Marie felt her stomach cramp and realised she'd need some painkillers pretty soon. No wonder she'd been feeling a bit cranky the past few days; she'd put it down to the circumstances, but she knew now that wasn't the only reason. About half an hour into the interview Marie had caught sight of her reflection in the glass. Her shoulders were tense, sitting high, and she was making no attempt to disguise the bored expression. It suddenly struck her as odd that she was wearing a suit: she never wore a suit. Why had she gone to the bother of dressing up? Was she trying look more respectable? What did she care if the FBI thought she'd come too casually dressed?

The jacket was a light-grey serge material tailored to fit her slim waist. The skirt came down to just below her knees and was fitted too, although there was no denying it since Alfredo had died she'd gained a few pounds and the skirt looked lumpy in all the wrong places, especially when she was sitting down. She was even wearing a pair of sensible shoes: a two-inch heel that was easy to walk in. Between that and the white fitted blouse, she figured she looked like she was going for a job in a bank.

'Mrs Weir?'

Her focus was back on the grumpy one, Kneller.

'What?'

'You're the only one so far who seems to have had a good look at him . . . or spoken to him. Do you think you could give us some more detail on what he looked like? Fill in some of the blanks?'

There he was again: staring into her eyes like he was going to ask her out on a date.

'Well, other than what I told the guys yesterday, I don't know what else to say. Everything about him was average: his hair, his height, his clothes . . . his teeth, just . . . average.'

'When you say "funny accent" where d'you think he was from?' continued Kneller.

Up to this point everything she'd told them had been the truth, but Marie knew she was about to cross the line. She was deliberately going to lie and she wasn't even sure why.

'Poland maybe . . . I don't know, all he asked me for was a beer "Beer", you know. It tastes the same in any language . . . sounds the same too.' The last comment got the other one Evelyn smiling, but it earned him a look from Grumpy Kneller.

'I know this has been a traumatic experience for you, Mrs Weir-'

Marie interrupted him. 'Actually it's Bain. Weir was my married name, and as the sorry loser who was my husband is now leading the life he really deserved all along, I'm just plain old Marie Bain again . . . If that's okay? And before you go on let me just say, you have no goddamn idea how traumatic the last few hours have been, so don't even try and empathise, it's fucking patronising. Most of the trauma I've suffered has been from freezing my tits off in here answering the same dumb questions over and over again like somehow the whole goddamn thing was my fault. So please let's just get finished so that I can go home and try to find the rewind button or better still the erase button and maybe forget about the fucking nightmare that has become my life.'

'I understand and I am really sorry, we just wanted to hear it from you instead of reading through second-hand notes, but that's fine. I understand . . . I really do . . . Let's wrap it up. I have to ask you one last question, even though I think I already know the answer.'

Grumpy leant back in his chair and took off his glasses. 'Are you willing to go to court when we eventually make some arrests?'

'Can I say no?' asked Marie.

'Sure,' he replied.

'What happens then?'

'We subpoena you and you have to go to court.'

'So why ask?'

Marie put her head in her hand and drew her thumb and forefinger together till they met on the bridge of her nose. 'I thought it was all sewn up: the banker's wife did it?' said Marie eventually.

'The guy who was killed in the bar yesterday was a professional hit man: he only fired two shots in the direction of the banker's table, and I think it was just unfortunate that the banker's head was in the way of one of them . . . he certainly wasn't the target. All the other shots eight in total were fired at your "Polish" friend. There's no doubt that Culo Conrado was aiming at him. Now his partner who was waiting in the alley is also a professional, by the name of Vincent Lee Croll. The guy's a dope-head with the mental capacity of a battery hen, but that hasn't stopped him from killing two police officers last night and the chances are he's not going to stop until the Polish guy is dead too. If Lee Croll doesn't finish the job, he doesn't get paid and if he doesn't get paid he doesn't get his drugs and so on and so on. We are talking about a guy who put the "wreck" in "recreational drugs". So you'll forgive my partner and me for wanting to find out as much as possible first-hand. We want to catch this asshole before he kills another few innocents in his pursuit of his own wealth and happiness. If you find it a little inconvenient to be here answering a few silly fucking questions then I apologise, but as I've said, the situation has gotten a whole lot worse since you left here last night and we'd be very grateful if you'd bear with us just a little longer.'

Grumpy pushed his chair back and stood up.

Marie could see that he was angry, but she gave him credit for trying to contain it: maybe he wasn't such an asshole after all.

'There are a lot of other places we'd rather be right now too Miss Bain than in here investigating who killed Culo Conrado and the subsequent death of two of our colleagues, but you know what they say: "When there's shit flying around watch out for the asshole." Unfortunately for me, today I have to be the asshole.'

Marie smiled faintly at the image, but Kneller's face didn't crack.

'I'm not making jokes here, Miss Bain,' he continued. 'The quicker we can get Vincent Lee Croll off the street the quicker we'll know why he was trying to hit the Polish guy and hopefully find out who the hell the Polish guy is. But until then, there is a very real risk that the Polish guy is gonna want you dead too. You witnessed him commit a murder. Mr Lee Croll would probably like a word with you as well. And if all that isn't bad enough there's a Mr Hernando De Garza skulking around in the background. You ever heard of him?'

'No.'

'Well let's hope things stay that way, cause he is the nastiest little piece of shit that ain't already in hell . . . and that's because hell refused him entry. He deals drugs, he deals arms, he deals hookers and he has people murdered for looking at him the wrong way. Unfortunately he also pays his taxes so a lot of powerful people have him over to their house for dinner.'

'Why you telling me all this: he invited us round for drinks?'

'No. He employs lowlifes like Croll and Conrado to do his dirty work. And if De Garza is behind all of this then God help you. There you have it. Anything smartass you'd like to add?'

Marie said nothing. She wanted to get up and walk out, but she knew the guy was right. She was in a situation that was completely beyond her realm of experience and if she was being honest she was scared as hell. Marie's first line of defence was a sarcastic comment, or a cutting remark, but these guys weren't going to take any shit from her. For once she didn't have a comeback.

'If you're trying to frighten me, Agent Kneller: congratulations.' Marie felt her cheeks burn crimson and her stomach cramp again. There was a squealing noise as the legs of the chair scraped along the polished stone floor. Marie stood abruptly and bent over to pick up her bag.

'I have to go.'

The other agent who had barely said a word suddenly jumped in.

'Wait, please. Let's just rewind for a second . . .'

But Marie didn't let him finish. 'I'm sorry, I really need to go. I'm trying to help you, I really am, but this whole situation is just too goddamn surreal. You're talking to me like I was the one who pulled the trigger. You guys might have seen lots of people killed right in front of you, but it's never happened to me. If you need me for anything else you can contact me through my lawyer or get your goddamn fucking subpoena.' She started to falter. 'And I'm . . . you know . . . I just want to get the hell out of here.'

Kneller was backtracking now, aware that he'd come on too strong. 'If you want to wait for five minutes we'll arrange for someone to take you home.'

'I can make my own way,' said Marie as she headed for the exit.

Kneller was on his feet now, holding his hand up to stop her.

'Miss Bain, I'd like to apologise. We are all feeling the pressure at the moment. I didn't mean to get so het up. Obviously you're free to do what you like, but I'd warn you that all my instincts are telling me this is a nasty situation we got on our hands here. Why don't you let one of our guys give you a lift and we'll arrange to talk to you later. Take the rest of the weekend, but we will need you here first thing on Monday morning. Sure, we can do that through a lawyer, but I'd rather we kept it informal and stayed friends. Now, the front of the building is swarming with press and it really wouldn't be a good idea to get your photograph in the papers or on television right now in case Lee Croll or the Polish guy or De Garza see it. Then, who knows what sort of trouble you could find yourself in.'

He was standing right in front of her, blocking her way.

Marie stared at the floor. 'I just want to go home,' she said in a quiet voice.

Agent Kneller took a step to the side and held open the door for her.

As she walked out into the corridor Marie heard him call after her, but she'd stopped listening, something about leaving by the back entrance.

The door slammed shut before he'd finished.

'Did you hear that?'

'Yeah.'

'She didn't realise what she said but she will. Probably hit her first thing in the morning. That's when all my revelations come to me: soon as I wake up.'

'You see her eyes switch direction when she mentioned the guy was Polish?'

'Yeah.'

'What you thinking?'

'I'm thinking there's no way in the world the guy is Polish . . . I mean, she blushed too. But why would she lie? I'm also thinking I hope some dickhead doesn't "accidentally" reveal Miss Bain's identity to the press. Lee Croll and the Polish guy who isn't Polish would have no option but to look her up.'

'D'you think De Garza's involved?'

'Conrado and Croll don't work for anyone else.'

'Feeding her to the press is too risky. She's the only real witness we've got.'

'It won't take them long to figure out who she is anyway. All they got to do is ask a few of the regular drinkers who the hot barmaid is. Might as well earn fifty bucks for passing on the information. She's smartass enough to look after herself, don't you think?'

'I could be that dickhead for fifty bucks.'

'You don't need the fifty bucks.'

'Cheap.'

Agent Kneller's face almost cracked a smile. 'Need to keep an extra-close eye on her then; make damn sure we're there if Lee Croll or anyone else does show. It's a gamble, but how else are we going to flush them out? You cold?'

'Not as cold as she was,' replied Evelyn. 'You see her nipples sticking out her blouse?'

'I was watching her eyes the whole time.'

'Yeah, right.'

'Turn the thermostat back up . . . dickhead.'

Chapter 14.

South Armagh, Maundy Thursday evening

'Well bless my hole. If it isn't the man himself! What happened to you? You look like I feel . . . and I feel like shite.'

Danny's thin-lipped smile made his face hurt.

E.I. held a finger to his lips 'Shh' then gestured Danny to take a seat opposite him at his large oak desk.

O'Leary's study had an elevated view out over the fields of his extensive farm. On the horizon a large, green Massey Ferguson tractor was pulling a tanker behind it, spreading slurry.

Danny moved awkwardly to the edge of the desk, but stayed standing. He was still in a lot of pain.

E.I. scribbled a note on a piece of scrap paper and pushed it across the worn leather surface of the desk. Danny adjusted his glasses and picked up the note. 'Were you followed?'

He shrugged and raised his eyebrows as if to say 'Who knows?'

E.I. pulled the scrap of paper back with his big farmer hands and scribbled again.

'Tape on, then follow me.'

Danny nodded: it had been a long time since he'd visited the old farmhouse, but he still remembered the routine.

E.I. raised his large bulk from the fragile, oak-framed chair and turned to a tape machine sitting on the bookshelves behind. He flicked the 'on' button and listened for a moment as the opening strains of Wagner's Lohengrin eased through the speakers. The tape had been mixed amateurishly with E.I.'s gruff, Capstan-Full-Strength voice, reading aloud a randomly chosen passage about striking dustbin men from the previous day's Irish Times. The overall effect was a strange, uneasy marriage of sounds.

With a nod of the head E.I. gestured to Danny to help him lift the rug Danny was standing on. Danny slid the rug to one side with his foot then E.I. pulled open a trapdoor in the floor. They both made their way down a set of rough wooden steps to a narrow tunnel just wide enough for E.I.'s large frame, but not quite tall enough for either of them to stand upright. The tunnel was lit by a string of worker lamps threaded along one side of the timber-framed structure that lined the walls and ceiling, and stretched for some fifty feet along its entire length.

E.I. closed the trapdoor behind him and dropped down the last few steps until he was standing behind Danny.

'That'll keep the bastards guessing, eh? C'mon, let's get a beer.'

As the men made their way along the tunnel E.I. continued, 'Sometimes I read the Beano or the Dandy instead of the Times, depends on my mood. There's a van full of microphones pointing at the house parked in the field across the back there. I'm sure they know it's a tape, but who gives a fuck eh? I can't have a shit without some bugger recording the event. But I'm getting fed up with it, I tell ye. I'm negotiating to buy the land they're parked on from the old bastard that owns it; then I'm going to sue the Brits for trespass. Made him a fair offer for it, that he turned down, so I told him he has to give it to me for nothing now, or I'll kill his family.' E.I. let loose a thick, coarse laugh. 'Sent a couple of the lads over to the old bugger's house to tell him to his face. You would have thought someone was standing behind him giving him a round of applause, the noise the bastard's sphincter was making.'

At the end of the underground passage, another set of steps led up to a trapdoor that opened out into a large barn. The barn was lined with rectangular bales of hay three deep and stacked from the floor all the way up to its corrugated roof, some thirty feet above. In one corner sat a full-size snooker table with a game in progress. Six onlookers sat on benches, drinking and waiting their turn to play. One of the men looked familiar to Danny, but he couldn't remember his name. Danny nodded over, but for some reason the guy didn't look too happy to see him and turned away.

A couple of E.I.'s armed bodyguards were seated at a large rectangular drawing table drinking beer and reading the sports section of the newspaper. The drawing table was set in the middle of the cavernous hall of hay next to a fridge full of alcohol, and was surrounded by a few old sofas and armchairs. The low-level lighting and the sound of Diamond Dogs blasting from the large speakers hanging precariously from the metal rafters above gave the place the feeling of a seedy nightclub on the brink of financial ruin. At the far end there was a mountain of stolen goods, everything from televisions and computers to bicycles and curling tongs, all stacked in neat rows.

E.I. caught Danny's gaze. 'Need a new telly?' he asked. 'After we've had our wee chat you can do a bit of shopping.' His bloated, pugnacious face tried to smile, but it looked more like a scowl. 'Don't look so worried, Danny, we'll do you a discount.'

He grabbed a beer from the fridge.

'Welcome to the republican remedial club, shelter to the needy, the greedy and the criminally insane,' he continued. 'This is what you're missing out on when you're sitting there in your ivory tower pretending you work alone. These are your comrades-in-arms.'

Danny thought he detected a little warning note in E.I.'s voice, but he didn't care: he knew he was regarded as an outsider and he was happy to keep it that way.

Despite its size, the lack of doors and windows made the barn feel claustrophobic. Danny looked for an exit but it seemed the only way in and out was back through the tunnel.

'Is there somewhere more private we can go?' he asked.

'Relax, our lad,' said E.I., putting his arm round Danny's shoulder and causing him to wince. 'We're all on the same side. These people are your friends. Grab yourself a beer an let's have a wee chat.'

Danny helped himself to a can of Coke from the fridge, then lowered himself slowly onto the sofa next to E.I. 'Has rlaith been in touch?'

'Sure, she called here first thing this morning asking if we knew what the hell was going on. I told her we didn't know a bloody thing.'