Free Falling Glass by Adrian McKinty

fund-raisers, that kind of thing.
    “My husband’s running a little late and Tom’s in the city,” she said.
    “I saw Mr Eichel briefly already.”
    “Oh, I see. Would you like a drink?”
    “Yeah I would, thank you, that boat journey…”
    “Boat journey? Ah, right. We didn’t take the boat. It must have been very beautiful.”
    The woman had a funny way of speaking English. She was Italian, French, something like that, but with an English boarding-school education. Almost certainly an ex-model or actress or TV presenter. Just the thing Coulter thought might impress everybody back home.
    Killian unslung the bicycle messenger bag from his shoulder and let it drop to the floor while she walked to a long bar that was stacked with bottles, cocktail shakers and draft beer taps.
    “Let me do that,” Killian said.
    “No, no, you sit down,” she insisted. “Now, what can I get you?”
    “Vodka tonic, heavy on the tonic and a lot of ice, please.”
    She brought him the drink and sat on a complementary black leather sofa opposite his. He removed a plastic stirring stick and looked aroundthe room. South-western motifs. Leather furniture. Animal heads. Brick fireplace and a real chimney. In this locale it was ridiculous.
    “You like it?” she asked, following his gaze.
    “It’s nice.”
    “It’s just our flat for here. We live in Ireland.”
    “Aye, I know. Me too,” Killian said.
    “Oh, I didn’t recognize the accent – whereabouts in Ireland?”
    “You know Carrick?”
    Helena shook her head.
    “It’s near Belfast. You must have driven through it.”
    “Possibly, I don’t know.”
    “How long have you been married?”
    “Six months.”
    “Congratulations.”
    He took a sip of the vodka tonic, it was at least half vodka.
    “You pour a mean drink,” he said.
    “Is it too strong?” she asked with a conman smile that immediately got her into his good books.
    “How do you get here from Hong Kong if you don’t take a boat?” he asked.
    She made a little helicopter sign with her fingers which Killian also found adorable.
    “Hello?” Coulter called from another part of the flat, his Ballymena accent unmistakable. His brogue had got defiantly stronger the more famous he had become until now it was a parody of itself, sort of a cross between Ian Paisley, Seamus Heaney and Liam Neeson, all of whom grew up in the same general area.
    “We’re in the living room, darling,” Helena said.
    “The peeler’s with you?” Coulter shouted.
    “The man you hired, yes.”
    “Did you tell him anything?”
    “No.”
    Coulter opened a door and came into the room. He looked sprightly,cheerful, like a demented elf. He was about five-seven, with dyed black hair and a tanned freckled face that had not been untroubled by the knives of gifted surgeons. He looked healthy and good. Killian knew that Coulter put it about that he was in his mid-fifties but actually he was closer to sixty.
    In his heyday, four or five years ago, he’d been on the box frequently doing chat shows, variety shows, showing up as a rent-a-quote when there was news about the airline industry.
    On the tube he had a stage Irishman, slightly sleazy air about him but in real life he seemed more like a successful ex-footballer or boxer a few years from the ring. There was a sort of rural Mick integrity to him.
    Killian stood up. Coulter nodded to him, kissed his wife and got himself a drink from the bar.
    “Where’s Tom?” he asked Helena.
    “Stuck in the city,” she replied. He kissed her again, sat down and then leaned forward and offered Killian his hand.
    “Tom talked to Sean Byrne about you, Sean says you’re the best,” Coulter said. Killian nodded. “Sean’s my manager, what else is he going to say?”
    Coulter ignored this. “And apparently you know Bridget and Michael Forsythe?”
    “I’ve met Michael a couple of times and I’ve done a few wee jobs for him over the years,” Killian said truthfully.
    “Well, he speaks highly