Wolf Tickets (14 page)

"What's your point?"

O'Brien reached into his trouser pocket and removed a Stanley knife. He clicked the blade out as he talked. "My point, James, is that patience is a virtue I do not possess. And that rage, the violent kind, is something I'm extremely familiar with and, as you'll learn, good at." His fingers tensed and relaxed around the handle of the Stanley as if the knife was giving him tiny electric shocks. "So it would be in your best interests to stop playing the hard man and just tell me where the money is."

I stared at the Stanley knife. "I'm sorry, Mr O'Brien."

"Alright."

"It's just, I thought we had all this cleared up before."

"Before?"

"Y'know, when I told you to fuck yourself?"

O'Brien lunged with the blade, split my top lip before I got a chance to pull back. It was too clean to feel pain right away, and the blood took a second to fill the cut and spill down over my teeth and tongue. I sucked my lip, hockled up a fat one and spat at O'Brien.

He sighed and checked that his sleeves were tightly rolled.

"If you're going to be like that, James, then it's going to be a long afternoon."

As he stepped towards us, he turned the light to shadow, and the only thing I could see was the Stanley shining in his fist.

If the guy at the door was a cop, it was a hell of a disguise. He was a small, bloated lad wearing a tight uniform, his name – DOUG – pinned to his tit. All he was missing was a bell-hop hat. I noticed sweat on Doug's forehead. He hadn't come up here of his own volition. No, he'd been ordered to knock on this door.

"Is everything okay, Mr Farrell?" said Doug.

"Pardon me?" I closed the door behind me. He was itching for a glance inside, and I wasn't about to make it easy.

"I asked if everything was okay."

The door clicked shut. I moved past the lad, showing teeth, trying to be friendly. "Everything's fine, Doug. Why, has there been a complaint or something?"

"No, not at all."

"Great." I kept walking. So did he, and after a small sprint he matched me step for step.

"It's just, if you have a moment, the manager would like a quick word."

"The manager?"

"Yes."

"I thought you said nothing was wrong."

"That's right."

"Uh-huh." I made a show of checking my watch, hissed through a grimace. "I really can't, Doug. Not right now. I'm a little busy at the moment."

"I appreciate that, but it really won't take very long."

I turned as I walked. "I really can't spare the time. I'm already running super late to a very,
very
important meeting." I pointed at him. "Tell you what, I should be back around five, so how about we pencil in something for then, eh?"

Doug opened his mouth, but didn't have a prepared answer, so I gave him a wave and a wink and made for the stairs. Jogging, not running, fast enough to show I was late, slow enough to not look like I was trying to escape. I kept my hands up by my chest to hide the shakes.

Too close for comfort, that one. And that was also the money gone for good, because there was no way I'd be able to come back now. Someone had taken a look at me, decided that I wasn't Mr Farrell – not the Mr Farrell who'd checked in with
Mrs
Farrell, anyway – and gone straight to the management. To be fair, showing up had been a risk, but a risk worth taking. Most of the people in this hole of a country did their jobs with the contempt of the spoiled rotten and noticed bugger all.

I reached the ground floor and marched out towards reception. It was a long, blue mile right there, stretched out in front me like a dare. My heart thumped an off-beat combo against the inside of my chest. Up ahead I saw three doors that would take me out onto the street, but I had to pass the reception desk to get there. And there were two uniformed police – one with a tit on his head, the other peak-capped – chatting with the small blonde.

I put one foot in front of the other and tried to maintain pace. Faced front, tried to make out like I hadn't seen the cops, even though they stuck out like a bruise on a baby.

I heard: "Mr Farrell."

Now
that
was the voice of a policeman. Wasn't a question, but a statement of fact – you're nicked.

Choices, choices. My legs tensed, and my walk turned into a stride for a couple of steps. Fight or flight, the old instincts roaring back. And right then, I was all for survival.

But I couldn't do it. If I tried to run, they'd bring me down before the doors. And it was one thing to run, quite another to run and get caught. Because as soon as they caught you, that gave them free reign to bring out the old tactics, whether it be a boot up the arse or thumbs on the pressure points at the base of your neck. And it was better not to give the bastards the excuse, so I stopped in my tracks and looked round at the two uniforms.

The one in the peaked cap said, "It's Mr Farrell, is it?"

I smiled and trotted out the old favourite: "What seems to be the problem, officer?"

The copper in the cap didn't look tall enough to be in the police, but maybe there was a shortage of recruits in Britain – literally. His partner, the tithead, was the polar opposite and looked like he'd quite happily grind my bones to make his bread.

"Would you mind stepping into the manager's office for a moment, Mr Farrell?"

"Sorry, is there something wrong?" I glanced over at reception. There was a guy behind the desk who was busy wringing his hands like they were soaked through. I hadn't seen that particular nervous tic since my dear old mother passed. "I already spoke with Douglas upstairs, and I was under the impression that this could wait."

"It's rather urgent, actually," said the small cop. "And I think it'd better if we continued this discussion in private."

"What discussion?" I noticed a few guests milling around the reception area, so I bumped up the volume just for them. "What is it I'm supposed to have done wrong here? As I said to your porter Douglas, I'm actually on my way to a very important meeting and I'm already running extremely late."

"We appreciate that—"

"I don't like your tone, Constable." I pointed to the big cop. "And I don't like the way
he's
looking at me. I happen to be a paying guest at this hotel." I glared at the manager. "Suffice to say, I shall be filing a complaint. And that's just for starters."

The tithead stepped forward, kept his voice to a low rumble. "You have a choice here, sir."

I stayed loud. "Oh really, and what's that?"

"Cuffs or no cuffs."

"What, you're going to
arrest
me now? What's the charge?"

"You're making a scene," said the small cop.

"Disturbing the peace," said the giant.

"This is harassment."

"No, it's not, mate," said the giant. "But it can be. And you can be as loud as you want, but it won't make a bit of difference. Do we understand each other?"

We understood each other, alright. I go with them now, or I end up bleeding out in a lock-up somewhere.

"Fine," I said, "let's get this sorted out.
Honestly
."

I followed the midget's bobbing hat and the tithead brought up the rear. The big bastard was willing me to make a break for it, just so he could make a few breaks of his own. Through reception, where I exchanged a look with the small blonde and someone else behind her I reckoned was probably Liz, then off towards a heavy door with a brass plate on it. The small cop went ahead and opened the door for me. Nobody else in there. The small cop motioned for me to go inside, which I did, the door closing behind me.

The manager's office. Not the most comfortable room in the world, but at least it wasn't a police cell. You had to be grateful for the small mercies. At least until something else went to cock.

***

Two hours they kept me waiting. In the meantime, I'd got myself settled in the manager's chair and adjusted the height, the back, the arms and the overall pitch. If there was a button, lever or screw on the chair, I'd messed with it. I'd also made a point of leafing through the paperwork on the desk, shuffling it all up and shoving a particularly important-looking letter to the back of one of the bottom desk drawers.

Little things to keep me occupied, and keep the voices out of my head.

Like the one that said:
"You're in the shit now, Farrell."

I kept my voice down and drew squiggles on an invoice. "Shut up."

"They know, you know."

"They know nothing, Nora. This is all just a waiting game. They just want me to sit here and stew."

"And it's working, isn't it? You are stewing."

"I'm fine."

"Which is why you're talking to yourself again."

I blinked hard. She was right. But I was a lot better than she thought. I'd been through this before, many times. By the time the cops came back in, I was supposed to be ready to spill anything they wanted. It was a very English way of doing things, very passive-aggressive. If I'd been in Ireland, I'd have been nursing a burst mouth by now. Here, all the police had done was take my wallet and a couple hours' worth of my time.

Then again, as much as I wasn't stewing – and I wasn't, Nora – I had spent some time checking off my mistakes.

I shouldn't have come to the hotel. I should've known that O'Brien was playing Mr Farrell, should've twigged that when Liz didn't ask any questions. And most of all, I shouldn't have hung about in the room. Left it too long, gave them time to talk to each other. I should've been in and out. But then, I wasn't thinking straight.

I took out my cigarettes. Screwed a Dunhill between my lips and lit it. When the smoke cleared, the door to the office was standing open. A hand cleared the air. It belonged to a plainclothes I hadn't seen before. He was a stone off obese, black hair with flecks of white like he'd been painting the ceiling. Older than me, or else he'd had a tough paper round. I moved the manager's chair to an upright position. Behind the copper, the manager watched me with bug eyes.

"No, you can't smoke in here," said the manager. "Really. You need to extinguish that."

The plainclothes didn't say anything. He walked to the filing cabinets and leaned against one, both eyebrows raised at me.

"I just lit up," I said.

"I have allergies," said the manager. "And this happens to be a workplace.
Officer—
"

"Mr Farrell?"

"Fine." I stubbed the Dunhill out on the desk top and the manager made a noise like I'd punched him in the throat.

The copper turned to the manager. "Alright now?"

"No, it's not alright. That's wanton vandalism—"

The copper nudged the door closed in the manager's face, then looked at me. Weighing me up as the manager ran out of steam behind the door. The copper reached into the pocket of his cheap beige coat and brought out my wallet. He flipped it open. "It is Mr Farrell, isn't it? I'm not wrong about that?"

"You're not wrong."

"And you're the
real
Mr Farrell."

"That's what it says on my driving licence."

"Yes, it does."

"I didn't catch your name."

"Detective Sergeant McDonald," he said, and sniffed.

"Okay. Now what's this about?"

"Nobody told you?"

"No. And if I'm under arrest, I'd like to know the charge. I'd also like to speak to my lawyer."

"You think you need a lawyer?"

"If you're charging me, yes."

McDonald shook his head and then rubbed the back of his left hand under his nose. "I'm not going to place you under arrest."

"Good."

"Not yet, anyway."

He slapped my wallet closed, tapped it on top of the filing cabinet. "The manager, he called me 'officer', did you hear that?"

"Yes, I did."

"Knows I'm CID and he still calls me 'officer'."

"What's the world coming to, eh, Sergeant?"

"Right you are." He sniffed again, pulled a face and then opened his mouth to breathe. Paused as if he was about to sneeze, then pulled out a bobbled tissue. He gestured at his nose. "I'm not well."

"I can see that."

"It's my daughters. I have two. Walking contagions, the pair of them. Sometimes I think we should just put them in bubbles and be done with it."

I nodded and tried to look as if I gave a shit.

"So," said McDonald, "are you going to tell me what you were doing in your wife's room?"

"She isn't my wife."

He frowned and brought out a small notebook. Flipped a couple of pages. "You referred to her as Mrs Farrell on the phone."

"Because I realised she'd used my credit card to book a hotel room that I wasn't using." I sat back in the chair. "It stood to reason that she'd do it under my name."