Unti Lucy Black Novel #3 by Brian McGilloway

the man’s CCTV system was impressive. The girl appeared to be in her early twenties. She had short blond hair, shaved in at the sides. She wore a white top, and jeans over outsized sneakers. She bought two cans of Coke and a packet of cigarettes.
    â€œWhy did Ciaran not mention you?” Lucy asked, printing the image off. And where had he been from the end of the ser­vice until 4:33. The shop was, at most, forty-­five minutes from Derry.
    â€œHave you a minute,” Tom Fleming asked, sticking his head around the doorjamb. “I’ve been skimming through this list that Burns gave us of the phone interviews about the Krawiec death and I know one of the names: Colm Heaney. He’s a barman in Spice nightclub. Very reliable he is, too.”
    Perhaps Lucy’s expression betrayed her thoughts. Spice nightclub was the haunt of teenagers. That Fleming knew the barman was a little strange. Even when he had been drinking, he didn’t seem like the typical clientele of Spice.
    â€œI know him through the soup kitchen,” Fleming said. “He stops off every Friday for chicken soup on his way home from work and has a chat. He’s a decent sort.”
    â€œSo long as we can speak with Ciaran Duffy afterwards,” Lucy agreed.

 
    Chapter Twenty
    C OLM H EANEY WAS in his forties, but dressed as if twenty years younger. His skin was swarthy and, despite his age, in such good condition that Lucy guessed he must have a more rigorous facial routine in the morning than she did. Admittedly, she thought, that wouldn’t be hard.
    â€œHow’re you, Tom?” he asked, leading them into his living room. He lived in College Terrace, just off the Strand Road, his house facing into the lower grounds of Magee University.
    He had two bookcases against the far wall, both laden with CDs and DVDs, though no books.
    â€œNot bad, Colm. Are you working these nights?”
    â€œRun off our feet,” he said. “Plus we’ve the Fleadh coming up in a few weeks. They’re expecting four hundred thousand extra ­people in the city for that.”
    The Fleadh was an annual celebration of Irish music, held in a different city or town in Ireland each year. This would be the first time it was to be held north of the border.
    Lucy stood in front of the shelves, glanced at the contents, realizing with some surprise that the CDs were stacked according to artist, who in turn seemed to be arranged alphabetically.
    â€œYou called in about the body found in the bin?” Fleming asked, sitting.
    â€œCan I get you a tea? Coffee? Soup?” he added, nodding at Fleming with a smile.
    â€œI’m good, thanks,” Lucy said.
    The man nodded. “Yeah. I was walking home on Monday night and came down through Sackville Street. The alleyway there behind Mullan’s pub? There was a silver Toyota parked in it and two guys were throwing something into the big metal industrial bins that sit there.”
    â€œRight?” Fleming said. “Could it not have been someone from the bar?”
    â€œWell, I thought that,” Heaney agreed. “Only, I used to work in there and I know a lot of the staff. I stopped to say hello and that, but the two guys got back in the car and scarpered. They reversed out the other way rather than coming past me.”
    â€œReversed out where?”
    â€œOnto Great James Street. They pulled out there and then took off up past the post office.”
    â€œWhat time was this at?” Fleming asked.
    â€œIt must have been, like, 3:30 in the morning. The place was dead, like. I just thought it was a bit odd.”
    â€œDid you get a look at either of the men?”
    â€œNot really. It was dark. They were big guys, heavy, you know. The driver especially. Not fat. Big build.”
    â€œYou don’t happen to remember the registration number of the car, do you?” Lucy asked.
    â€œI’m not Rain Man,” Heaney said, smiling.