22
I reached the Fair Green, moved to where the Dublin coaches park. No sign of Ann. Two buses were lined near the wall, a space between them. I walked along that, turned to see a man blocking my path. He was big, dressed in a tracksuit, a hurley held lightly in his left hand. He smiled, not with humour or warmth but with a definite air of malevolence. I said,
“Tim Coffey.”
He nodded, answered,
“My wife won’t be coming. Shame, seeing as you are all fancied up, even got a frigging tie. Going to take her somewhere special, were you? Then ride her after? Was that your plan?”
Spittle leaked from the corner of his mouth. I tried to remember what I knew of him. He’d been a sergeant just before I lost my job. Even then, he had a reputation for ferocity. Used his fists for the most trivial of
