ snapped the counter terrorist.
She whimpered.
I’ll count to three,’ he warned, upending the kettle full of scalding water a little more.
One single drop formed on the spout and fell on to her cheek. Shonagh yelped in pain and struggled more violently against Doyle but he heid her firmly.
‘An address,’ he reminded her. That’s all I need.’
‘Fuck off,’ she snapped.
‘You’re very brave for a girl about to lose her looks permanently.’
‘Who are you?’ she wanted to know.
‘Just a guy doing his job. Now give me that address before I melt your fucking face.’
Another drop of red-hot liquid fell on to her cheek.
The counter terrorist could see a small red welt rising where the scalding water touched flesh.
‘You can either tell me or the RUC,’ Doyle said. ‘Your choice.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Your brother’s a member of the Continuity IRA. Maybe you knew that, maybe you didn’t. Either way I couldn’t give a fuck. All I want to know is where I can find him.’
She stopped struggling so frenziedly for a second but Doyle still held her firmly before him.
That bomb that went off in the city centre a couple of days ago,’ he continued. ‘Your brother was involved with that. So was Declan Leary.’
‘You can’t prove that.’
‘I can if I speak to him. He might not even be guilty. Give me an address where I can find him, let me speak to him. He might not be in any trouble.’
Yeah, right
‘I don’t trust you,’ she protested. ‘How do I know you’re not from some fucking Proddie organisation?’
‘You don’t. But seeing as I’ve got a kettle full of boiling water held over your face you’re not really in a position to argue, are you?’
She was shaking.
‘As it happens I’m with the Counter Terrorist Unit,’ Doyle continued. ‘Not that that really matters at the moment’
‘Are you going to hurt him?’
‘It’s a possibility,’ Doyle said flatly.‘But right now I’ll hurt you if you don’t tell me where I can fucking find him.’
Another moment of silence.
‘All right,’ Shonagh gasped.
Doyle released his grip on her hair and stepped back a pace.
‘Now, your brother or Declan Leary,’ he snapped. ‘Where are they?’
She put one hand to the cheek where the boiling water had dripped.
‘You would have done it, wouldn’t you?’ she murmured. ‘You would have scalded me.’
He nodded. ‘If I had to. Give me an address.’
She regarded him venomously. ‘You’re a real fucking hard man, aren’t you? Threatening a woman. Do you get off on that, you bastard?’
‘The address.’
‘Fuck you,’ she hissed.
Doyle quickly slid one hand inside his leather jacket. It closed over the butt of the Beretta 92F 9mm automatic nestled in the shoulder holster and he pulled the pistol free.
This’ll do you more damage than boiling water,’ he intoned. ‘Now where’s your fucking brother?’
‘He’ll kill you.’
‘He’ll try. The address?’
There are some flats in Dalton Road,’ she said through clenched teeth.‘He uses one of them. Number forty-four.’