Free Dark Times in the City by Gene Kerrigan Page B

much enjoy. But Callaghan liked the calming effect that came with emptying his mind of everything except the mechanical routineof calculation, adjustment and response involved in driving on a busy motorway.
    The drive to the airport, in the early afternoon, had been mostly silent. He gathered from their infrequent remarks that Rowe and Warner weren’t too confident they could offer a cure for the problems of 257 Solutions. Rowe suggested a holding memo, as soon as they got back to London. Before heading home they were off to another job, this time in Frankfurt.
    On the way to the airport, Callaghan caught himself yet again glancing in the mirror, not just routinely checking traffic but scanning the road behind for a glimpse of blue.
    Stupid
.
    Once, he caught a hint of something blue and looked again but couldn’t see it. When he got too close to the hatchback in front he gave up the vain search in the mirror.
    Stupid
. The notion of looking for a blue Ford van. Whoever it was – if there was anyone to worry about – could be driving any kind of car.
    He glanced in the mirror again.
    If it was just about the blue van he could write it off as paranoia. But this afternoon, an hour before he was due to pick up Rowe and Warner at their hotel, Callaghan had been getting ready when the doorbell rang.
    Shit
.
    The police did things like that. Figured the time most likely to mess you up, then came to collect you for a wholesome chat down the station, and you didn’t get to leave until they’d screwed up your day.
    His hand on the lock, Callaghan drew back.
    Don’t assume it’s the police
.
    He fetched the hammer from under the bed and when he opened the door the kid from two floors up was standing there.
    ‘Someone’s looking for you.’
    The kid, name of Oliver, was wearing the same hoodie outfit he’d been wearing when he’d nodded to Callaghan a couple of nights back, out on the green in front of the Hive.
    Callaghan waited.
    ‘Couple of fellas, they were asking around last night.’
    Callaghan said, ‘The police. They were here this morning. It’s nothing.’
    ‘Not the cops. I saw these guys. These weren’t cops.’
    ‘These days, they’re recruiting all sorts. It’s not just mountainy men in long overcoats – long-haired men, little chirpy women.’
    The kid said, ‘I know cops. These weren’t cops.’
    Callaghan said, ‘Two fellas, right? Both of them wearing anoraks. One was fat-faced, the other—’
    ‘No.’
    ‘What did they look like?’
    ‘Nothing special – jeans, I think, heavy jackets.’
    ‘Fat-faced fella, big?’
    The kid shook his head. ‘Nothing like that. These weren’t cops,’ he said for the third time.
    After a few seconds, Callaghan said, ‘Okay.’
    The kid pointed to the hammer. ‘You expecting trouble?’
    ‘I don’t know. Thanks.’
    The kid nodded. He said, ‘See you, then,’ and he turned and left.
    Callaghan was south of the airport on the M1, having dropped Rowe and Warner at Departures, when his phone rang. It was Novak. ‘Any chance you could handle another job?’
    ‘That’s fine. I’ve just dropped – I’m free for the day.’
    ‘It’s way out west?’
    ‘No problem.’
    ‘From there on to Celbridge?’
    ‘No problem.’
    ‘Thanks, Danny – we’re stretched this afternoon.’
    Novak said the job came from a larger transport firm, embarrassed by a limo breakdown that threatened to leave three clients stranded at the Citywest Hotel.
    ‘I’m on it.’
    There were a lot of SUVs in the car park of the Citywest, and helicopters lined up in the grounds. Legions of primped and burnished middle-aged men hanging about in expensive casual wear. The three clients were from that tribe, and they talked about golf all the way to Celbridge. Danny Callaghan tuned them out. The last time he’d held a golf club had been almost a decade earlier and there’d been blood on the clubface then.
    At Celbridge the three golfers asked to be dropped at their local pub,