make it through the night.
3
Another part of Belfast. The same evening.
If Siobhan Byrne was very honest with herself, she had been looking forward to this moment. They were standing in the kitchen of an unassuming two-up two-down in the southern part of the city. She kept her old leather jacket zipped up, not just because it was cold in here, but because it concealed her standard-issue Glock 9 mm. Siobhan, though, wasn’t a standard-issue kind of girl, which was why she also had a PPK strapped to her ankle.
‘Now don’t take this the wrong way,’ her companion was saying in his broad Belfast accent, eyeing her up and down like a john checking out a hooker. ‘You’re a fine-looking woman and I’m a sucker for a nice tight pair of jeans.’ He walked up to her and lightly touched Siobhan’s shoulder-length blonde hair; she caught the whiff of cigarettes from his nicotine-stained fingers. ‘They say, don’t they, that gentlemen prefer blondes. Personally, I’m more of a brunette man, but I’d be willing to make an exception in your case. If it weren’t for the fact, of course, that you’re a pig and I don’t know what kind of diseases I’d catch.’
His smile became a sneer as he let his fingers fall, turned and looked around the room. ‘What is this fucking place you’ve brought me to anyway?’
‘It’s just what I said it was,’ Siobhan replied in an accent that was almost, but not quite, as broad as his. ‘A little place out of the way where we can talk. You know what we pigs are like – always wanting to know the craic.’
No one lived in this house. It had a history. In the corner of this room there was a white door with peeling paint. Open that door and you’d find a flight of steps that led down to a basement. During the Troubles, if you were one of the PIRA boys – or, on occasion, one of the girls – the last thing you wanted was to find yourself being walked down those steps. All you’d see was a table, a chair and a directional lamp. Special Branch never admitted it was there, naturally; but they were always very happy with the intelligence that the JSIW guys coerced out of known Republican terrorists down in that basement. The room was soundproofed and lined in concrete, with a sloping floor down to a drain in the corner. It made cleaning up after the interrogation sessions a bit easier, but Siobhan was pretty sure that if you looked hard enough, you’d still find traces of blood down there.
Those days were gone, but the house remained. It was unknown by most of Siobhan’s colleagues in the police, though she supposed it still showed up on a list of government assets somewhere in Stormont. And while it was there, and empty, she was more than happy to make use of it. Not that she needed the underground facilities. The photographs she had in a brown A4 envelope would do the job just as well. At least she hoped they would. She opened up the envelope and started laying them out on the table.
The man didn’t look at them at first. He just eyed Siobhan warily. ‘What are these?’ he demanded. ‘Holiday snaps? No, don’t tell me. Porno shots. You and your boyfriend. Look, darling, I mean what I say. No means no. You’re just not my type.’
Siobhan ignored him and continued to lay out the photographs. When she had finished, she took a step back. ‘Take your time, Kieran,’ she said, her voice quiet and calm. ‘Have a good look. Tell me when you’re ready to talk.’
She smiled at him, and waited.
Kieran O’Callaghan. She knew more about this slimeball than she’d ever wanted to. Forty-two years of age, though despite his alcohol-reddened nose he looked a good ten years younger, his thick black hair not showing even the slightest sign of grey. His blue eyes, normally full of arrogance, were suspicious now. Despite all his bluster, there was something almost fragile about him. He was thin, quite slight, and you wouldn’t have thought he’d served five years in the Maze,
3
Another part of Belfast. The same evening.
If Siobhan Byrne was very honest with herself, she had been looking forward to this moment. They were standing in the kitchen of an unassuming two-up two-down in the southern part of the city. She kept her old leather jacket zipped up, not just because it was cold in here, but because it concealed her standard-issue Glock 9 mm. Siobhan, though, wasn’t a standard-issue kind of girl, which was why she also had a PPK strapped to her ankle.
‘Now don’t take this the wrong way,’ her companion was saying in his broad Belfast accent, eyeing her up and down like a john checking out a hooker. ‘You’re a fine-looking woman and I’m a sucker for a nice tight pair of jeans.’ He walked up to her and lightly touched Siobhan’s shoulder-length blonde hair; she caught the whiff of cigarettes from his nicotine-stained fingers. ‘They say, don’t they, that gentlemen prefer blondes. Personally, I’m more of a brunette man, but I’d be willing to make an exception in your case. If it weren’t for the fact, of course, that you’re a pig and I don’t know what kind of diseases I’d catch.’
His smile became a sneer as he let his fingers fall, turned and looked around the room. ‘What is this fucking place you’ve brought me to anyway?’
‘It’s just what I said it was,’ Siobhan replied in an accent that was almost, but not quite, as broad as his. ‘A little place out of the way where we can talk. You know what we pigs are like – always wanting to know the craic.’
No one lived in this house. It had a history. In the corner of this room there was a white door with peeling paint. Open that door and you’d find a flight of steps that led down to a basement. During the Troubles, if you were one of the PIRA boys – or, on occasion, one of the girls – the last thing you wanted was to find yourself being walked down those steps. All you’d see was a table, a chair and a directional lamp. Special Branch never admitted it was there, naturally; but they were always very happy with the intelligence that the JSIW guys coerced out of known Republican terrorists down in that basement. The room was soundproofed and lined in concrete, with a sloping floor down to a drain in the corner. It made cleaning up after the interrogation sessions a bit easier, but Siobhan was pretty sure that if you looked hard enough, you’d still find traces of blood down there.
Those days were gone, but the house remained. It was unknown by most of Siobhan’s colleagues in the police, though she supposed it still showed up on a list of government assets somewhere in Stormont. And while it was there, and empty, she was more than happy to make use of it. Not that she needed the underground facilities. The photographs she had in a brown A4 envelope would do the job just as well. At least she hoped they would. She opened up the envelope and started laying them out on the table.
The man didn’t look at them at first. He just eyed Siobhan warily. ‘What are these?’ he demanded. ‘Holiday snaps? No, don’t tell me. Porno shots. You and your boyfriend. Look, darling, I mean what I say. No means no. You’re just not my type.’
Siobhan ignored him and continued to lay out the photographs. When she had finished, she took a step back. ‘Take your time, Kieran,’ she said, her voice quiet and calm. ‘Have a good look. Tell me when you’re ready to talk.’
She smiled at him, and waited.
Kieran O’Callaghan. She knew more about this slimeball than she’d ever wanted to. Forty-two years of age, though despite his alcohol-reddened nose he looked a good ten years younger, his thick black hair not showing even the slightest sign of grey. His blue eyes, normally full of arrogance, were suspicious now. Despite all his bluster, there was something almost fragile about him. He was thin, quite slight, and you wouldn’t have thought he’d served five years in the Maze,
Similar Books
