Mermaid in a Bowl of Tears (Exit Unicorns Series) (97 page)

He was bald and barrel-chested with thickset arms sheathed to the wrists in Loyalist tattoos. Union Jacks, a single woman with a rifle facing defiantly forward, a masked gunman, and no less than four red hands between the two arms.

“Sit down,” he gestured to a chair that sat in the middle of the room. It was a rickety aluminum framed kitchen chair, covered with cracked and dirty yellow upholstery. She sat gingerly upon it. Despite appearances, it was sturdy and her jellied legs were grateful for the support.

“Rob, make tea.” He gestured curtly at the man who’d held her down in the backseat of the car.

“So ye want to know what happened to Brian Riordan?”

She nodded. The man had the flat, careful stare of a lizard. His eyes were the clear pale blue that was only found in Ireland. He clearly enjoyed his ability to unnerve, for he was relaxed, hands loosely linked together and one leg cocked up on the other.

“Why do ye want to know? Man’s been dead long time. It seems a bit risky pryin’ at his coffin lid now.”

“It’s a trail I’m following up. I stumbled across some information that indicated he’d been murdered rather than the accident it was made to seem at the time.”

The man eyed her quietly, not even the slightest flicker of concern or interest creasing his face.

“I’d advise ye not to lie to me girl, or I’ll let the boys out there do as they like with ye. Out this way there’ll be none to hear ye scream.” This was said without emotion or heat, but merely as a statement of fact.

The tea arrived then and William put a finger up to warn her to silence. The man named Rob had removed his hood, which worried her somewhat. He handed her a mug of tea. She took it, grateful for the small object that gave her hands something to hold.

“Drink it,” William said and it was not a suggestion but an order. She sipped carefully at the hot tea, hoping they’d not drugged it. It had come from the same pot that he now poured his own tea from, so it didn’t seem likely.

Rob absented himself from the room, but not before flashing a nasty grin in her direction. She shivered, hoping William Bright’s word would hold her all the way back to Belfast.

She took as deep a breath as she could manage and told him the truth.

“Had he lived, he would have been my father-in-law. His sons were led to believe he took his own life, when I found out that wasn’t the case I knew I needed to go after the truth.”

“And ye think they’ll thank ye for it?”

“No, maybe not, but I still need find the truth if I can.”

“Truth seekers in this country tend to end up dead.”

“
You
called
me
here,” she said.

His eyes narrowed the slightest bit and then he grinned, showing a tooth crowned in gold. “Fuck me if I didn’t, girl.”

Pamela chose to ignore the possible connotations contained in that simple Ulsterism.

“I’ll tell ye straight, because I’m a straight man, an’ if William Bright tells ye a thing on his word, ye know it’s true.”

She nodded, noting the man’s referral to himself in the third person, an oddity that seemed to crop up a lot with the men who ran in paramilitary circles.

“That he was killed comes as no surprise to ye at this point, but why and who killed him may contain a jolt or two.”

“So he was murdered?” she asked, needing to confirm it for once and all.

“Aye, shot through the heart—his request ye mind—at point blank range. The bomb malfunctionin’ was cover of a sort. Hard to tell that a man’s been executed when ye can’t even gather all the bits of him together.”

She clenched her hands around the teacup until it seemed in imminent danger of shattering under the pressure. Brian Riordan wasn’t just a statistic to her, he was the father of Casey and Pat. Through their memories and stories, and judging by the men they had become, she had grown to love and respect the man that she had never had the privilege of meeting. The thought of him on his knees having to choose the method of his own execution made her chest hurt.

“Why would it need to be covered up? Both sides are pretty blunt with their killing. Rather like sticking it in the public arena, I would think.”

“Times were different then, an’ ye need to ask yerself why it would need covering up? Who is it keeps their face in the shadows at all times?”

“Are you saying the government is behind this?”

He shrugged. “I’m makin’ suggestions, you take it where ye want. Maybe it was simply an own-goal an’ the IRA didn’t want the egg of it on their face.”

She gritted her teeth in frustration, had she really risked all this—the ride here, the leering man in the kitchen who would rape her with little more concern than he’d take brushing his teeth—for suppositions and half hinted at innuendoes that didn’t make the picture any clearer.

“I don’t think you would have called me here if his own side had him murdered.”

“I heard ye were a smart girl.”

“So not IRA, not your side. That only leaves the British. Which is supposed to be your side, but in this case isn’t.”

He didn’t respond, which she took for leave to continue in the direction she was heading.

“So the who is simple enough, someone in the government. I still don’t see the why.”

“They say a man is only as wise as the company he keeps, so maybe ye need to look at who he was spendin’ time with right before he died.”

“How am I to find that out?”

“It’s not that long ago, ten years is like a day here.”

“I feel like you’ve handed me a bunch of frayed strings and are asking me to knit them into a first class jumper,” she said.

“May be that I have, but yer a smart lass, put it together. It’s a small country. Everything is connected from the top of the hill to the whelp in the gutter.”

“But why—how—” she sputtered, trying to gather her thoughts together to see the path he was trying to point her down.

“
Everything’s
connected,” he repeated emphatically. She knew that to push any further would guarantee his warning coming to fruition about letting the men loose on her. Still, in the jumble of all the pieces, something was missing. Something that was hovering out at the edge of her consciousness and shrinking from coming into the light.

“You knew Brian, didn’t you?”

A look of annoyance flicked across the impassive features.

“I was familiar with him for a time.”

“Were you friends?”

“I wasn’t his friend, but nor was I his enemy. Look,” the man leaned forward, eyes snaking to the door and then back to her. “There were a series of meetins’ in sixty, sixty-one—people from both governments an’ armies—that’s where ye need to look. That’s how I knew him. There were men involved in those meetins’ that were involved in other things, still are. I think yer father-in-law came across some information it’d be better if he’d not. He never seemed a man to let evil lie. Now I think,” he continued in a louder tone, which she understood was not for her benefit, “it’s time ye left before I get bored with this conversation. Ye didn’t meet here with me either. Understand? If I hear that yer tongue’s been waggin’ I’ll hand ye over to Rob. I have mercy, a bullet to the head an’ I’m done, but Rob likes to play with his dinner before he eats it.”

As threats went, it was fairly effective. She stood, a cold trickle of sweat running down the groove of her backbone.

He escorted her to the door, nodding to Rob who stood outside it. “Ye take her back to her car, an’ no funny business mind. I’ll break yer head like a melon should I find out otherwise.”

She followed Rob down the hall to the heavily fortified door.

“Lass.”

She turned back to the man who was quite possibly the most feared Protestant in all of the British Isles.

“Yes?”

“Mind what I said about truth seekers.”

THE RIDE BACK WAS ACCOMPLISHED in much the same fashion as the ride there had been. She was blindfolded, head down on the man’s knee. Above her, he conversed with the driver about football scores and a tart he’d met up with in the Capstan Lounge. He seemed to take particular relish in telling the story of his conquest in minute detail. One hand was kept firmly on the back of her neck; the other occasionally stroked itself down her arm and the side of her neck.

Then suddenly the driver who’d been entirely silent exclaimed, “Dere’s someone in the ditch—” He jerked the car hard right, and they flew off the road into the field.

“Did ye fuckin’ tell anyone ye were comin’ here?” Rob asked through gritted teeth, the pistol barrel biting sharply into her temple.

“No, I swear it,” she said, praying that he’d believe her. She didn’t think he’d hesitate to shoot her here and now.

The next few minutes were a blur of the car flying out of control through a hail of bullets. The scarf had come off and she had an impression of the color green, the man above her screaming obscenities and then just as suddenly he was completely silent and she could smell blood and feel the slippery warmth of it on her hands. The car was slowing in a huge spraying arc that made her stomach lurch up to her throat. It crashed into an immovable force and her head slammed into the door hard enough that a million stars exploded in front of her eyes.

And then suddenly everything was very, very still and she was miraculously still alive and seemingly in one piece, though her head hurt dreadfully and her ankle felt as though it had been sheared through by a sharp object.

She stayed low, knowing if the man outside saw her he’d shoot and worry about her identity later. She stayed perfectly still, the smell of gas dizzying her. As bad as the pain in her head was, she was thinking clearly enough to realize if she crawled out of the car they’d kill her. She could hear their approach even now. If she played dead would he leave her be, or torch the car? Which might be moot in another minute or two as the smell of gas was increasingly strong, and the car could well explode of its own accord. Should she hope to heaven it didn’t and pray he walked away, or take her chances with the man who now sounded like he was only feet from the car? She caught a whiff of smoke and made her decision.

She pulled the scarf up from around her neck and retied it around her eyes. The movement caused her to black out for a second. She struggled to regain her senses and gather her courage to speak.

“Please don’t shoot.” Her voice was a bare croak and the smell of smoke was getting stronger by the second, it wouldn’t be long before some spark found the gas tank and she’d be appealing to St. Peter on a much more permanent basis.

“What the fuck?” she heard the man say and then the door was opened and a rush of air flowed in, the smell of clover now mingling with the blood and fuel. A hand grabbed her and yanked. The pain in her head and ankle exploded like steel-edged stars through her bones. There was a flash of intense heat and her skin shrank back from the assault. Then she was being dragged hard and fast over the bumpy terrain, only to be dumped unceremoniously in what felt like a patch of nettles, where she promptly threw up, the acid flooding out of her in a wave.

“Jaysus—” She could hear the man dart back and felt some small frisson of satisfaction that she’d vomited on his shoes before he killed her. However, her murder didn’t seem in his immediate plans, for she could hear him sigh and swear under his breath. She put a hand to her face only to hear a sharp—“Leave the blindfold on!” And then, “What the fuck were ye doin’ in that car?”

Truth seemed the best option with this man. She wasn’t in a fit state to make anything up anyway. “I got a call to meet with them, they said they’d information I’d find interesting about— about—” mentioning her father-in-law’s name suddenly seemed a bad idea, “something I’m looking into.”

“An’ what would that somethin’ be?” he nudged her ankle with his boot and she thought she’d pass out from the pain. It must be broken; otherwise she didn’t see how it could hurt so horribly.

“An old murder.”

“What murder?” The voice was ominously heavy now. Journalists had met their end in such fields as these, of that she was all too aware. She couldn’t afford to hedge, his patience seemed tissue thin and they were going to have to get out of here soon. It was likely that he’d just as soon do it without the impediment of an injured woman.

“Brian Riordan.”

The silence was palpable, and she could feel him considering what she’d said. A small hope began to rise that he might spare her.

“What was he to you?”

“My father-in-law,” she said, knowing the answer would either save her or bring a swift end to things.

“Are ye Casey’s wife, then?” the man asked, an odd curiosity in his voice.

“Yes,” she said, quite certain that she was going to pass out whether he planned to kill her or not.

“Oh Christ.” Which wasn’t, under the circumstances, the most comforting sentence, but it eased a little of her fear. “How’d ye get here?”

“My car’s nearby, just up the road. Parked by the wall of Gosford House.”

“That’s a ways yet. Can ye walk?”

She attempted to stand but immediately collapsed back to the nettle patch. “My ankle’s broken,” she said, something about the manner in which the man spoke bothering her. He sounded vaguely familiar.