Doherty’s pub.’
Hendry winced. ‘I’m not sure I could step foot in that place. Five years ago they’d have fucking skinned a copper alive in there.’
‘New times, Jim: haven’t you heard? Besides, we’re only going for the one.’
I drove ahead of him to Doherty’s pub on the outskirts of Strabane. The pub itself was a single room lounge with an oval bar in the centre. The furniture was mismatched, the faux suede upholstery on the booths matted and stained with cigarette smoke, despite the smoking ban. Old-style yellowed wall lamps provided the only illumination. Despite this, the arrival of a PSNI man into the bar did not go unnoticed by the other drinkers, even though Hendry was in civvies.
In all the time I had known Jim Hendry, we had never really socialized beyond grabbing cups of tea after an interview. I sensed that he wanted company on a Friday night and, for my part, I was coward enough to want to avoid Penny. In fact, Morrison was the topic of conversation when Hendry sat down with two pints for us.
‘Vincent Morrison has reappeared,’ I said, supping from my pint, while Hendry swallowed mouthfuls of his.
‘Remind me,’ he said, wiping the froth from his moustache with his thumb and forefinger.
‘People smuggler. That Chechen thing a while back.’
He nodded in recognition. ‘So what’s he up to?’
‘I’m not sure. He’s part of a community group supporting this anti-drugs crowd, The Rising. He’s living on my side of the border now.’
‘And you don’t think he’s on the level?’ Hendry asked, one eyebrow raised in mock seriousness. ‘You’re so suspicious.’
‘I don’t trust him. There must be an angle. Have you heard anything over here?’
Hendry shook his head, drained his pint, thumped his chest and belched.
‘Excuse me,’ he said, placing the back of his hand against his mouth. ‘Nothing. I’ll keep an ear out, see if the Drugs Squad up here have anything on him.’
‘I appreciate it. The fucker’s sent his son to my daughter’s school.’
‘Did he actually send him to her school, or have they just ended up in the same school?’ Hendry asked.
‘I don’t know.’
‘How many schools are there in your area?’
‘I’ll get your pint,’ I said, standing up.
He started to laugh. ‘How many?’
‘One,’ I said. ‘OK, point taken.’
‘I’ll have a Smithwick’s,’ he said, winking at the barman who was already pulling the pint.
I bought myself a Coke. While the barman was pouring the pint I placed the photograph of Martin Kielty on the bar.
‘How’s it going?’ I said, my money in my hand as the barman approached me. He glanced over my shoulder at where Jim Hendry sat then turned and walked down to the far end of the bar without another word. I watched him walk away until I realized I recognized the man sitting at that end.
Patsy McCann perched on the furthest barstool from me, presumably having just finished his shift, for he was dressed in the livery of the bar. The last time I had seen him, he had packed in his work and was panning for gold on the Carrowcreel river, following a mini goldrush in the area.
I walked down to him, only to see the barman mutter something and move away again at my approach.
‘Ben,’ Patsy said, twisting on his stool and extending his hand to shake. ‘Bit off your patch over here.’
‘I get around,’ I said.
‘Your pal’s even further off his patch,’ he said. ‘He’s making some of the other customers nervous.’
I glanced around the lounge and realized that the conversations had muted somewhat since our arrival and several drinkers were looking over at Hendry, some with open hostility. If Hendry saw them, he gave no sign of it.
‘I’m looking for some information,’ I said.
Patsy called the barman over. ‘Give these two whatever they’re having,’ he said. ‘They’ll not be staying.’ Then to me: ‘I need to buy some ciggies, Ben.’ He nodded very slightly with his head to
Hendry winced. ‘I’m not sure I could step foot in that place. Five years ago they’d have fucking skinned a copper alive in there.’
‘New times, Jim: haven’t you heard? Besides, we’re only going for the one.’
I drove ahead of him to Doherty’s pub on the outskirts of Strabane. The pub itself was a single room lounge with an oval bar in the centre. The furniture was mismatched, the faux suede upholstery on the booths matted and stained with cigarette smoke, despite the smoking ban. Old-style yellowed wall lamps provided the only illumination. Despite this, the arrival of a PSNI man into the bar did not go unnoticed by the other drinkers, even though Hendry was in civvies.
In all the time I had known Jim Hendry, we had never really socialized beyond grabbing cups of tea after an interview. I sensed that he wanted company on a Friday night and, for my part, I was coward enough to want to avoid Penny. In fact, Morrison was the topic of conversation when Hendry sat down with two pints for us.
‘Vincent Morrison has reappeared,’ I said, supping from my pint, while Hendry swallowed mouthfuls of his.
‘Remind me,’ he said, wiping the froth from his moustache with his thumb and forefinger.
‘People smuggler. That Chechen thing a while back.’
He nodded in recognition. ‘So what’s he up to?’
‘I’m not sure. He’s part of a community group supporting this anti-drugs crowd, The Rising. He’s living on my side of the border now.’
‘And you don’t think he’s on the level?’ Hendry asked, one eyebrow raised in mock seriousness. ‘You’re so suspicious.’
‘I don’t trust him. There must be an angle. Have you heard anything over here?’
Hendry shook his head, drained his pint, thumped his chest and belched.
‘Excuse me,’ he said, placing the back of his hand against his mouth. ‘Nothing. I’ll keep an ear out, see if the Drugs Squad up here have anything on him.’
‘I appreciate it. The fucker’s sent his son to my daughter’s school.’
‘Did he actually send him to her school, or have they just ended up in the same school?’ Hendry asked.
‘I don’t know.’
‘How many schools are there in your area?’
‘I’ll get your pint,’ I said, standing up.
He started to laugh. ‘How many?’
‘One,’ I said. ‘OK, point taken.’
‘I’ll have a Smithwick’s,’ he said, winking at the barman who was already pulling the pint.
I bought myself a Coke. While the barman was pouring the pint I placed the photograph of Martin Kielty on the bar.
‘How’s it going?’ I said, my money in my hand as the barman approached me. He glanced over my shoulder at where Jim Hendry sat then turned and walked down to the far end of the bar without another word. I watched him walk away until I realized I recognized the man sitting at that end.
Patsy McCann perched on the furthest barstool from me, presumably having just finished his shift, for he was dressed in the livery of the bar. The last time I had seen him, he had packed in his work and was panning for gold on the Carrowcreel river, following a mini goldrush in the area.
I walked down to him, only to see the barman mutter something and move away again at my approach.
‘Ben,’ Patsy said, twisting on his stool and extending his hand to shake. ‘Bit off your patch over here.’
‘I get around,’ I said.
‘Your pal’s even further off his patch,’ he said. ‘He’s making some of the other customers nervous.’
I glanced around the lounge and realized that the conversations had muted somewhat since our arrival and several drinkers were looking over at Hendry, some with open hostility. If Hendry saw them, he gave no sign of it.
‘I’m looking for some information,’ I said.
Patsy called the barman over. ‘Give these two whatever they’re having,’ he said. ‘They’ll not be staying.’ Then to me: ‘I need to buy some ciggies, Ben.’ He nodded very slightly with his head to
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