Something was pinching at the back of my neck, like someone tugging out little hairs one by one. I pay attention to that tug; there have been plenty of times when ignoring it would have got me killed. There was something I was missing, something I had seen or heard and let slip by.
Undercovers don’t get to video all the best parts, the way the Murder boys do, so we have very, very good memories. I got more comfortable on the wall, lit a smoke and went back over every bit of information I had picked up in the last few days.
One thing stuck out: I still wasn’t clear on just how that suitcase had got up that chimney. According to Nora, it had been put there sometime between Thursday afternoon, when she bummed Rosie’s Walkman, and Saturday night. But according to Mandy, Rosie hadn’t had her keys for those two days, which more or less ruled out the possibility of sneaking the case out at night-there had been an awful lot of inconvenient garden walls between her and Number 16-and Matt Daly had been keeping an eagle eye on her, which would have made it pretty tough to smuggle out something sizable during the day. Also according to Nora, on Thursdays and Fridays Rosie walked to and from work with Imelda Tierney.
Friday evening, Nora had been out at the pictures with her little mates; Rosie and Imelda could have had the bedroom to themselves, to pack and plan. Nobody had been paying attention to Imelda’s comings and goings. She could have waltzed out of that flat carrying just about anything she liked.
These days Imelda lived on Hallows Lane, just far enough from Faithful Place to be outside Scorch’s perimeter. And going by the look in Mandy’s eye, there was a decent chance that Imelda was at home in the middle of a workday, and that her relationship with the neighborhood was mixed enough to give her a soft spot for a prodigal son who was walking the fine line between in and out. I tossed back the last of my cold coffee and headed for my car.
My mate in the electric company pulled up an electricity bill for an Imelda Tierney at 10 Hallows Lane, Flat 3. The house was a kip: slates missing from the roof, paint flaking off the door, net curtains sagging behind grimy windows. You could tell the neighbors were praying the landlord would sell up to a nice respectable yuppie or two, or at least burn the place down for the insurance money.
I had been right: Imelda was home. “Francis,” she said, somewhere between shocked and delighted and horrified, when she opened the flat door. “Jaysus.”
Not one of those twenty-two years had been nice to Imelda. She had never been a stunner, but she had had height and good legs and a good walk, and those three can take you a long way. These days she was what the boys on the squad call a BOBFOC: body off Baywatch, face off Crimewatch. She had kept her figure, but there were pouches under her eyes and her face was covered in wrinkles like knife scars. She was wearing a white tracksuit with a coffee stain down the front, and her bleach job had about three inches of exhausted roots. The sight of me made her whip up a hand to fluff it into shape, like that was all it would take to snap us straight back to those glossy teenagers fizzing with Saturday night. That little gesture was the part that went straight to my heart.
I said, “Howya, ’Melda,” and gave her my best grin, to remind her that we had been good pals, way back when. I always liked Imelda. She was a smart kid, restless, with a moody streak and sharp edges that she had earned the hard way: instead of one permanent father she had way too many temporary ones, several of them married to people who weren’t her mother, and in those days that mattered. Imelda took a lot of flak about her ma, when we were all kids. Most of us lived in glass houses, one way or another, but an unemployed alco father was nowhere near as bad as a ma who had sex.
Imelda said, “I heard about Kevin, God rest him. I’m awful sorry for your trouble.”
“God rest,” I agreed. “While I’m back in the area, I thought I’d call in on a few old mates.”
I stayed there, in the doorway, waiting. Imelda shot a fast glance over her shoulder, but I wasn’t moving and she didn’t have a choice. After a second she said, “The place is in bits-”
“You think I care about that? You should see my gaff. It’s just good to see you again.”
By the time I finished talking, I was past her and through the door. The place wasn’t quite a shit hole, but I saw her point. One look at Mandy at home had said this woman was contented; not permanently ecstatic, maybe, but her life had turned out to be something she liked. Imelda, not so much. The sitting room felt even smaller than it was because there was stuff everywhere: used mugs and Chinese takeaway cartons on the floor around the sofa, women’s clothes-various sizes-drying on the radiators, dusty piles of bootleg DVD cases toppling over in corners. The heat was up too high and the windows hadn’t been opened in a long time; the place had a thick smell of ashtrays, food and women. Everything except the telly-on-steroids needed replacing.
“This is a great little place,” I said.
Imelda said shortly, “It’s shite.”
“I grew up in a lot worse.”
She shrugged. “So? Doesn’t stop this being shite. Will you have tea?”
“Love some. How’ve you been?”
She headed into the kitchen. “You can see for yourself. Sit down there.”
I found a noncrusty patch of sofa and settled in. “I hear you’ve got daughters these days, yeah?”
Through the half-open kitchen door I saw Imelda pause, with her hand on the kettle. She said, “And I heard you’re a Guard now.”
I was getting used to the illogical shot of anger when someone informed me I had turned into The Man’s bum-boy; it was even starting to come in useful. “Imelda,” I said, outraged and wounded to the bone, after a second of shocked silence. “Are you serious? You think I’m here to give you hassle about your kids?”
Shrug. “How do I know? They’ve done nothing, anyway.”
“I don’t even know their names. I was only asking, for fuck’s sake. I don’t give a rat’s arse if you’ve raised the bleeding Sopranos; I only wanted to say howya, for old times’ sake. If you’re just going to throw freakers about what I do for a living, then tell me and I’ll get out of your hair. Believe me.”
After a moment I saw the corner of Imelda’s mouth twitch reluctantly, and she flicked on the kettle. “Same old Francis; the bleeding temper on you. Yeah, I’ve three. Isabelle, Shania and Genevieve. Holy fucking terrors, the three of them; teenagers. What about you?”
No mention of a father, or fathers. “One,” I said. “She’s nine.”
“It’s all ahead of you. God help you. They say boys wreck your house and girls wreck your head, and it’s the truth.” She tossed tea bags into mugs. Just watching the way she moved made me feel old.
“Are you still doing the sewing?”
A sniff that could have been a laugh. “God, that’s going back a while. I quit the factory twenty years back. I do bits and bobs, now. Cleaning, mostly.” Her eyes flicked sideways to me, belligerent, checking whether I wanted to make something of that. “The Eastern Europeans’ll do it cheaper, but there’s still a few places want someone that speaks English. I do all right, so I do.”
The kettle boiled. I said, “You heard about Rosie, yeah?”
“I did, yeah. That’s only shocking. All this time…” Imelda poured the tea and gave her head a quick shake, like she was trying to get something out of it. “All this time I thought she was off in England. When I heard, I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t. I swear, the rest of the day I was walking around like a zombie.”
I said, “Same here. It hasn’t been a great week all round.”
Imelda brought out a carton of milk and a packet of sugar, made room for them on the coffee table. She said, “Kevin was always a lovely young fella. I was sorry to hear about him; really sorry, now. I would’ve called round to yours, the night it happened, only…”