LITMIR.BIZ

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pulled open the door on a gust of stale air and stepped inside. To the uninformed eye, just a busy Belfast betting shop, nothing to differentiate it from any other. Odds were chalked up on whiteboards, sporting papers pinned to the walls, tiled floor pocked with cigarette burns. The clientele looked like the unemployed, the unemployable and the retired. Every one of them was male. The staff were working hard behind metal grilles, but not so hard that they didn’t all glance up at the opening of the door. The smoke of the day’s cigarettes already hung heavy in the air, even though it was barely eleven.

      Patrick crossed the room like the lord of the manor, nodding affably, waving a proprietary greeting to several regulars. They returned the greeting deferentially, one actually tugging the greasy brim of a tweed cap. It had never struck anyone as odd that so avowed a Republican should behave quite so much like an English patrician.

      Patrick continued across the room towards a door set in the wall by the end of the counter. One of the staff automatically slid a hand beneath the counter and the sound of a buzzer followed. Without breaking stride, Patrick pushed through the door and into a dim corridor with stairs at the far end.

      A door in the wall opened and a young woman with hair like a black version of Ronald McDonald and skin the blue white of skimmed milk stuck her head round it. ‘Sammy McGuire was on earlier. He said would you give him a call.’

      ‘I will, Theresa.’ Patrick continued down the corridor and up the stairs.

      It would be hard to imagine how the office he walked into could have been more different from the seediness downstairs. The floor was parquet – the real thing, not those pre-glued packs from the DIY superstore – with a silver grey Bokhara occupying what space wasn’t taken up by a Regency desk that looked almost too much for its slender legs. The chair behind it was padded leather, the filing cabinets that lined the wall old mahogany buffed to a soft sheen. Two paintings on the wall, both copies, one of a Degas and one of a Stubbs, both featuring horses. The only thing that let the room down was the view of the Falls Road.

      He’d thought of having the window bricked up and replacing it with another Degas. But it didn’t do to let people think you weren’t keeping an eye on them. Information had always been a commodity in Belfast; and if you didn’t yet have the information, it was almost as important to make it look as if there was no reason why you shouldn’t. So the window stayed.

      Patrick lowered himself gingerly into the chair, a martyr to his back as well as his country. Settled, he reached for the phone and pushed a single button on the speed dialler.

      ‘Sammy?’ Patrick said.

      ‘Patrick. How’re ye?’

      ‘Well, Sammy. And yourself?’

      ‘Ah well, no complaints, you know?’

      ‘And the family?’ The rituals had to be observed.

      ‘They’re all doing fine. Geraldine’s got herself a nice wee job with the Housing Corporation.’

      ‘Good for her. She’ll do well there, so she will. So, Sammy, what can I do for you?’

      ‘Well, Patrick, it might be that I can do something for you.’

      Patrick opened the humidor on his desk and selected a King Edward half-Corona. ‘Is that so, Sammy?’ he said, tucking the phone into his neck while he lit the cigar.

      ‘Have you still an interest in Bernadette Dooley?’

      Patrick clenched the phone in his fist. Only a lifetime of dissimulation allowed him to sound unruffled. ‘Now there’s a name I’ve not heard in years,’ he said genially. But his heart was jittering in his chest, the surge of memory flashing a slideshow of images across his mind’s eye.

      ‘Only, when she went missing, I seem to remember you were pretty keen to find out where she’d gone.’

      ‘I’m always concerned about my employees, Sammy. You know that.’

      ‘Oh aye,’ Sammy said hastily. ‘I know that, Patrick. But I didn’t know if you were still interested?’

      He couldn’t maintain the pretence of disinterest any longer. ‘Where is she, Sammy?’

      Patrick heard the sound of a cheap lighter clicking. ‘I was in Glasgow last weekend – a cousin of the wife’s wedding. Anyway, I went into a supermarket to get some drinks in, and I saw Bernadette. Not to speak to, like, but it was definitely her, Patrick.’ Sammy spoke rapidly.

      ‘Was she working there?’

      ‘No, no, she was walking out with her shopping. I was at the checkout, in the middle of paying, there was nothing I could do …’

      ‘What supermarket would that be, now?’ Patrick said, as if it were a matter of supreme indifference.

      ‘I’m not sure of the name of it, like, but it’s right at the top of Byres Road. Behind the Grosvenor Hotel. That’s where the wedding was, you see. I didn’t know if you were still interested, but I thought, no harm in letting your man know.’

      ‘I appreciate that, Sammy. There’s a twenty-pound bet for you in the shop next time you’re passing.’ It would cost him nothing. Sammy McGuire was one of life’s losers. ‘Take care now.’

      Patrick terminated the connection. He leaned back in his chair and stared at the Degas, two frown lines between his eyebrows. Few people had ever touched his heart; Bernadette Dooley had been the only one of those who had ever dared to betray him. Even now, the thought of what he had lost when she had disappeared gave him physical pain. For seven years, he’d dreamed of finding her again, convinced that their paths would have to cross sooner or later. Not a day had passed without consciousness of what had gone when she had vanished from his life. At last, he had a chance to regain the peace of mind she had stolen from him. He flicked the intercom. ‘Theresa, Sammy McGuire’s due a twenty on the house. He’ll be by later on.’

      Then he hit the speed dialler again. The other end answered on the second ring, if silence could be called answering. ‘Michael?’ Patrick said softly.

      ‘No, it’s Kevin.’

      Patrick stifled a sigh. The way it worked, you had to find a place for the stupid ones because it was bad politics to turn them away. So you put one thick one on every team and hoped the others would keep him out of trouble. Funny, it always was a him that was the thicko. You could get away with it without too many problems usually, because one dummy in a cell of four or five wasn’t too much of a liability. But in a team of two … it might be a different story. Patrick hoped not, for all sorts of reasons. ‘Put Michael on,’ he said wearily.

      A long moment of silence, then Michael’s hard voice cut through the ether. ‘Patrick,’ he said.

      ‘Come in. I’ve got something for you.’ Patrick put the phone down. Only then did he realize his cigar had gone out.

      The headlights turned into the drive. Lindsay checked that it was Sophie’s car and reached for the phone. ‘Carry out, please,’ she said when it was answered. By the time the front door closed, she was listening to the invariable, ‘Twenty-five minutes, Mrs Gordon.’ She twisted round on the window seat so she was half-facing the door. She heard Sophie’s briefcase hit the floor, heard the snick of the cloakroom door shutting, then her partner’s voice.

      ‘I’m home,’ Sophie called. Her shoes clicked on the wooden flooring as she turned into the kitchen. ‘Lindsay?’ She sounded puzzled.

      ‘I’m through here.’

      Sophie appeared in the doorway, still elegant after a day’s work in a tailored suit and plain silk shirt. She had the grace not to ask why Lindsay wasn’t in the kitchen as usual, putting the finishing touches to dinner. ‘Hi, darling,’ she said, the smile reaching her tired eyes. Then she took in the bandaged ankle propped on a cushion and raised her eyebrows, concern on her face. ‘What on earth have you been doing to yourself?’

      ‘It’s just a sprain.’

      Sophie

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