Falling Glass (9 page)

“I didn’t know that.”

“Not just once. I put her in The Priory and then Clapton’s place. Didn’t do any good. Jesus. I should have seen it back then but I loved her.”

“You’ve been trying to find her for how long?”

“Over a month.”

“And before that you had what kind of an arrangement?”

“She had primary custody. I got the girls every other weekend and on holidays. This came completely out of the blue. Things were very good between us. I even let her stay at the house in Donegal. She’d met Helena. It was all, it was all…”

“Civilised?”

“Yeah. Civilised. I was in Brussels and Tom calls me and says she’s gone. Like a fucking genie. Her and the kids. Gone. Haven’t heard tell of them since.”

“This was from your house in Donegal?”

“Up past Letterkenny. You know Tarafoe?”

“Aye, I know the place. Did she take anything from the house?”

“No.”

“How did you know it wasn’t a kidnap? Someone kidnapped them, I mean.”

“Well, it is a kidnap, isn’t it? She kidnapped my kids. The insurance company is paying your salary, mate. Or will be when Tom sorts it.”

“That’s not what I meant. How do you know there’s not a third party involved?”

“She called her parents and told them that she didn’t want to give me custody anymore. Said she was going to hide out with the kids. They pleaded with her but she wouldn’t listen. She’s a fucking whack job.”

Killian took another sip of the Scotch and stroked his chin. “So she wasn’t actually in violation of any court orders until when?”

“I was supposed to get the kids the very next weekend. Everything was bloody fine. Normal. And she ups and runs. Crazy.”

“Had she given any hint of this before?”

“Nope. And I thought she was over the whole drug thing. I guess not.”

Killian nodded.

Coulter stood. “Another Scotch?”

“No, I’m fine, thank you.”

Coulter poured himself another glass. It almost brimmed over the top.

“We found out she’d disappeared. Stopped using cash machines, only used payphones. Her solicitor doesn’t even know where she is. We thought she’d joined a fucking cult or something. Tom hired detectives and they bugged her parents’ phone, started sifting their mail, they got close a couple of times, really close on Saint Patrick’s Day, but now she’s fucking gone again.”

“There’s one thing I’m not getting. She was awarded full custody even after you told them about the heroin?”

Coulter snorted. “There was an incident. A domestic incident. Stupid thing. She didn’t bring that up, I didn’t bring up the heroin.”

“You hit her?” Killian asked.

“No, no. Don’t go around saying that. Nobody was hit. Blazing row,
shoving match and she slipped and went down the stairs, she wasn’t hurt. The x-rays came up zero.”

“Did she call the police?”

“Look, I know what you’re thinking, but believe me it was nothing. That’s not my scene. That’s not the kind of man I am. It was a moment of stupidity. There was no call for the peelers. Rachel only remembered it when I started wondering if maybe I should have primary custody. We decided to call it even. But even that’s making it a bigger deal than it was. The divorce was basically amicable. And in the last year we’ve actually been getting along better than we ever have. She seemed happy for me. We were getting on like a house on fire.”

“Well, now the law’s all on your side. She’s in violation of the settlement I assume.”

“Aye, it’s practically a police matter.”

“Why don’t you call the police?”

“I have consulted with them. Tom has. But I don’t want the heavy mob to go in just yet. I thought I’d try the professionals before bringing in the bloody PSNI or the fucking Guarda or, God save us, Interpol. They’ll probably spook her into doing something stupid.”

Killian nodded. He wasn’t the biggest fan of the Guarda or the PSNI either.

“And you’ve no idea where she might be?”

“I wish I knew. Tom’s got a few leads.”

“It’s always good to have something to work with.”

“And I’ve got proof she’s using again. That she’s hanging out with pushers and meth addicts. Those little girls. I am seriously worried for their health and well-being. I am at my wit’s end.”

“That’s understandable,” Killian said with genuine sympathy. He’d been around serious users – the only subset in his book worse than drunks or gamblers.

“Where was she last?”

“Caravan park outside of Coleraine. Fucking meth-factory caravan park. Can you imagine what the girls have seen? Sue is only five.”

“Coleraine? When was this?” Killian asked.

“Couple of days ago.”

“They were definitely there?”

“Aye they were. We have a confirmed sighting. I don’t know where they are now. Tom’s got the dossier, he’ll give it to you with your cheque tomorrow.”

Coulter finished his Scotch and then suddenly began tearing up.

Killian was a little surprised. All the times he’d seen Coulter on TV, full of outrage, full of bluster. He was the rock of Gibraltar. He had never seen him like this: vulnerable, visibly shaken.

“I’m sorry,” Coulter said. “I’m very upset.”

“It’s okay,” Killian said, embarrassed.

“I want those girls here with me. Helena doesn’t mind. She’s all for it. She’d like Angelika to have big sisters. She knows we’re not likely to have any more kids together, you know? This was hard this time. Very hard. Claire is seven years old, she’ll forget. I want this to happen, Killian. I want those kids to be happy. We can make a happy family. Obviously we’re moving back to Ireland for the birth. But even bloody here would be better. Anywhere’s better away from that junkie and her junkie pals. Jesus fucking Christ.”

Coulter put his head in his hands. He started making little bobbing movements as if he was actually crying and it wasn’t a performance, it was real.

Killian was uncomfortable. He looked out the window but he couldn’t see anything through the gathering dark.

“I’m really sorry,” Coulter said, still with his head in his hands.

Killian stared at his scalp where the hair dye had stained his skin and muttered “It’s okay.”

Coulter finally looked up. “You see what this is doing to me?”

“I do and I’m very sorry. I, uh, I have a bairn myself. I can imagine your distress, Mr Coulter.”

Coulter nodded and finished his glass.

He stood, stretched.

“Call me Richard. Come downstairs, have dinner with us, let me show you my art.”

Killian looked at his watch. “Well, actually Mr Coulter, I have to get back to Hong Kong by twelve and—”

Coulter brushed the tears from his eyes and laughed. “No you don’t. I flew you a long way here to get a look at you. Come on, let’s go downstairs, tell me about yourself. No, wait here, don’t move, let me get Helena.”

Helena returned in a flattering off-the-shoulder green evening dress and all three of them took the elevator downstairs to the casino’s lobby gallery.

The art was impressive. Monet, Picasso, Manet, Klimt. Small canvasses, tasteful. The gallery was open to the public but the place was empty – everyone was at the tables.

“I talked to Steve Wynn before I opened this place. You know Steve?” Coulter asked.

“No,” Killian said.

“His idea. America’s money is now China’s money. And what do the Chinese like to do more than anything?”

“I don’t know,” Killian said.

“Gamble! They’re complete degenerates. Not like us. A wee tote on the National and the Derby. These guys are all in. Even the women.”

“I see.”

“Anyway, this is a small casino by Macau standards, but we’re attempting to pull in a more select clientele. I tell you, son, when the British Airports Authority kills the goose and the airline business goes belly up this place will still be a cash cow.”

They walked through the empty gallery into the contemporary art room which was also deserted about from a couple of uninterested security guards.

“You like art?” Helena asked.

Killian nodded. “I do. I’m trying to expand my horizons.”

“Aren’t we all. Come on, let’s go eat,” Coulter said.

The Pearl restaurant in the Coulter Macau was packed. The chef was
already gunning for a Michelin Star even though the place had only been open a couple of weeks. It was Portuguese-Catonese food, rich and exotic but because of the boat trip Killian ignored the truffles and strange fish and ordered the steak; he had it well done which scandalised the chef.

Wine flowed.

Convo flowed.

Helena talked about growing up in southern Italy, about her early days modelling, about coming to Dublin for some car show, about meeting Richard. She name checked Paris, LA, Milan, London, New York and, unlike some models he’d met, she actually knew the cities, not just the convention centres or the tented area in Bryant Park. He liked her and Coulter was growing on him too. It was unusual for a high flyer in Coulter’s circle to have dinner with such a lowly potential employee as himself and Killian knew that it wasn’t because of his dazzling personality. Except when he needed to turn it on for business he wasn’t much of a yakker and he didn’t have anecdotes to tell. He couldn’t talk about his tinker childhood. He couldn’t talk about New York. He couldn’t talk about his Belfast underworld days. There were a lot of stories but none of them were appropriate. And besides he preferred to listen: to her accent and Richard’s tales of the London A-list.

Killian knew he was a good listener. Sean said that that was his best characteristic. And it was a rare one to have in Ireland.

Two tables over Coulter’s heavies were trying to be unobtrusive. Killian had spotted them immediately. Chinese goons. Three of them. A tough wee crew. Not that clever looking, maybe, but hard.

They beaded him for a while and one of them lip-curled when he touched Richard on the shoulder, but as time passed everyone relaxed. The restaurant was full, the service impeccable, the meal excellent.

“The Chinese name for Macau is The Oyster in the Mirror Sea,” Coulter explained. “It’s a gift of the ocean, especially today with so much of it built on reclaimed land.”

“I like that,” Killian said, and from the best seat in the house he looked out at the blackness of the South China Sea and the occasional lights of
container ships passing in the dark like some massive luminescent sea creature.

His gaze slipped back to Richard and Helena. They were holding hands under the table like kids. Helena appeared to really love him and of course he was nuts about her.

He tuned in for the punchline to Coulter’s latest story and laughed when she laughed.

Coulter was self-deprecating and funny, but at the back of his stories it was always that
hard-working Presbyterian farm-boy
thing. He never talked about what had really got him going in the seventies – the fact that he had been in the right place at the right time and had somehow been very lucky with his breaks.

Few people wanted to credit luck rather than their own sweat and Killian didn’t mind. And not that it mattered now anyway. Rich men could tell it like they saw it. That was their right.

They had two and a half bottles of exquisite wine and Killian was more than a little jazzed. He said goodnight. Coming out of the bog he took the silly risk of bumping into one of the goons who was either coincidentally going in to piss or, more likely, to check up on him.

He took the goon’s wallet and as he followed the mental map Coulter had given him back to one of the three Presidential Suites, he looked at the notes which all seemed to have a zero too many.

Some cleaner was going to get the tip of her life tomorrow.

He put the card key in the door and opened it.

They was a brown envelope lying on the floor. He picked it up. It was the full case file on Rachel Coulter along with a personal note from Tom Eichel apologising again that he couldn’t have a proper meeting with him.

“It’s nothing,” he muttered.

“Who are you talking to?”

He flinched but it was only Peggy, the girl from the bar, sitting in a leather armchair eating room-service ribs and flipping between the TV channels.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

She got up, walked to him and kissed him on the cheek. Her breath smelt of champagne.

“A nice Irishman told me that you were ‘indisposed’ but if I wanted there was a helicopter waiting that would take me to you. What’s a girl to do? How could I say no to an offer like that?”

“Easily – whole thing including me could have been a set up, you could be on your way to some seraglio in the Gulf right now.”

She hiccuped and kissed him again and asked: “What’s a seraglio?”

“What are you eating?”

“I’m pigging out. Follow me, there’s a hot tub on the balcony.”

“The balcony?”

“Yeah.”

The balcony.

Another stunning
Blade Runner
scape. Casino-hotels. Neon signs. Nightclubs. Shopping malls. Helicopters. He was right, America’s money was now China’s money and a good chunk of it was being gambled at roulette wheels, poker tables and mah-jong tables within the confines of this pseudo state.

The hot tub was perfect. Peggy had changed into a bikini top. Where had she gotten that?

“Where are you from?” he asked.

“Kansas, what about you?”

“Belfast.”

“Ireland, right?”

“Right.”

“And they call you Killian?”

“They do.”

She waded across the hot tub. “You remind me of someone,” she said.

“Oh Jesus, don’t say your dad. I’m not that ancient.”

She laughed. “Let’s go down to the tables.”

“Are you kidding? Absolutely not.”

“Okay, let’s go to the bar on the roof, they have a bar on the roof.”

The problem with young people is that they always wanted to move, he thought.

“Okay,” he said.

The roof-top bar: rat-pack muzak, low-key neon, a few men in suits making their way through the single malt menu.

“A martini, please,” she asked the Cantonese barman.

“I’ll have the same,” he concurred.

They were underdressed, she in her work polo shirt, he in his suit trousers and shirt. They were still damp from the tub. She drank her martini and slid the empty back across the bar. The barman caught her eye; she nodded and he began making her another.