Chapter 47
The sky was weighed down with bulging black clouds, the air a damp mess. Water flowed down the hill from the Dublin Bridge, a river of litter and dirt. Liam Scanlan’s address had him living in an apartment above the Canal Bar, which was situated conveniently beside an Indian restaurant.
‘Think I’ll pick up a takeaway when we’re done here.’ Kirby kept his finger on the buzzer. No one came to admit him. ‘This is just typical.’
‘Typical of what?’ Martina asked.
‘The day, the weather, every bloody thing you want to go right but doesn’t.’
‘Okaaay.’ She had no idea what he meant. ‘We could ask about Liam in the pub.’
‘Ask them what?’
‘Jesus, it was just an idea. You’re as prickly as McKeown. Fuck’s sake.’
‘Ah shite, I’m sorry, Martina. What I need is a smoke.’
‘I’ll tell Amy,’ she said mischievously.
‘Stop right there, Garda Brennan.’ His grin was back.
‘How’s the pregnancy progressing?’
Kirby had a look of pain on his ruddy face. ‘She’s sick. Not sleeping. I’m not sleeping. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be taking it out on you.’
‘It’s fine. I’m used to bearing the brunt of men’s moods.’
‘I’m not like McKeown. And you shouldn’t have to put up with his snide comments. I can’t understand why he isn’t kicked out on his prickly arse.’ He patted his pocket and found the tail end of a cigar.
‘I shouldn’t have compared you to him, but it’s so not you.’
‘Point taken.’ He lit the cigar and puffed on it a few times before quenching it. ‘Right, let’s see if your hunch works.’ He shoved in the door to the pub.
A crowd of people lined the bar. Cramped snugs held what looked like office workers eating sandwiches, with pots of tea sitting precariously on small round tables.
The smell of damp coats mingled with the aroma of fried food.
Delicious fried food, Kirby thought as his stomach rumbled, protesting at its hunger.
A young woman behind the bar, dressed in black leggings and T-shirt, blonde hair slicked back in a ponytail, wearing the requisite bored expression, wandered up to them.
‘What can I get you?’ She shoved a laminated menu across the counter towards them. ‘Soup of the day is parsnip and tomato, before you ask.’
‘A strange combo,’ Kirby said.
‘Complain to the chef, not me. I don’t cook.’
‘We don’t want anything to eat, thanks,’ he said, though he’d have loved a massive sandwich like the one the bloke beside him was trying to get his mouth around. ‘We’re wondering if you know anything about a Liam Scanlan. He has a flat upstairs.’
‘What am I now? The innkeeper?’
Was she being smart funny, or just smart? ‘No, but we thought he might be a regular here.’
‘You the guards?’ asked the guy with a mouth full of sandwich. At least that was what Kirby thought he’d said.
‘Yes, we are.’ Kirby glanced over at Martina in full Garda uniform. Was everyone in here on wacky baccy?
‘Thought so. Nosy buggers. Tell them nothing, Clarice.’
‘Clarice?’ Martina said.
‘What of it? It’s my name.’
‘Reminds me of Silence of the Lambs, that’s all.’
‘Sorry to disappoint, but we have no lamb on the menu, silent or not.’ Clarice turned and sashayed to the other end of the bar.
‘Her parents must be fans,’ Martina said.
Sandwich man looked like he wanted to ask what she meant, but decided he was more interested in his sandwich.
‘Do you know Liam Scanlan?’ Kirby asked him. ‘He works in an accountant’s office in town.’
‘I’ve no need for an accountant. I’m PAYE and the fuckers take every cent they can wring out of me. Now piss off and let me eat. I’m due back to work five minutes ago.’
Martina left Kirby with grumpy PAYE sandwich man. She moved down the bar and sat on a stool watching Clarice.
‘What do you want now?’ the young woman asked, abandoning staring at the optics in front of a large rusted mirror.
‘We need to find this Liam Scanlan guy. I could do with your help.’
‘He get you up the duff?’ Clarice leaned her head to one side, biting her bottom lip.
‘What?’
‘You look preggers.’ She blushed then. ‘Oh God. Sorry. No offence. Me and my big mouth.’
‘Don’t worry. I get that a lot. Bulky vest and equipment.’ Why the hell was she explaining?
‘Sorry again. Yeah, I know the guy you mean. Oddball. Looks like a young lad until you get up close. Then you find out he’s older. Well in his forties, if you ask me. A real creep.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Almost slept with him one night. Bastard was rough and mean. I got out of there pronto.’ She shivered as if recalling the exact memory.
‘Were you in a relationship?’
‘God, no. I was feeling horny and he was sitting there sipping a Lucozade Zero. That should have been the first red flag. But I was bored, with nothing better to do that night, and when I finished my shift at nine, I asked him to buy me a drink.’
‘And he did?’
‘I thought so, until the next day my manager said I had to foot the tab because the cheap fucker didn’t pay. Maybe his card was declined. Or robbed. Something dodgy, anyhow.’
‘How long ago was that?’ Martina asked.
‘A few weeks. Haven’t seen him in here since.’
‘Have you seen him around?’
‘Read my lips. I have not seen him since that night.’
‘I got that, but he lives above the pub, so…’
‘No, I haven’t seen him and I don’t want to. Oh, and if you find him, tell him he owes me the guts of twenty quid and the price of a box of condoms. I’ve heard of BYOB, but never BYOC.’
Martina had to laugh. Clarice was a tonic for the soul.
‘Can I ask you something? Is your name actually—’
‘Clarice? Yeah, it is. My dad reads a lot of crime. Now do you want a drink or food or what?’
‘I’ll pass, and thanks for the information. If you see Mr Scanlan again, call me.’ Martina scribbled her mobile number on a napkin.
‘What’s he done? Murder someone and use their skin for a lampshade, or eat their liver?’
‘Something like that.’
She put on her Garda cap and joined Kirby. She dared not look back, but she imagined that Clarice was sporting a look of horror on her face.
Kirby started the car but didn’t move. ‘Boss won’t be happy that we can’t find Scanlan.’
Martina wiped raindrops from her hi-vis vest and removed her cap, shaking her hair out. ‘I think you need to phone her while we’re here. Scanlan could be dead in a pool of blood up in his apartment.’
‘The boss spoke with him this morning. I’d say he’s done a runner.’
‘Why would he do that? At that stage we didn’t know that he’d gatecrashed the child’s birthday party.’
‘Then he might just be on his lunch break somewhere else,’ Kirby argued.
‘I don’t like that he didn’t pay his tab or that his bank card may have been declined. He works for an accountant. He must make good money. Doesn’t make sense.’
‘What do you suggest then?’
‘I bet the boss would say break down the door.’