“That’s old enough for the hormones to be going bananas. And old enough to wangle his way into clubs where he shouldn’t have been going. One night Imelda was in Bruxelles, and Kevin came up to her and offered to buy her a drink. They got talking, and he asked her-begged her-to put in a good word for him with Rose. That cracked Imelda up, but Kevin looked genuinely hurt, so once she stopped laughing, she told him it wasn’t personal: Rose was taken. That was as far as she was planning to go, but Kevin kept pestering her about who the guy was, and he kept buying her more drink…”
Scorch was managing to keep his face grave, but he was having a great old time. Right under the surface, he was still that deodorant-drenched teenager pumping his fist and hissing Score! “In the end, she spilled the whole thing. She didn’t see any harm in it: she thought he was a lovely sweet kid, plus she figured he’d back off once he knew they were talking about his own brother, right? Wrong. He lost the plot: shouting, kicking walls, throwing glasses… The bouncers had to boot him out of the place.”
Which would have been several miles out of character-when Kev lost his temper, the worst he ever did was flounce off in a huff-but apart from that, it all hung together just gorgeously. I was getting more impressed with Imelda by the minute. She was well up on the barter system: she had known before she ever called Scorcher that if she wanted him to get the nasty man off her street, she would have to give him something he wanted in exchange. Probably she had rung around a few old friends, to find out exactly what that might be. The Murder boys had obviously made it clear, while they were doing their door-to-door, that they were interested in any link between Kevin and Rosie; the Place would have had no trouble filling in the blanks. I supposed I should consider myself lucky that Imelda had been sharp enough to do her research, rather than just flying off the handle and dumping me in the firing line.
“Jesus,” I said. I leaned my arms on the steering wheel and slumped forward, staring out through the windscreen at the traffic inching past the mouth of the laneway. “Sweet Jesus. And I never had a clue. When was this?”
Scorcher said, “A couple of weeks before Rose died. Imelda feels pretty guilty about the whole thing, now that she knows where it led. That’s what made her come forward. She’s going to give me an official statement as soon as we’re finished here.”
I just bet she was. “Well,” I said. “I guess that’s evidence, all right.”
“I’m sorry, Frank.”
“I know. Thanks.”
“I know this isn’t what you were hoping to hear-”
“That’s for sure.”
“-but, like you said, any kind of certainty helps. Even if that’s not your perception right now. At least it means you’ve got some closure. When you’re ready, you’ll be able to start integrating all of this into your worldview.”
“Scorcher,” I said. “Let me ask you something. Do you go to a shrink?”
He managed to look embarrassed and self-righteous and belligerent all at once. “Yeah. Why? Do you want a recommendation?”
“No, thanks. I was just wondering.”
“The guy’s pretty good. He’s helped me discover a lot of interesting things. How to bring my outer reality into sync with my inner reality, that kind of stuff.”
“Sounds very motivational.”
“It is. I think he could do a lot for you.”
“I’m an old-fashioned kind of guy. I still think my inner reality should get in sync with the outer one. I’ll keep the offer in mind, though.”
“Yeah. Do that.” Scorcher gave my dashboard a manly pat, like it was a horse that had learned its lesson. “It’s been good talking with you, Frank. I should probably get back to the grindstone, but give me a ring anytime if you need a chat, yeah?”
“Will do. I reckon what I really need is some time by myself, though, to take all this in. It’s a lot to absorb.”
Scorch did a profound nod-and-eyebrows number that he had presumably picked up from his shrink. I said, “Do you want a lift back to the squad?”
“No, thanks. The walk’ll do me good; got to keep an eye on the old waistline.” He tapped his stomach. “Take care of yourself, Frank. We’ll talk.”
The laneway was narrow enough that he had to open the car door about six inches and wriggle his way out, which brought down the tone of his exit, but he got it back once he got into his Murder Squad stride. I watched him swing off through the tired scurrying crowds, a man with a briefcase and a purpose, and remembered the day a few years back when we had run into each other and discovered we had both joined the divorce club. The drinking session had lasted fourteen hours and had finished up in a UFOTHEMED joint in Bray where Scorch and I tried to convince two brain-dead lovelies that we were Russian millionaires over here to buy Dublin Castle, except we kept losing it and snickering helplessly into our pints like a pair of kids. It occurred to me that I had kind of liked Scorcher Kennedy for the last twenty years, and that I was actually going to miss him.
