Dead And Buried. John Brennan

and her dark hair was glossy. Through a cloud of white smoke Galloway said, ‘It was funny, the way you left, Conor.’

      ‘Funny?’

      ‘It was just at the same time Jack Marsh disappeared, wasn’t it?’

      Conor fidgeted uneasily with a beermat. Any hope this would be a friendly catch-up evaporated. He wished she hadn’t said it. He wished he’d never heard it. It took all the guts he had to meet Galloway’s eye.

      ‘Don’t know what’s funny about that,’ he said.

      Galloway ignored him. ‘Strange case,’ she said thoughtfully, looking out over the scalloped grey-green river. ‘Feller like Marsh – he was always so careful, you know?’

      ‘I don’t suppose he was short of enemies.’

      ‘No, you’re right there.’ She smiled – like this was a private joke between the two of them. ‘For a start I think the army would’ve had him shot if they were still allowed. Dealing dope to cadets was one thing – he was a good soldier, after all – they could turn a blind eye there. Then they caught him selling small arms to villains out of Deysbrook Barracks.’ She laughed. ‘They couldn’t overlook that.’

      Conor nodded. He knew the case history inside-out. Marsh had taken his dishonourable discharge and done his time.

      Galloway sipped her drink and swallowed slowly. ‘Marsh landed in Belfast around the same time I did.’

      ‘Sounds like destiny.’

      Galloway didn’t say anything. Conor stayed silent while she took a long pull on her cigarette. He studied her pale hands and her narrow hazel eyes.

      She looked up suddenly, her eyes meeting his. Conor looked away.

      ‘I don’t want any trouble, Detective,’ he muttered.

      Galloway laughed. ‘Now what on earth would you mean by “trouble”?’ She smiled. Conor didn’t smile back. Abruptly, Galloway stubbed out her cigarette and folded her hands on the tabletop. Here we go, Conor thought.

      ‘Whoever killed Jack Marsh—’ Galloway began.

      Conor stopped her with a raised hand. ‘You’re talking like Marsh was definitely killed. But you never found him, did you? I mean, you don’t even know if he’s dead. No one does,’ he added.

      Galloway’s eyes were stony. ‘Don’t push your luck, Mr Maguire,’ she said quietly. She took a drink and began again. ‘Like I said, I don’t want to play games. I’ll tell you what we want.’ Again her eyes met his. ‘Patrick Cameron,’ she said.

      Conor leaned back in his seat, his mind racing. ‘What d’you want with Patrick?’

      ‘He was close to Marsh. Very close.’

      ‘Maybe he was. What’s that got to do with me?’

      ‘Don’t play dumb, Conor – you’re smarter than that.’ Galloway brushed away a crumb of cigarette ash in an irritated gesture. ‘Patrick Cameron’s your wife’s brother,’ she said.

      ‘Ex-wife.’

      ‘You’re family,’ Galloway insisted.

      Conor shrugged. ‘Not any more.’

      Galloway was bluffing, he thought. If they had anything on him – anything that’d stick – he wouldn’t be sipping a beer on a riverside terrace. No, he’d be in an Antrim Road interview room, with some smooth solicitor telling him it was fess up or face ten years in Maghaberry.

      It’d be hard time, too. Not political time, Provo time, Colm Murphy time – the time that got you songs sung about you and free drinks on the Falls Road. Just hard, dirty, criminal time.

      So they’d got nothing on him.

      He stayed silent, turning his beer glass on its mat, till Galloway threw back the last of her drink, set the glass down hard on the tabletop, and said: ‘Life’s hard enough in this town, Conor.’ She stood up and shrugged the strap of her bag onto her shoulder. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

      Conor stood up. ‘Is that a threat?’ Suddenly he felt very aware of his height – or, rather, he felt aware of how he towered over the detective – of Galloway’s smallness, her fragility. The wind off the river dishevelled her hair and she smoothed it awkwardly with her left hand.

      ‘It’s been nice talking to you again, Conor,’ she said, and Conor thought: at a time like this, after a talk like this – what sort of person could say something like that?

      ‘I’d best be getting on,’ he said. ‘I’ll be seeing you, Detective.’

      Galloway held out her hand and he took it uncertainly. ‘You will,’ she said.

      IT WAS It was one of those new estates where all the streets were named for historical figures – painters, here. So there was Turner Drive and Monet Crescent and Stubbs Avenue.

      And Rembrandt Close. His home. Turning carefully through a T-junction – the three O’Neill kids, he remembered, were always kicking a football around there – he told himself: it’s not your home any more.

      And then he had to try and ignore the question that came to him next, demanding an answer: if this isn’t your home, Con, where the hell is?

      The estate didn’t look as brand-new as when he’d left it, but not much else had changed. The odd house had new window frames, or a new car in the driveway. But there across the road, giving his lawn a regimental crewcut, was old Len Swallow, same as ever – and, when Conor wound down the window, even the smell of the place was the same: lilacs, Christine had taught him, from a mauve-blossomed bush by the front door of number eight. The Maguire place.

      He’d thought it’d be weird, coming back here. But it wasn’t.

      He was still feeling a little otherworldly as he climbed out of the car – but a sharp knock at an upstairs window shook him out of it. He started in alarm. He looked up, saw it was Ella, smiling, pulling on a hoodie, tapping her wrist in a ‘you’re late!’ gesture – and he cursed himself for being so edgy. It was that bloody policewoman.

      He waited, leaning on the car, for Ella to make her way downstairs. Galloway. Jesus – he could hardly believe how quickly he’d been drawn back in, how quickly she’d renewed her grip on his life. He straightened up when he saw Ella appear in the doorway. She had a puppy in her arms.

      They exchanged hugs and Ella gave him hell for being half an hour overdue and he, thinking quickly, blamed the damn traffic on Albertbridge Road. Then he sized up the puppy with a professional eye.

      A bitch. Six weeks old or so. Patterdale, but not pure-bred – something of a Welsh in the tail, something of a Border in the muzzle – a good-enough looking little mongrel.

      ‘What d’you call her?’

      ‘Gracie.’

      He lifted the squirming puppy out of his daughter’s arms. ‘Black and tan,’ he noted, running a calming hand along the puppy’s flank. ‘Don’t tell your grandmother.’

      ‘Eh?’

      ‘Never mind. Before your time. Where’d you find her?’

      ‘She’s a present from Kieran. She’s lovely, isn’t she?’

      ‘Oh. Yeah.’ Again Conor felt jealousy stir – where was bloody Kieran, he thought, when you fell and broke your wrist at six years of age, and was it Kieran sat up with you all night when you got the croup when you were a wee baby, and was it Kieran slogged around every toy shop in Belfast on Christmas Eve because you wanted—

      He stopped himself. And where have you been ever since, Con? Four thousand miles away, that’s where.

      ‘I’ve decided I – I want to be like you, Dad,’ he heard Ella say suddenly, nervously. He blinked. He wasn’t sure he liked the sound of