People routinely underestimate me and it’s one of my favorite things, but all the same I was a little surprised at Imelda; she didn’t seem like the type to overlook the less fluffy side of human nature. In her place I would at least have had a large ugly friend with some form of weapon spend a few days with me, but on Thursday morning the Tierney household appeared to be back to business as usual. Genevieve schlepped off to school sucking on a Kit Kat, Imelda headed for New Street and came back carrying two plastic bags, Isabelle stalked off somewhere that called for pulled-back hair and a sharp white shirt; there was no sign of any bodyguard, armed or otherwise. This time no one saw me watching.
Around noon, a couple of teenage girls with a couple of babies rang the buzzer, Shania came downstairs and they all wandered off to window-shop or shoplift or whatever. Once I was sure she wasn’t going to come back for her smokes, I cracked the front-door lock and went up to Imelda’s flat.
She had some talk show turned up loud, people howling at each other and the audience baying for blood. The door was crusted with locks, but when I put my eye to the crack, only one of them was actually on. It took me about ten seconds to pick. The telly covered the sound of the door creaking open.
Imelda was sitting on her sofa wrapping Christmas presents, which would have been more adorable if it hadn’t been for the TV show and the fact that most of them were fake Burberry. I had the door closed and I was coming up behind her when something-my shadow, a floorboard-made her whip around. She caught her breath to scream, but before she could get started I had a hand over her mouth and the other forearm leaning across her wrists, pinning them down on her lap. I got comfortable on the arm of the sofa and said, close to her ear, “Imelda, Imelda, Imelda. And here you swore to me you weren’t a squealer. I’m disappointed in you.”
She aimed an elbow at my stomach; when I tightened my hold, she tried to bite my hand. I pressed it down harder, pulling her head back, till her neck arched and I could feel her teeth crushing against her lip. I said, “When I take my hand away, I want you to think about two things. The first one is that I’m a whole lot closer than anyone else. The second one is what Deco upstairs would think if he knew there was an informer living here, because it would be very, very easy for him to find out. Do you think he’d take it out on you, personally, or would he decide Isabelle’s juicier? Or maybe Genevieve? You tell me, Imelda. I don’t know what kind of taste he’s got.”
Her eyes were lit up with pure fury, like a trapped animal’s. If she could have bitten my throat out, she would have done it. I said, “So what’s the plan? Are you going to scream?”
After a moment, her muscles slowly loosened and she shook her head. I let go, tossed a bunch of Burberry off an armchair onto the floor and settled in. “There,” I said. “Isn’t this cozy?”
Imelda rubbed tenderly at her jaw. “Prick,” she said.
“This wasn’t my choice, babe, now was it? I gave you two separate chances to talk to me like a civilized person, but no: you wanted it this way.”
“My fella’ll be home any minute now. He does the security. You don’t want to be messing with him.”
“That’s funny, because he wasn’t home last night and there’s nothing in this room that says he’s ever existed.” I kicked the Burberry out of the way so I could stretch out my legs. “Why would you lie about something like that, Imelda? Don’t tell me you’re afraid of me.”
She was sulking in the corner of the sofa, arms and legs crossed tight, but that got a rise out of her. “You wish, Francis Mackey. I’ve bet the shite out of a lot tougher than you.”
“Oh, I’m sure you have. And if you can’t beat the shite out of them, you run and tell someone who might. You squelt on me to Scorcher Kennedy-no, shut your bloody great gob and don’t be trying to lie your way out-and I’m not one bit happy about it. But it’s easily fixed. All you have to do is tell me who you ran to about me and Rosie, and hey presto, all will be forgiven.”
Imelda shrugged. In the background, the TV baboons were still belting each other with studio chairs; I leaned over, keeping a sharp eye on Imelda just in case, and yanked the plug out of the wall. Then I said, “I didn’t hear you.”
Another shrug. I said, “I think I’ve been more than patient. But this right here, what you’re looking at? This is the last of my patience, sweetheart. Take a good long look. It’s a whole lot prettier than what comes next.”
“So?”
“So I thought you’d been warned about me.”
I caught the flash of fear across her face. I said, “I know what they’re saying around here. Which one do you think I killed, Imelda? Rosie or Kevin? Or is it both?”
“I never said-”
“See, I’m betting on Kevin. Am I right? I thought he killed Rosie, so I booted him out that window. Is that what you’ve figured out?”
