Chapter 36 #2
‘Yes please,’ said Lulu. ‘So when is Sorcha back?’
‘As I said, I can’t say I know. Sometime over the weekend.’ Con reached for his cigarettes.
‘But she’s flying to New York with us on Tuesday, isn’t she?’
‘She’s meant to be. Anyway, let’s talk about something else.’
‘Okay. Tell me about that car sitting outside the restaurant. Are you being followed?’
‘As a matter of fact I am. I’m under the protection of your men at Scotland Yard. I’ve had several murder threats sent through the post. The police don’t know whether they’re from a crazed fan or a militant Loyalist group. Either way, it’s made me uncomfortable.’
‘Oh, Con, I’m sorry. How awful.’
‘I’ve been told to keep my head down and to behave myself. No more peace protests or rallies or marches for a bit. Sorry to let you down, Lulu, but there it is.’
‘It’s a shame, but you mustn’t put your life in danger.’
Con took a swig of wine. ‘So you don’t think I should say feck it and continue just the way I was? I thought you might.’
‘No, absolutely not. You being dead isn’t going to further any cause. And besides, I couldn’t bear the thought of losing you.’
‘Grand, because I have no intention of disappearing just yet.’
She stared at him. ‘Life without you would be awful.’
Con stubbed out his cigarette and looked into Lulu’s clear green eyes.
‘Shall we go home?’
She smiled at him. ‘Yes please.’
Con woke the following morning to the insistent buzzing of the front doorbell. Leaning across Lulu, he looked at the time. Five to nine.
‘Shit! Shit! Feck it!’
Lulu rolled over and opened her eyes. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’
‘It’s Helen McCarthy. She called yesterday and said she wanted to see me this morning. I’d forgotten altogether.’
Con leapt out of bed and pulled on his jeans and a T-shirt. ‘Jesus, I feel rough. I was langers last night, wasn’t I?’
‘We both were.’ Lulu rubbed her temples.
An awkward silence hung in the air. ‘We were . . . well behaved, weren’t we?’ Con asked.
Lulu raised an eyebrow. ‘Why, don’t you remember?’
Con shook his head. ‘Nothing beyond the restaurant.’
Lulu gave Con a fox-like grin. ‘Well, Con Daly. I am offended.’
Con put his head in his hands. ‘Jesus, please tell me we didn’t . . .’ Lulu shrugged and gave a giggle.
The doorbell buzzed again. ‘Shit. Please, please stay up here. I’ll come and fetch you when Helen’s gone.’
Lulu nodded, turned over and closed her eyes. Con opened the bedroom door and hurried downstairs to open the front door.
‘Morning, Helen.’
She was as immaculate as always in a cream cotton midi-dress and matching jacket, her make-up impeccable. She scanned him from head to toe.
‘Heavy night, was it? You look dreadful.’
‘I feel it. Come in.’
‘Thanks. Did I wake you?’
‘You did. My alarm clock’s in Ballymore.’
‘You mean Sorcha?’ Helen’s brow furrowed as she followed Con through to the kitchen. ‘Why has she gone?’
‘Her daddy died a couple of days ago. She went home for the funeral.’
Helen paused for a moment. ‘I see. That’s a shame.’
‘Is it?’ Con opened the fridge and took out a bottle of milk.
‘Yes. Seamus O’Donovan handled my estate in Ballymore. He did a good job with it too. It means I’ll have to get someone else to look after it now. Or maybe the time has come to sell it,’ she mused. ‘Anyway, can we make some coffee?’
‘To be sure.’ Con swigged milk from the bottle, padded over to the kettle and switched it on. Helen put her briefcase down on the table and pulled out a chair.
‘Where’s Todd?’
‘How do you mean? At home, I’d say.’
‘Well, his car’s parked in your drive. I presume the reason you’re looking so rough is that the two of you had a session last night.’
Con continued to spoon coffee and sugar into two mugs. ‘We did,’ Con lied. ‘He was too drunk to drive so he took a taxi home.’
‘Oh.’ Helen stared at the jacket hanging over the back of the chair next to her. ‘That’s Lulu’s combat jacket, isn’t it?’
‘She was around with Todd yesterday and she forgot to take it. It was warm last night.’ Con brought the two cups of coffee to the table and sat down opposite Helen. ‘So what is it that has brought you out here so early on a Friday morning?’
‘Well.’ Helen took a sip of her coffee. ‘I wanted to tell you that Metropolitan are going to employ a couple of bodyguards as from tomorrow. DI Cross suggested we should. They’ll be with you twenty-four hours a day.’
‘Will they be sleeping on a mat outside my bedroom door?’
‘Con, this is no laughing matter. Scotland Yard are taking it very seriously. Although I hate to say it, you’ve probably brought this on yourself.
All the gabbing to the press about your views on certain political situations definitely won’t have helped you.
I suggest you button up that mouth of yours from now on. ’
‘Christ, I feel like a feckin’ schoolboy! Yours is the third lecture I’ve received in the past twenty-four hours.’ Con took a slug of his coffee. ‘Not on a hangover, please, Helen.’
‘I’m sorry, Con. It’s only because we care about you.’
‘Sure it is. If I was dead, it wouldn’t be good news for the future of The Fishermen, would it?’
‘If you were dead, the publicity would be phenomenal and we’d sell millions of copies of the band’s greatest hits,’ replied Helen coolly. ‘Don’t be silly and self-indulgent, Con.’
‘Yeah.’ Con reached across the table to retrieve his cigarettes. He took one out of the packet and lit up. ‘It’s not been a good week.’
‘So I hear. Derek marched into my office yesterday lunchtime saying you’d insulted him and won’t even consider putting his song on the new album.’
‘He’s right. I won’t.’
‘Why not?’
Con glanced at Helen as he exhaled. ‘Have you heard it?’
‘No.’
‘Well now, I’d say if you did, you’d understand why I’ve said no.’
‘Okay, Con. You know I would never interfere with your creative opinion, but in light of the fact that Freddy is in the States, Brad is away—’
‘Is he? Where?’
‘He’s taking a . . . short break in the country.’
‘You mean he’s drying out. Yet again.’
‘People in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones, Con. From the state of you this morning, I’d be inclined not to pass judgement. Anyway, as I was saying, due to the fact that Brad won’t be around for another month or so, someone has to discuss these things.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘Derek also told me that the rehearsals for next week have been a shambles. You and Todd are apparently spending most of your time arguing.’
‘Derek has been running to teacher and telling tales, hasn’t he now?’
‘No. Apart from his gripe about your refusal to countenance his song, Derek is concerned, as he might well be, that things in the band are falling apart.’
‘Listen, Helen, everything is grand, just grand. Every group has their ups and downs. We’ve been together a few years now and this kind of disagreement is bound to occur from time to time. Don’t interfere, please. Todd and I will work it out.’
A door slammed upstairs.
‘What was that?’
‘I left the window open in the bedroom. The door is always catching the wind.’
Helen looked outside at the perfectly still, humid day. ‘Oh.’
‘We’re in the studio together today and we’ll have a good session. It always comes together on the night, although . . .’
‘What?’
‘Well, there is one serious problem the band have at the moment. Todd and I were going to wait until we saw Freddy in New York, but . . .’
‘Go on?’
‘Ian. He’s becoming a liability. He turns up late and stoned out of his head and insists on bringing his harem into the studio. His drumming is deteriorating to the point of incompetence. He’ll lose track halfway through a song and start to play something different.’
Helen nodded. ‘Okay, as you said, there’s not much I can do until Freddy’s back, but then we’ll have a meeting.’
‘I’d be sorry to see the fella go, but if he’s not improved by the time we record in September, we’ll have to think about replacing him.’
Helen looked at Con. ‘Maybe you should be more worried about having something to record. How many tracks have you got?’
‘Three, maybe four.’ Con shrugged.
‘There’s another six at least to go then. What about Todd?’
‘I’d say he has a few as well. Look, Helen, I’ve told you, it’ll all be grand.’
‘Good. I’d hate to see The Fishermen start to disintegrate.
So many groups do and I want it nipped in the bud before things deteriorate any further.
I really think you and Todd should sort out your differences, come to some musical compromise and get on with it.
For what amounts to some petty squabbling, there’s too much to lose.
’ Helen glanced at her watch. ‘Look, I’d better go.
’ She stood up. ‘Oh yes, I nearly forgot. We’re sending you to New York two days ahead of schedule, just to be on the safe side.
Your ticket’s booked under the name of Dylan Moore, but British Airways know all about it. Your new minders will accompany you.’
‘You mean, I fly out Sunday?’
‘Yes.’
Con shrugged. ‘If it keeps you happy, Helen.’
‘If it keeps you alive, Con.’ Helen sucked her teeth. ‘Do you own a gun by any chance?’
‘No, I’m hoping I never have to either.’
She nodded slowly. ‘Hmm. I have one. Just a small handgun that I keep in the locked drawer in my office. You can never be too careful these days.’
‘Jesus, Helen.’
‘It’s just I had a . . . friend who was murdered. Seemingly out of nowhere. One has to protect oneself. Why don’t you think about getting one, just in case?’
‘Ah, Helen, I’ll let the police worry about any shootings.’
‘As you wish.’ She composed herself. ‘I really want you to pull your socks up, Con. I need The Fishermen to stay together. I think you owe me that.’
‘Oh, do I now?’
‘Frankly speaking, yes.’ She winced a little. ‘In truth, I feel absolutely awful about what I did for you all those years ago.’ Helen’s gaze wandered to the window. ‘I was a different woman back then.’
Con nodded. ‘I’d probably agree with you on that front.’
‘So we have an understanding then? You’ll sort everything out with the band?’
Con narrowed his eyes. ‘You’re so sure that I owe you a favour, Helen.’
Helen crossed her arms. ‘Do I really need to remind you?’