Free Bleed a River Deep by Brian McGilloway

wiping his forehead with the shoulder of his T-shirt.
    ‘The mine?’ I said.
    ‘No,’ he said. Then, making speech marks with his fingers, he guffawed, ‘The “gold rush”.’
    ‘Thanks, Mr Moore,’ I said, surprised by how forthcoming he’d been. ‘You’ve been a great help.’
    ‘Oh, it’s my pleasure,’ he said.
    I caught up with Janet Moore in the clearing where the prospectors had parked their cars and vans. On the back seat of her electric-blue Tigra I noticed a number of documents and envelopes.
    Patsy McCann pointed her out to me, though I could have identified her myself: for a start, she was better dressed than the other people on site, in jeans and a grey sweater under a Barbour coat. She was sporting green wellingtons, wet with river water.
    She was talking to Ted Coyle and one of the crusties I had seen before. He slunk away when he saw me approaching, rubbing out the spliff he carried as he did so and slipping it into his pocket.
    Ted Coyle straightened himself up and placed his hands on his hips. Janet Moore simply drew deeply on a cigarette and blew the stream of smoke upwards as she glanced in my direction.
    ‘Mrs Moore,’ I said, extending my hand. ‘I’m Inspector Benedict Devlin. I was wondering if I could have a word.’
    ‘Certainly, Inspector,’ she said, pointedly. Then she turned to Coyle. ‘Thanks, Ted. Keep in touch.’
    We walked over to her car together.
    ‘How did you find me?’ she asked, then pursed her lips and nodded her head when I told her that her husband had directed me, as if it made sense of some sort. ‘So, what can I do for you?’
    ‘We were wondering about the story you wrote about Cathal Hagan,’ I said.
    ‘So, that’s official confirmation,’ she said, smiling. ‘Hagan’s coming here.’
    I tried to keep my expression as neutral as possible. ‘I don’t suppose you’d tell me who told you about it, would you?’
    Unsurprisingly, she laughed. ‘You’re right,’ she said.
    ‘Your husband tells me it was Fearghal Bradley,’ I said.
    She looked perplexed. ‘My husband is talking out his arse, Inspector. I don’t know any Fearghal Bradley. Who is he?’
    ‘Never mind,’ I said. ‘Do you know anything about these death threats?’
    ‘No,’ she said, a little haughtily.
    ‘If I find you’ve been withholding information that may have prevented a crime, you’ll be—’ I began.
    ‘Give it a rest,’ she said, dropping her cigarette butt on to the ground and treading on it. ‘You were doing better when you were playing the good cop. What’s it worth?’
    ‘That depends. What do you want?’
    ‘Two tickets to see Hagan. Good seats,’ she said, crossing her arms in front of her chest.
    ‘Why do you need to bribe me for tickets? Surely you’ll get invited, as a member of the press.’
    ‘I’m a freelancer,’ she said. ‘We’re the last to get anything. I want two good seats – at the front, mind you.’
    ‘And in return?’
    ‘Do we have a deal?’ she persisted, refusing to show her hand yet.
    I didn’t see that we had anything to lose, and I said so. If her information were of no use to us, she knew she’d end up sitting in the car park for the duration of Hagan’s visit.
    She smiled. ‘I don’t know Fearghal Bradley,’ she said. ‘Whoever he is. As for the death threats, they’re not serious. It’s a prank, a publicity stunt dreamt up by an environmental group called the Green Alliance.’
    ‘What have they against Hagan?’ I asked.
    ‘Where should I start?’ she said. ‘Anyway, I think that’s worth two tickets.’
    ‘You’re sure of this?’
    ‘Absolutely. From the horse’s mouth, so to speak.’
    I considered what she had said, watching her face to see if I could tease out the angle she was playing, but I couldn’t read her.
    ‘Why are you telling me this?’ I asked.
    ‘Public conscience,’ she said, almost managing not to smile. ‘And I don’t want anyone getting shot now, do I?’
    ‘You and I