Private Dublin

Chapter 23

The walls of the pub were steeped in the misery of ages. Once white, they were now brown with the stains left by decades of cigarette smoke, quite possibly exhaled by the very men who looked down at us from a mosaic of framed black-and-white photos. These mementos of Dublin’s industrial history were displayed in the White Horse, a pub on Bessborough Avenue, about thirty meters away from the short terrace that Conor Roche had identified for us in his call.

“I bet you’ve never been in a place like this before,” Andi said, grabbing a handful of peanuts from a pack she’d split open and placed on the table between us.

She’d also popped a packet of Taytos, which she’d told me were the best brand of potato chips in the world. Neither held any interest for me. My eyes were fixed on number three, not far from the eastern end of the terrace.

“Not exactly like it,” I replied, glancing round the old, rundown pub. “But there are places like this the world over.”

It was true. This place was a shelter from the storm of life for the locals who struggled against the bitter wind of poverty and the rain of misfortune. Hardship was writ large in the streets of East Wall, from the old cars, derelict warehouses, graffiti-covered brickwork, and homes in need of more than a touch of tender loving care. It showed on the face of the publican too, an alabaster-pale man in his fifties, whose skin was blemished with the red route map of burst blood vessels that were the hallmark of a heavy drinker. We were the only customers in his tiny establishment, and he was nursing a pint of ale that never seemed to run dry.

“Poor places?” Andi asked.

I nodded. “And hard. I’ve been in many of them.”

“Your legend says you’re a man of privilege,” Andi responded.

I scoffed. “Legends are just stories designed to make the teller feel important. They aren’t the truth. I’ve led a life no easier or harder than most.”

She pursed her lips. “War, death, pain? I wouldn’t say yours was no harder than most people’s.”

I was uncomfortable with the direction this conversation was taking but was saved from having to reply by the sound of my phone. Justine was calling.

“Keep watch,” I said to Andi, gesturing to the house as I got to my feet and stepped through an archway into a seating area at the back of the pub.

“Justine,” I said as I answered. “How are you?”

“Tired,” she replied. “But okay. Where are you?”

“In a pub,” I said. “We’re following a lead.”

“We?”

“Andi Harris. She’s a detective from the London office with good local knowledge.”

“What’s the lead?” Justine asked.

“A member of the Dark Fates who was arrested here a few weeks ago. We’re watching his place.”

“The Dark Fates... they’re in Dublin?”

“Yes,” I replied. “They’ve been getting into street crime locally.”

“I thought we were done with all this after Monaco,” Justine sighed.

“We were done with them,” I said. “They weren’t done with us.”

She was silent for a moment.

“I don’t want to go through this again,” she said at last.

“You won’t,” I assured her. “It ends here.”

“I love you, Jack,” she replied.

“Love you too.”

“I’ll check in later,” she said. “I better go now. The doctor is here.”

“Keep me posted on what they say,” I responded. “And make sure you rest.”

“I will,” she said before hanging up.

I turned to see Andi standing in the archway.

“Come on,” she said, and I followed her back to our table to see an unmarked white Mercedes van parked outside of number three.

The green front door opened and a man appeared in the doorway. He had straw-blond hair and a face that looked to have been set in a fierce scowl since birth. His skin was pasty, padded out by debauchery.

“It’s him,” Andi said, showing me the mugshot taken after Joe McGee’s arrest. Conor had emailed it to her.

Joe closed the front door behind him and hurried through his tiny front yard to the waiting van. As he opened the passenger door and jumped inside, I started for the exit.

“Come on,” I said to Andi. “We need to follow him.”