Eddie’s face fills the screen again. An email address appears underneath. Amy set it up last night.
“You have to email the moment you see him, and tell me exactly where he is. Maybe have your photo taken with him. I so want to thank him. Hug him for me too, all of you.”
“What a wonderful story,” says Ryan. “And what a wonderful opportunity for the people of Cork. Twenty thousand euros up for grabs if you can tell Rosie where this hero is.”
“That goes for the police too,” says Rosie. “Whoever spots him gets the money. I want everyone in Ireland keeping an eye out for this man, and telling me exactly where he is.”
“Thank you, Rosie D’Antonio,” says Ryan. “And hurry back. Now, a mystery in a sleepy Cork village. A local police officer tells pals he’s won the lottery, and is found dead just days later. With th—”
Rosie is led off set. Steve has made his way out of the darkened dressing room and onto the studio floor.
“Did I do good?” Rosie asks.
“I’m afraid I had my head in a bucket,” says Steve.
Rosie slaps him on the back. “Come on, soldier, we’ve got a helicopter to catch.”
63
Eddie Flood knows the game is up. Time to ring Rob. He’s already emailed over the footage of Rosie on An Irish Breakfast.
“Boss,” says Eddie, as Rob picks up.
“Never seen anything like it,” says Rob. “How’s your morning been?”
“Busy,” says Eddie. He hadn’t had a clue what was going on. He was mobbed in the foyer, chased into his cab, followed to the airfield by three kids on motorbikes, photographed by his cabbie, by the airfield porter, by the helicopter pilot, and met by a crowd of around forty to fifty people at the small landing field outside Cork, all of whom had been alerted to his movements and keen to make a bit of money. “Popular show.”
“How did she know you were there?”
“Took a shot at Amy Wheeler yesterday morning,” says Eddie. “And didn’t hit her.”
“Christ, Eddie,” says Rob. “You’re supposed to be good at this. You used to be.”
“Yeah,” sighs Eddie. “She was in a Mercedes, tinted back window, so I didn’t get a clear shot. And I didn’t think she was going to jump out of a multistory car park.”
“You’re off the job,” says Rob. “You understand?”
“Course,” says Eddie. “Let you down. Let myself down.”
“And your photo is everywhere,” says Rob.
“Yeah,” agrees Eddie. “Not good, not good. Understood.”
“Keep the fifteen grand, Eddie,” says Rob. “But that’s the best I can do. And it’s only because you’re a mate.”
“Thanks, boss,” says Eddie. He was going to keep the fifteen grand anyway, whatever Rob had said. He has something he needs to spend it on.
“Now I’ve got to find somebody else to kill her,” says Rob. Eddie is barely listening. He’s thinking ahead. This latest development might actually be useful to him. “When a Navy SEAL and an East Ham hardman have already failed.”
“Feel for you,” says Eddie. “Why not try a Scandinavian? They don’t muck about.”
“If she doesn’t die, I’m dead,” says Rob. “Got to go, it’s my putt.”
Eddie clicks his phone off and wonders again who Rob is working for. It would be very useful to work it out, for obvious reasons. To be the one to fit that jigsaw together. That’s information he could use to his advantage. But he’s got his own ghost to worry about.
What to do right now is the big question. Rob is off his case—that’s good. He’s got fifteen grand to help him along—that’s good too. How long does he need? Another week maybe? And until then, though, he needs to keep close to Amy Wheeler, because her next move will be his next move.
The back windscreen of the Mercedes hadn’t been tinted. Eddie had had a clear head shot. He could have killed Amy Wheeler in a heartbeat. He’d had a clear shot at the taxi too. He shot and missed for two very good reasons.
Firstly, he needs Amy Wheeler to stay alive and, secondly, he needs to be noticed.
Staring at his own picture on the Sky News app on his laptop, captioned with “Who is this mystery hero?” Eddie would say it was mission accomplished.
He won’t be able to get anywhere near them for now, but that’s okay—gives him time to finish everything, make it perfect.
64
Henk has never drunk Irish wine before, but he is a firm believer in fitting in. Fitting in is the very best way to hide.
Left to his own devices, Henk would drink only milk, but, for reasons he cannot begin to understand, that seems to unnerve people.
With a little time to kill, he has tagged along with a tour group, currently being guided around Rockgrove Vineyard. It is terrifically interesting. As they walk between low rows of green vines, Henk spies the tree where Mark Gooch was found dead. He points at it and addresses the group.
“Ah, the tree where Mark Gooch was found dead.”
This is met with the muted horror he has come to expect from other people. Civilians.
“You know,” says Henk. “The influencer. They nailed him to it. Perhaps the holes are still there?”
