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“Thanks,” she mumbles. “And, thank you for…for being here.”
I grunt. Neither Jack nor I exactly fit the mould of knight in shining armour, but we would never have stood by and let a woman be assaulted right in front of us. Unless we were doing the assaulting, and with a good reason. That pair of horny fucks were just taking advantage of a woman on her own, and the more I think of it, the more I’m determined to make them sorry.
But that’s for later. Right now, I have a traumatised landlady to deal with.
“Were we in time?” I ask. “They didn’t…?”
She shakes her head. “They would have, though. Thank you. Again.”
“You’re welcome. But why were they here in the first place? And why did you let them in?”
“Are you saying it was my fault?” she demands. “That I asked for it?”
“I’m not saying anything. I’m asking. So?”
“They’re police,” she replies, at last. “What choice did I have?”
“Have they been here before?”
She hesitates, then nods. “A couple of times.”
“Why? Did they threaten you before?”Or worse?
“Yes. I mean, no, not really.”
“Which is it?”
“They came here in the first place looking for Timmy McRae.”
Young Timmy McRae is a small-time burglar and car thief. The rumour is he’s going up in the world, or thinks he is. He’s taken to hanging around near cash machines and robbing people after they make withdrawals, elderly ladies in the main when he thinks he can make better use of their pensions than they can. I wouldn’t mind a word with him myself. That sort of thing gives honest crooks a bad name.
“Does he drink in here?”
“Occasionally. Not often. I couldn’t help them, but they wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer. They kept coming back, when the pub wasn’t open and they knew I’d be here on my own. I…I knew something like this would happen, sooner or later.”
“Why didn’t you tell us? It’s called ‘protection’ for a reason.”
She looks away, clearly embarrassed. “You know why.”
I do, as it happens. “You owe us money.”
She nods. “I do mean to pay but I just don’t have it right now. Next month…”
“You haven’t paid for two months,” I remind her. “That’s why we came over today, to discuss your debt.”
“I’m sorry,” she blurts. “Please, tell Mr Savage I never…”
“Ethan hasn’t said anything — yet. And you know he doesn’t take kindly to anyone not paying what they owe him. But, you and me go back long way, and Ethan likes your dad, so this is a friendly nudge.”
“I’ll manage somehow. Thank you,” she murmurs.
“Speaking of going back a long way, howisyour dad?” Last I heard, George Delaney was in solitary for trashing his cell.
She shrugs. “I’ve told him to keep his head down, just do his time quietly and come home. But you know what he’s like…”
I do. We all do. George is as mad as a bucket of frogs. He wasn’t always, but the loss of his son messed with his head. Marty Delaney was six years older than Jenna. He joined the army as soon as he turned eighteen and died three years later in Afghanistan, courtesy of what the army like to call an improvised explosive device. Translation : booby-trap bomb. His father has never really gotten over it and went from being a decent enough bloke to a total madman. He seemed to just stop caring. I think at some level he wanted to get banged up, as though he deserved to be punished for letting his boy get killed.
Fucked up, but there you have it.
