I Remember You

Chapter Eight

‘See the crack in the mirror?’ asked Finbar, jerking his thumb towards the dressing table at the other end of the hotel bedroom. The splintered glass distorted his features, making him seem more Mephistophelian than ever. ‘It’s not shoddy furnishing, though in this place you might not believe it. The blast did that. And as for the window panes…’

He ground his heel into the shards scattered across the carpet. Sitting on the unmade bed, Harry grimaced as he heard the woman being sick in the bathroom next door: a violent, prolonged retching. Through the partition walls they could hear every movement, every groan.

For the sake of something to say, he asked, ‘Where were you when you heard the explosion?’ As soon as the words left his mouth, he realised it was a silly question.

Finbar raised his eyes skywards in disbelief. ‘Come on, Harry! You don’t think I invited a lovely lady like Sophie here to give me a few tips on how to be a better radio interviewee, surely to God? We were in bed, where d’you think?’

A thought occurred to Finbar. For the first time since Harry’s arrival, the mischievous grin reappeared.

‘I’ve heard of the earth moving — but that was ridiculous.’

As he spoke, the bathroom door opened to reveal Sophie Wilkins, pale and tear-stained and wiping her nose with a tissue. Her beige silk blouse was carelessly buttoned and Harry noticed a ladder in her sexy black tights. He could scarcely recognise the self-confident media person he had met earlier that morning.

‘For God’s sake!’ She spat out the words with a hostility that smacked both men to attention. ‘What’s the matter with you? Your car has been blown up by a bomb and all you can do is crack puerile jokes. Well, if that makes you feel macho, fine, but I’m not staying around here to pander to your bloody male ego.’

Finbar made a movement towards her. ‘Sophie, love, don’t go. At times like these, a man and a woman…’

She brushed away his hand as it rested for an instant on her shoulder. Red blotches had appeared on her cheeks.

‘Spare me the words of wisdom, Finbar. They belong in a Christmas cracker, not in my life.’

‘Sophie, listen to me,’ said Harry. ‘You’ve had a hell of a shock — both of you have. And how do you think Finbar feels? Neither of you is thinking straight. Why don’t you stay a while? The police will want to talk to you.’

The anger that lit her eyes told him he had said the wrong thing.

‘That’s all I need! Having to explain to PC Plod why I was on my back beneath a tattooist with the gift of the gab and not much else when I should have been at work! Do you realise I told Nick Folley I had a migraine? I feel a thousand times worse now than if I’d been forced to spend the day in a darkened room.’

Outside a siren howled.

‘I can’t believe this is happening,’ she said bitterly. ‘And all because I was weak and let myself be blarneyed into a quick leg-over! God, I hate myself sometimes. But not half as much as I hate you, Finbar.’

‘Sophie darling, be reasonable.’

‘Reasonable? Find someone else to be reasonable with. You have too many enemies, Finbar, too many people want you dead. Well, I’m not going to share your coffin.’

‘Sophie, love, you need to calm down. Do that and everything will be fine. I’ll see you…’

‘Not if I see you first! And don’t “love” me! I’m not another Melissa, you know, neurotic and clinging. Even she must see sense after this. You’re dangerous to know.’

She teetered for a second, as if her legs were about to give way, then turned and slammed the door behind her.

‘Hysterical,’ said Finbar. ‘You can understand it. She doesn’t mean what she says.’ He sighed. ‘Jases, Harry, what a mess.’

For once, Harry thought, his client was erring on the side of understatement. He walked over to the window to view Finbar’s car which had been parked in an unmade entry on the other side of Braddock Street. A police cordon now sealed off the scene of the crime, but did not disguise the extent of the devastation. Smoke thickened the air; even up here, there was no ignoring its pungent whiff. Firefighters had been pumping water on to what was left of the car body and a river was beginning to stretch down the street, where fragments recognisably belonging to the old red Granada had been scattered over a wide radius. Uniformed policemen had blocked off traffic at both ends of the street and were now waving away any vehicles or passers-by who stopped to linger. The hum of their walkie-talkies filled the air. Harry guessed they must be nervous, wondering if a second bomb had been planted, waiting for the Special Branch to arrive, not wanting to take any chances in the meantime. He himself had only been able to enter the Blue Moon by following Finbar’s telephone directions to an unmarked basement door in an extension at the rear of the building.

Amongst the debris, Harry glimpsed something which resembled part of a steering wheel. The sight of it sickened him. No one sitting in that car when the bomb went off could have had a hope of survival — and Finbar had said he’d promised to give Sophie a lift back to work once they were done in the hotel.

‘It may take more than a day or two for her to calm down. She’s lucky to be alive, and so are you.’

The Irishman winced. ‘Don’t think I don’t realise. Who would have imagined it? We were only after a little harmless fun.’

He had already explained how, working as swiftly as ever, he’d called Sophie that morning after Pop In came to an end and invited her to lunch at the Ensenada. During the course of wining and dining her in lavish manner he had persuaded her to accompany him here. The Blue Moon was owned by an old friend of his called Rajeshwar Sharma, to whom Finbar always referred as Reg. Reg owned a chain of hotels in Merseyside, all of which catered for guests seeking a room and a bed rather than the last word in luxury. This place was one of Finbar’s favourite haunts.

‘It’s like a second home to me, Harry,’ he said now, with a touch of mischief. ‘I have so many happy memories of my stays here.’

‘Most of which last around the sixty minute mark, I suppose?’

‘A couple of hours as a rule, mate. I’m not a man who cares to be rushed — far less have a bomb go off at the vital moment. Talk about stealing my thunder.’

‘What exactly happened?’

‘There was this almighty boom, followed by the sound of glass shattering. Then a few moments of silence, before someone somewhere started to scream.’ He shivered. ‘I’ve lived through bomb blasts before, of course, I’ve spent plenty of time in Belfast in days gone by. In a way that silence is the most terrifying of all. I’ve always dreaded the despair that churns up your guts, no matter how grand the cause the bomb was meant to help. I could never convince myself that broken bodies are a price worth paying … Anyway, I rolled off the lovely Sophie and onto the floor. Crawled to the window to have a look-see and saw bits of my motor strewn all over the place. There was a young girl, I doubt if she was sixteen — she was the one screaming, just outside the front door of the hotel. I slipped on my trousers and shirt and raced downstairs to grab hold of her and ask if she’d seen anything. She was beside herself, she’d been walking past when the bomb went off.’

Finbar closed his eyes. His voice had become hoarse. ‘That’s another thing no bomber ever seems to understand. It’s not just those who lose their lives or their legs who suffer: everyone involved goes through their own kind of agony. I bundled the girl indoors, told Reg to take care of her. Then I phoned you. Sorry if I sounded panic-stricken — the thought that someone wants you dead is a bit of a downer. Anyway, I wanted to have your advice first before I started shooting off my mouth.’

‘Advice? About what?’

‘How to play it with the police.’

‘I don’t follow. You don’t have to play at anything. Just tell them the facts.’ Then light began to dawn. ‘Finbar, do you have any idea who planted the bomb?’

For a second Finbar hesitated. Then he said, ‘No, that’s just what I’m getting at. I haven’t clue who could have done this. And I don’t want to start pointing the finger at anyone if they’re not guilty.’

Harry grunted. He doubted the profession of ignorance, but if Finbar was determined to camouflage the truth he thought it better to let the matter rest for the present and return to the attack later.

‘When did you arrive here?’

‘Half past two. At least, that was when I brought Sophie. But I’d left the car here in the morning. I often do, on a hopeful day. It avoids the rip-off parking fees in the city centre and makes for a quick getaway if the need arises: say the lady I’m with gets twitchy about the kids or her old feller and wants to fly back to the nest. I like to offer a lift. Simply paying for a taxi seems so clinical.’

Resisting the temptation to explore the complex contradictions that comprised Finbar’s moral code, Harry said, ‘So the bomb might have been planted during the morning?’

‘Put it that way and the answer must be yes.’

‘You need to tell the police everything. Whoever is responsible for this has come close to committing murder. More than likely he torched your studio into the bargain. You can’t afford finer feelings, your life’s at stake.’

Finbar looked mulish. ‘Harry, the police and me, we’ve never got on. They may reckon it’s an insurance fiddle, anyway.’

‘And is it?’

‘No.’ Course not. But I had a good policy on the car, and to tell you the truth it had crossed my mind that if something were to happen to the blessed thing, it was such a rust heap, I’d be quids in.’

A fierce banging on the door forestalled Harry’s reply.

‘Finbar,’ said a voice, muffled but urgent, ‘this is Reg. Let me in.’

The Irishman opened the door to admit the proprietor of the Blue Moon: a balding middle-aged man with a round face, no doubt sunny of temperament in ordinary circumstances, but now evidently frightened after a close call with serious violence.

‘How’s the girl, Reg?’

‘She is in a poor way,’ said Sharma. ‘A policewoman is comforting her. They can get little sense out of her at present.’

‘And what are the police up to?’ asked Harry.

Sharma looked at him warily, as if he were a tax inspector.

‘This is Harry Devlin,’ Finbar said. ‘He’s my brief.’

‘I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Devlin. The police, they are talking to everyone. Searching for witnesses. Taking statements. They wish to speak to everyone in the hotel. I thought you would like some advance warning — especially as they seem not to know who owned the car destroyed in the explosion.’

‘Ta,’ said Finbar. He turned to Harry. ‘Ah well, I suppose we’d better think about putting your expert counsel to the test. You willing to be with me when I have a word with them?’

‘Why else would I be here?’

Finbar winked. He was beginning to regain his composure. ‘Who knows, lawyers are such devious buggers. You might see the chance of all kinds of business in this situation.’

‘You’re not wrong,’ said Harry. ‘Can I persuade you to draw up a will for starters?’