“It’s too early to assume that,” I said. “I’ll set some inquiries in motion and keep you posted. I think I’ve got enough to start with. Thanks for your time.” Kevin leaped out of his seat like he was on springs.
I took off my gloves to shake their hands good-bye. I didn’t ask for phone numbers-no sense in pushing my welcome-and I didn’t ask if they still had the note. The thought of seeing it again made my jaw clench.
Mr. Daly walked us out. At the door he said abruptly, to me, “When she never wrote, we thought it was you that wouldn’t let her.”
This could have been some form of apology, or just one final dig. “Rosie never let anyone stop her from doing what she wanted to do,” I said. “I’ll get back to you as soon as I have any information.” As he closed the door behind us, I heard one of the women starting to cry.
The rain had slackened off to a faint damp haze, but the clouds were getting denser and darker; there was more on the way. Ma was pressed up against the front-room window, sending out curiosity rays that practically burned my eyebrows off. When she saw me looking in her direction, she whipped up a J-cloth and started furiously cleaning the glass.
“Nicely done,” I said to Kevin. “I appreciate that.”
He shot me a quick sideways glance. “That was weird.”
His own big brother, the same one who used to nick crisps from the shop for him, in full cop mode. “Didn’t show,” I told him approvingly. “You worked it like a pro. You’ve got a knack for this, do you know that?”
He shrugged. “Now what?”
“I’m going to put this in my car before Matt Daly has a change of heart,” I said, balancing the case on one arm and giving Ma a wave and a big grin, “and then I’m going to go have a little chat with someone I used to know. Meanwhile, you’re going to wrangle Ma and Da for me.”
Kevin’s eyes widened in horror. “Ah, Jaysus, no. No way. She’ll still be raging about the breakfast.”
“Come on, Kev. Tighten up your jockstrap and take one for the team.”
“Team, my arse. You’re the one pissed her off to begin with, and now you want me to go back in there and take all the flak?”
His hair was sticking up with outrage. “Bingo,” I said. “I don’t want her hassling the Dalys, and I don’t want her spreading the word, at least not right away. All I need is an hour or so before she starts doing damage. Can you give me that?”
“What am I supposed to do if she starts heading out? Rugby-tackle her?”
“What’s your phone number?” I found my mobile, the one my boys and my informants use, and sent Kev a text that said HI. “There,” I said. “If Ma escapes, you just reply to that and I’ll come rugby-tackle her myself. Fair enough?”
“Fucking hell,” Kevin muttered, staring up at the window.
“Nice one,” I said, clapping him on the back. “You’re a trooper. I’ll meet you back here in an hour and I’ll get you a few pints tonight, how’s that?”
“I’ll need more than a few,” Kev said gloomily, and he squared up his shoulders and headed off to face the firing squad.
I stashed the suitcase safely in the boot of my car, ready to take to a lovely lady in the Technical Bureau whose home address I happened to know. A handful of ten-year-olds with underprivileged hair and no eyebrows were slouched on a wall, scoping out the cars and thinking wire hangers. All I needed was to come back and find that suitcase gone. I leaned my arse on the boot, labeled my Fingerprint Fifi envelopes, had a smoke, and stared our country’s future out of it until the situation was clear all round and they fucked off to vandalize someone who wouldn’t come looking for them.
The Dalys’ flat had been the mirror image of ours; there was nowhere to stash a body, at least not long-term. If Rosie had died in that flat, then the Dalys had had two options. Assuming Mr. Daly was the proud owner of one serious set of cojones, which I didn’t rule out, he could have wrapped her up in something and carried her out the front door and away: into the river, onto some abandoned site, into the piggeries as per Shay’s charming suggestion. But, the Liberties being the Liberties, the odds were high that someone would have seen it, remembered it, and talked about it. Mr. Daly didn’t strike me as a gambling man.
