Collusion by Stuart Neville Page A

said. ‘But like I said, I’m not touting for you. You’re a good friend to have, Jack, but don’t push your luck.’
    ‘Michael McKenna,’ Lennon said. ‘Paul McGinty, too. What do you reckon to all that? The inquiry said it was a feud, all internal stuff. You ever hear anything different?’
    Roscoe smiled. ‘That was a good week,’ he said. ‘My auld da used to say the only good taig was a dead taig. Lot of good taigs that week. No offence, like.’
    ‘None taken,’ Lennon said.
    Roscoe’s mobile phone beeped. He picked it up and thumbed a button. ‘She’s ready for you,’ he said.
    Lennon got to his feet and walked to the door.
    ‘There was one weird thing came of it all,’ Roscoe said.
    Lennon stopped in the doorway. ‘What was that?’
    ‘That lawyer, Patsy Toner,’ Roscoe said. ‘They said he lent that bent cop his car, and the cop wound up getting his head took off. They said it was mistaken identity, said the dissidents meant to get Toner. But then the dissidents blew themselves up, problem solved, everything gets back to normal.’
    Lennon walked back to Roscoe. ‘And?’
    ‘Patsy Toner’s a regular with one of my girls. She says he’s in pieces. He still comes to see her, but he can’t manage anything. She’s tried handjobs, blowjobs, stuck her finger up his arse, everything she can think of. Not a fucking thing.’
    ‘I could’ve done without that image,’ Lennon said.
    ‘Me too,’ Roscoe said, his lip curling. ‘But you hear worse in my line of work.’
    Lennon leaned on the back of Roscoe’s chair. ‘I’m sure you do, but what’s your point?’
    Roscoe shrugged. ‘Might be nothing, but she told me he turned up pissed off his face one night. He was blathering about how it wasn’t over, they wouldn’t let it go, it was only a matter of time before they came for him.’
    Lennon stood upright. ‘Is that right?’
    Roscoe smiled. ‘Is what right? I didn’t tell you nothing.’ He turned back to his game. ‘I’m not touting for you. Now go and see that wee thing before she gets lonely.’
    Lennon patted the other man’s muscled shoulder. ‘Thanks, Roscoe.’
    He went back to the entrance hall. A thin streak of light reached across the carpet from the bedroom door. He rapped the wood with his knuckles, and the door opened. She had shoulder-length brown hair and smelled of strong soap.
    ‘Put a hundred on the dressing table, love,’ she said, her Scottish accent easing through her smile. ‘Then we’ll talk about the options. All right, sweetheart?’
    Lennon forced himself to maintain eye contact. ‘Roscoe and me have an arrangement.’
    She stood on tiptoe and called over his shoulder. ‘Roscoe?’
    Roscoe’s voice came back from the living room. ‘Whatever he wants. I’ll sort you, don’t worry.’
    Her face slackened for a moment, whether with contempt or sadness he couldn’t tell. Then it brightened, as if a light behind her eyes had switched on, and her lips parted in a smile that could cut glass. ‘Whatever you want, darling,’ she said.

17
    Just a few months ago, Declan Quigley had saved Bull O’Kane’s life by dragging his huge bulk into a car and speeding to a hospital in Dundalk. Even so, O’Kane wanted Quigley gone. It wasn’t the Traveller’s place to question the Bull.
    Quigley lived with his mother in a red-brick two-up-two-down off the Lower Ormeau. The Traveller circled the area around the house. He couldn’t park up and hope no one noticed him as he did at Marie McKenna’s place on Eglantine Avenue. This was a close-knit community. Any stranger would draw attention if they stayed in one place too long.
    A gang of fifteen or so youths wandered from street to street, making their way towards the interface with the Loyalist-dominated Donegall Pass. Looking for a fight, the Traveller thought. They’d probably get it. He circled back towards Quigley’s street.
    The mother was doting, the Bull said, didn’t know night from day. There was