Cramer put down his fork. The bulk of his scrambled eggs remained untouched on the plate. ‘What will he be able to tell me?’
‘He might be able to give you an idea of what sort of man the killer is, give you a profile so that you recognise him when he moves against you.’
Cramer smiled thinly. ‘Moves against me? You mean tries to kill me.’
‘Whatever. It’ll give you an edge.’
‘I’ll take whatever I can get,’ said Cramer. He rubbed his stomach.
The Colonel leaned forward, concerned. ‘Are you okay?’
‘A bit sore, but nothing like as bad as it’s going to be in a few weeks.’
‘There’s a doctor coming later. He’ll give you a check-up.’
‘I’ve been seen by experts, Colonel. I’ve had all the second opinions I need.’
‘All the same, I want him to look at you. He might be able to prescribe something for the pain.’
Cramer shook his head. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘Painkillers will just slow me down. Besides, the pain lets me know I’m still alive.’ He pushed the plate away and drained his mug.
They both looked over at the door as they heard footsteps in the hallway. A short, portly man carrying a large briefcase entered the dining hall, walking quickly as if he was behind schedule. He was wearing a dark blue blazer and black slacks and his shoes gleamed as if they’d just been polished. The Colonel stood up. ‘The doctor?’ asked Cramer.
‘The tailor,’ said the Colonel.
‘A tailor? What the hell do I need a tailor for?’
‘The man whose place you’ll be taking wouldn’t be seen dead in clothes like yours, Joker.’
The tailor put his briefcase on the table, opened it and took out a tapemeasure and a small notebook. ‘Up, up, up,’ he said to Cramer, talking as quickly as he walked. Cramer got to his feet and held out his hands to the sides. The Colonel smiled as the tailor busied himself taking Cramer’s measurements and scribbling them down in his notebook. ‘Three suits, we said?’
‘That’s right,’ said the Colonel. ‘All dark pinstripe, double breasted, no turn-ups. A dozen shirts, all white, double cuffs. Socks, underwear, a selection of casual shirts and trousers. Conservative.’
‘Of course, of course,’ said the tailor, kneeling down in front of Cramer and deftly measuring his inside leg.
‘And an overcoat,’ said the Colonel. ‘Cashmere.’ Cramer raised an eyebrow. ‘Quality shows,’ the Colonel explained. ‘Especially when you get up close.’
The tailor measured Cramer’s arms, his waist and his chest. ‘Which side will you be carrying?’ the tailor asked Cramer.
‘Carrying?’ repeated Cramer, confused.
‘Shoulder holster,’ said the tailor.
‘Left side,’ said Cramer.
‘Good, good.’ The tailor turned to the Colonel. ‘What about accessories?’ he asked. ‘Belts, ties, cufflinks?’
‘I’ll leave that up to you,’ said the Colonel. ‘Bring a selection.’
‘Certainly,’ said the tailor. ‘Certainly.’
‘And you can supply shoes?’
‘Of course, of course.’ The tailor looked up at Cramer expectantly.
‘Ten and a half,’ said Cramer.
The tailor made a note, stood up, picked up his briefcase and left.
‘Regular whirlwind,’ said Cramer, his hands still out at his sides.
‘He puts the guys in Hong Kong to shame,’ said the Colonel. ‘He’ll have it all ready within forty-eight hours.’
‘And I get to keep them after it’s all over?’
The Colonel began to reply, then he realised that Cramer was being sarcastic. He shook his head, almost sadly. ‘I’d forgotten why they called you Joker,’ he said.
Cramer shrugged and sat down again. ‘So when does it happen?’
‘A few days. There’s still some preparation to be done.’
‘Just don’t leave it too long,’ warned Cramer.
The top shelf of the larder was just out of the boy’s reach so he had to stand on a chair to reach the tin of beef stew. He opened the can, emptied it into a pan and stirred it carefully on the gas stove. When the stew began to bubble and spit he poured it onto a plate and carried it upstairs with a glass of milk. His mother was sitting up, her back propped up with pillows. The walking stick lay on the covers next to a stack of old magazines. ‘I made you lunch,’ said the boy.
His mother smiled. ‘You’re a good boy,’ she said.
The boy carried the plate and glass over to the bedside table and put them down next to a box of tissues. He handed his mother a fork. ‘It’s beef stew,’ he said.
‘My favourite.’
‘It’s not your favourite. Your favourite is roast chicken, you always say. But I couldn’t make roast chicken.’
‘This is my favourite today.’ She took the fork and the boy held the plate for her as she speared a small piece of meat. She chewed slowly, then nodded. ‘Delicious.’
‘Yeah? Are you sure?’
‘Sure I’m sure.’ She reached over and ruffled his hair. ‘How was school today?’
‘Okay, I guess.’ He stood watching her, waiting for her to take a second bite, but she put the fork back on the plate and lay down, wincing as she moved. ‘Try some more,’ he urged. ‘It’s good.’
‘Maybe later.’ She sounded tired. She always sounded tired, the boy thought. As if she’d given up hope.
‘Didn’t I cook it right?’ he asked, frowning.
She smiled. ‘You cooked it just fine. I’m tired, that’s all.’
The boy put the plate on the bedside table and gave her the glass of milk. ‘Milk’s good for you,’ he said. She took a sip. It left a white frothy line across her upper lip. He reached over and wiped away the milk on her lip with his hand. ‘When are you getting better, Mum?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know,’ she said.
‘Soon?’
‘Maybe soon.’ She patted the edge of the bed and he climbed up and sat next to her. ‘Do you know where Daddy keeps my medicine?’ she asked. The boy nodded. ‘I think I need some more,’ she said. ‘Can you bring it up to me?’ The boy chewed the inside of his lip. ‘You can do that for me, can’t you?’ she said. The boy shrugged. ‘Go and get it for me. Please.’
‘Daddy says. .’ He tailed off, unable to finish the sentence.
His mother reached over and patted his leg. ‘Your daddy says what?’
The boy sighed deeply. ‘Daddy says only he can give you the medicine. He said you’re not to have it.’
His mother nodded as if she understood. ‘I’m sure that if Daddy knew how much I needed my medicine he’d give it to me.’
The boy turned his head away and stared at the door. ‘Daddy said not to.’
His mother began to cough. The boy picked up the box of tissues and pulled one out for her. She took it and pressed it to her mouth as her chest heaved. He watched anxiously until the coughing spasm was over. When she took the tissue away from her mouth it was spotted with blood. His mother screwed the tissue up as if hiding the evidence of her illness. ‘You’re going to have to help me,’ she said.
Dermott Lynch drove the Ford Granada slowly down the rutted track, the steering wheel threatening to tear itself from his gloved hands. It was only after he’d picked up the car that he realised it was an automatic and he was having trouble remembering not to use his left foot. It wasn’t as if he had a choice — the vehicle had been appropriated for him by two teenagers acting under IRA orders, and left in a car park close to Belfast railway station with its ignition key in the exhaust pipe. The Granada belonged to an old couple who lived in the outskirts of Belfast and they wouldn’t report it stolen until the following day, not if they knew what was good for them.