"A lot of money over the years?"
"I wouldn't let him take it too far. I mean, Podge never knew about it, can you imagine? Podge and his crew swarming around the country club, the whole thing would have collapsed. Nah, George took it steady. A race here and there, and the opportunity to get all the money laundered."
"That was Seán Proby, wasn't it?"
"Yeah. Well, once I had F.X. on board, I figured, may as well get stuck into Proby. I knew he was up for it, he was always panting around Tyrrellscourt hoping for action, too shy to do anything about it, so it wasn't too hard to set him up with a couple of nice-looking young fellas and record the results. And bingo, Proby was the route for clean cash."
"And after By Your Leave, after Thurles, you went back down to Tyrrellscourt, dealing. What happened to Patrick Hutton then?"
Leo grabbed my arm.
"That's what I want you to find out. Steno…I kept in touch with Steno, but I never trusted the cunt. You bring smack in, say good-bye to business, it's a fucking fire sale. I mean, Pa Hutton and me, we weren't really close anymore, not with your woman around…the guy had lost it anyway, he was on heroin. And the baby could have been anyone's, Miranda's baby, Jack Proby's, Steno's, anyone's."
"Bomber Folan's?"
"Bomber didn't last long with F.X., fuck sake. Out on his ear, he had no discipline, the stupid cunt. I told Steno, I said the fucking smack was more trouble than it was worth. I got out, and he wound it down and reefed them all to fuck. And that was the last I heard until I got the phone call on Saturday night."
Leo still held my arm; it reminded me of Vincent Tyrrell's grip the morning I took the case. He brought his other hand around and clasped my hand and locked eyes with me; his breath came through his mouth in sodden gusts.
"You want to get that seen to," I said.
"Where d'you think Boris is taking me after this? Christmas night at the A &E in St. Anthony's, fuck sake, I should have you killed."
"Don't start that again."
"You could do with a checkup yourself."
"In the New Year."
"You think you've seen him. How does he look?"
"If it's who I think it is, he looked fit, but he didn't look well. Not in his head. I'm sorry."
Leo gripped me harder, and tears brimmed in his eyes.
"Try and keep him alive," he said.
"I can't promise anything. He already looked pretty out of control. If he's the killer…"
I didn't have to spell it out. Leo nodded, then rolled up his sleeve and showed me his forearm. The tattoo there was a familiar one, a crucifix and an omega symboclass="underline" †?
"I know there's all this, the Omega Man going on in the papers, like he's some Mister Evil fucker, yeah? And I read how the crucifix represents whatever, Christmas, or it's the killer pleading for forgiveness. But that's all bullshit man, it's not an omega, it isn't even a crucifix. It's, we all got them done in McGoldrick's that time, there was all raggle-taggle tradheads and eco cunts with dogs on strings and this cornrow chick used to do tattoos and we all got them, or I can remember everyone getting them anyway."
"And what does it mean?"
"No big mystery. Just T and C, a fancy way of doing a T and a C."
"T and C standing for-"
"Tyrrellscourt."
THERE WEREN'T MANY people on the road, but those that were out were mostly drunk, so I had to take it easy on the drive, which I would have anyway, since my right eye had almost closed now, and it was past midnight when I arrived in Tyrrellscourt. I had showered before I left, and cleaned my wounds, and gobbled some Nurofen Plus, and resisted the call of my bed, although not without difficulty: What could eight hours change? I asked myself, and answer came there: Absolutely everything.
An unshaven security guard in a black uniform was on duty at the gates to Tyrrellscourt House, which was surrounded from the roadside by high granite walls; I gave the guard my name and he went back into his booth and opened the gates. I drove up the long gravel drive and came to a crunching halt in front of the imposing house, whose stained-glass windows and glittering granite stonework and Victorian Gothic features gave it the look of a haunted house in a child's storybook. I could hear the whinny and snort of horses in the yard beyond. Snow was falling lightly in the moonlight as I climbed the steps of the house. Before I had time to knock, the great black front door with the stained-glass panels depicting horses in full flight opened, and the fairy tale was interrupted by Tommy Owens, standing there in tan brogues, red cord trousers, a check shirt and a sleeveless pullover, his face flushed and his hair wet. He looked at the new map Leo had kicked onto my face and shook his head, as if my brawling ways would someday drag his squeaky-clean twenty-first-century operation down. I heard piano music, and the wow and flutter of a television or computer game. Tommy looked at his watch and shook his head again. I always liked it when Tommy began to think the case was slipping away from me, and he had to pick up the slack.
"Come on," he said, his voice prim and impatient, and led me briskly across a flagstoned hall, along a corridor and down a flight of stairs. We walked through a passage stuffed with riding hats and boots and Wellington boots and red coats and Barbour jackets and dog baskets and into a darkened conservatory with walls of glass on three sides. Once your eyes adjusted, you could see right across the valley in the moonlight: to the right, the lazy S and straight green band of the gallops; center bearing left, the river and the golf course to the rear of the country club, and at the extreme left, the tip of a mobile home that was part of the old Staples property.
Tommy had a MacBook laptop set up on a low table by a cane sofa; a videotape was recording the signal from a wireless receiver not unlike the one I had set up for the Leonard family to trap their neighborhood dumpers; on a side table there was turkey and ham and lettuce and tomatoes and French bread and mayonnaise and mustard and chutney and pint bottles of Guinness and a bottle of Jameson and a flask of coffee. If this was an all-nighter, we were traveling first class.
"Miss Tyrrell said if you came in at a reasonable hour, you should go up and see her," Tommy said. "She's a class act, that one."
"Miss Tyrrell?"
" Regina. Miss Tyrrell, I call her."
"What's with the young-country-squire outfit?"
"I needed a change of clothes. Miss Tyrrell kindly-"
"Sounds good. So take me through what you've been up to."
"Go up and see her first. She's playing the piano up there, I think."
"Tommy, you know conventional wisdom? It's always incomplete. Never keep a lady waiting-provided you know what you're going to say or do to her when you meet her. I don't, and I'm relying on you to help me."
I made myself a turkey salad roll, poured Guinness into a glass and sat back on the sofa. Tommy looked at me in dismay.
"What do you think this is, a fucking picnic? That lady up there is at the end of her tether."
"Really? How did that happen? She struck me as a pretty cool customer when I met her. What's happened to get her so panicked?"
"There's no one she can turn to. And the situation is sinking in, you know? And I think someone's been talking to her."
"Who?"
"Your one."
"Miranda? Say her name at least, Tommy."
"Yeah. So…I mean, some of us have been…while you…"
Tommy waved dismissively at me, as if I'd arrived in white tie and tails with two strippers and a big bag of coke. The pain around my right eye suddenly shot out of the gates, neck and neck with the pain in my liver. It was hard to call the odds on which would romp home first: a joint favorite photo finish was my conservative forecast. I popped a few more Nurofen, tipped some Jameson into a glass and threw the lot back. When that didn't immediately help, I turned on Tommy.