looked up at him. ‘Did you ever live in Blackpool?’
‘Blackpool?’
‘Blackpool, England.’
‘No.’
‘Where are you from?’
‘What’s this about?’
‘Up on that roof, I turned around – I can tell you, one more second I was going off, backwards flip – you know what I mean? – like in the Olympics. Then, I thought I knew you.’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Then I said to myself, no, maybe not. For a minute there I could have sworn you were a fella used to work in the clubhouse bar. He was from Drogheda. Every Saturday morning, I went there. Nice people. Anyway, it doesn’t matter now.’ Kemp was staring at the shrink. ‘It was like I was waking up, standing on the roof. I knew why I was there, and I kind of remembered – maybe not. Anyway, that was that.’
‘And?’
The nutcase looked again at Joe Mills. ‘I was just curious. Thought you might be the guy, after all. Just wanted to ask you.’
‘There was no woman.’
Kemp raised an eyebrow. ‘Of course there was.’
‘I looked all over the house, the garden, front and back.’
Kemp looked confused. Then he closed his eyes for a few seconds and when he opened them he was smiling. He understood. ‘No, not Mina’s house – Christ, no, what do you think I am? She’s my sister.’
‘What did you mean – I’d never hurt a woman before ?’
The suspect shook his head. ‘Different thing altogether. Not here. Not Galway.’
‘Blackpool?’
‘What about it?’
‘This woman, whatever you did to her – did it happen in Blackpool?’
‘Do you think I could get a cup of tea? Milk, no sugar.’
Wayne Kemp got his tea and he didn’t say another word for three days.
DUBLIN
When he closed the front door of his flat, before he switched on the light, Harry Synnott saw the little yellow light blinking on the answer machine. He grimaced. The day’s work might not yet be done.
Synnott pressed a button on the machine.
‘Harry—’
It was OK – his ex-wife.
Synnott pressed another button and the message aborted. He crossed to the kitchen table, set down the Chinese takeaway, and hung his jacket on the back of a chair. When he’d spooned the food onto a plate he sat at the table and began eating. After a couple of minutes he switched on the radio. A man was talking about classical music, explaining the background to someone’s masterpiece. After a while he stopped talking and played the music. Synnott listened as he ate and when he’d finished eating he switched off the radio and dumped the remains of the meal in the bin. Then he went to the answer machine and played Helen’s message.
‘Harry, maybe it’s nothing, but I had a call from Michael this afternoon. Nothing wrong, but he casually dropped the fact that he intends quitting college. Just like that. Has he said anything to you? You know how these things go, it could be he’s just being cranky, but, anyway, I think maybe you should give him a call, see if he’s serious. Let me know if there’s anything to worry about. Take care.’
Synnott had spoken with his son a week earlier. He’d taken Michael to dinner in the expensive city-centre restaurant that his son had nominated. The food was all right, the servile waiters a pain in the arse.
When Michael ordered something with a French name he leaned heavily on the appropriate accent. Synnott didn’t know why that irritated him so much, but it did. His son was pushing adulthood. He was just three years short of the age that Synnott had been when he had given evidence in a murder case. Synnott found his son’s pretensions no longer cute, just irksome.
Michael chattered about some opportunity that had come up. He and two friends were hoping for some venture capital from the father of one of the friends. ‘We’re thinking of opening a brand consultancy.’
Synnott tried to keep the scepticism out of his voice. ‘Michael, what do you know about—’
‘Suppose you’ve got a business – a product or a
‘Blackpool?’
‘Blackpool, England.’
‘No.’
‘Where are you from?’
‘What’s this about?’
‘Up on that roof, I turned around – I can tell you, one more second I was going off, backwards flip – you know what I mean? – like in the Olympics. Then, I thought I knew you.’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Then I said to myself, no, maybe not. For a minute there I could have sworn you were a fella used to work in the clubhouse bar. He was from Drogheda. Every Saturday morning, I went there. Nice people. Anyway, it doesn’t matter now.’ Kemp was staring at the shrink. ‘It was like I was waking up, standing on the roof. I knew why I was there, and I kind of remembered – maybe not. Anyway, that was that.’
‘And?’
The nutcase looked again at Joe Mills. ‘I was just curious. Thought you might be the guy, after all. Just wanted to ask you.’
‘There was no woman.’
Kemp raised an eyebrow. ‘Of course there was.’
‘I looked all over the house, the garden, front and back.’
Kemp looked confused. Then he closed his eyes for a few seconds and when he opened them he was smiling. He understood. ‘No, not Mina’s house – Christ, no, what do you think I am? She’s my sister.’
‘What did you mean – I’d never hurt a woman before ?’
The suspect shook his head. ‘Different thing altogether. Not here. Not Galway.’
‘Blackpool?’
‘What about it?’
‘This woman, whatever you did to her – did it happen in Blackpool?’
‘Do you think I could get a cup of tea? Milk, no sugar.’
Wayne Kemp got his tea and he didn’t say another word for three days.
DUBLIN
When he closed the front door of his flat, before he switched on the light, Harry Synnott saw the little yellow light blinking on the answer machine. He grimaced. The day’s work might not yet be done.
Synnott pressed a button on the machine.
‘Harry—’
It was OK – his ex-wife.
Synnott pressed another button and the message aborted. He crossed to the kitchen table, set down the Chinese takeaway, and hung his jacket on the back of a chair. When he’d spooned the food onto a plate he sat at the table and began eating. After a couple of minutes he switched on the radio. A man was talking about classical music, explaining the background to someone’s masterpiece. After a while he stopped talking and played the music. Synnott listened as he ate and when he’d finished eating he switched off the radio and dumped the remains of the meal in the bin. Then he went to the answer machine and played Helen’s message.
‘Harry, maybe it’s nothing, but I had a call from Michael this afternoon. Nothing wrong, but he casually dropped the fact that he intends quitting college. Just like that. Has he said anything to you? You know how these things go, it could be he’s just being cranky, but, anyway, I think maybe you should give him a call, see if he’s serious. Let me know if there’s anything to worry about. Take care.’
Synnott had spoken with his son a week earlier. He’d taken Michael to dinner in the expensive city-centre restaurant that his son had nominated. The food was all right, the servile waiters a pain in the arse.
When Michael ordered something with a French name he leaned heavily on the appropriate accent. Synnott didn’t know why that irritated him so much, but it did. His son was pushing adulthood. He was just three years short of the age that Synnott had been when he had given evidence in a murder case. Synnott found his son’s pretensions no longer cute, just irksome.
Michael chattered about some opportunity that had come up. He and two friends were hoping for some venture capital from the father of one of the friends. ‘We’re thinking of opening a brand consultancy.’
Synnott tried to keep the scepticism out of his voice. ‘Michael, what do you know about—’
‘Suppose you’ve got a business – a product or a
Similar Books
