The Bull and Bell itself did most of its trade in the evening, which was why Jack Meehan preferred to patronise it in the afternoon. For one thing it meant that he could have the snug to himself, which was handy for business of a certain kind.
He sat on a stool, a tankard of beer at his elbow, finishing a roast beef sandwich and reading the Financial Times. Dormer was sitting in the window seat playing solitaire.
Meehan emptied his tankard and pushed it across the bar. “Same again, Harry.”
Harry was a large, hefty young man who, in spite of his white apron, had the physique of a professional Rugby player. He had long dark sideburns and a cold, rather dangerous-looking face.
As he filled the tankard and pushed it across, the door opened and Rupert and Bonati came in. Rupert was wearing a sort of caped, ankle-length highwayman’s coat in large checks.
He shook himself vigorously and unbuttoned his coat. “When’s it going to stop, that’s what I’d like to know.”
Meehan drank some more beer and belched. He said, “What in the hell do you want? Who’s minding the shop?”
Rupert slid gracefully on to the stool next to him and put a hand on his thigh. “I do have to eat some time, ducky. I mean, I need to keep my strength up, don’t I?”
“All right, Harry.” Meehan said, “Give him his Bloody Mary.”
Rupert said, “By the way, does anyone know where Billy is?”
“I haven’t seen him since last night,” Meehan told him. “Who wants him, anyway?”
“The superintendent of Pine Trees phoned into the office just before I left.”
“And what did he want?”
It seems they found Billy’s whippet wandering about up there. Soaked to the skin and trembling life a leaf apparently. Wanted to know what to do with him.”
Meehan frowned. “What in the hell would it be doing up there?”
Dormer said, “Last I saw of it, was about half eight this morning when I went into the garage. It was inside the Scimitar. I figured Billy had forgotten about it when he came in last night so I let it out. I mean, he’s done that before when he’s been pissed or something. Left Tommy in the car, I mean.”
“He still hadn’t come in when I came out this morning,” Meehan said, “and if he left his car in the garage, that means he went to one of the city centre dubs. Probably still in bed with some whore, the dirty little bastard.” He turned to Bonati. “You’d better go up to Pine Trees and get it. Take it back home and give it something to eat.”
“All right, Mr.. Meehan,” Bonati said and went out.
Meehan swallowed some more beer. “Inconsiderate little swine. I’ll kick his arse for him when I see him.”
“He’s young, Mr.. Meehan,” Harry said, “He’ll learn.”
He picked up a bucket of slops, moved from behind the bar, and opened the door and went out into the yard. As he emptied the bucket across the cobbles, Father da Costa entered the yard. He was wearing his cassock and held the umbrella over his head against the rain.
Harry looked him over in some amazement and Father da Costa said politely, Tm looking for Mr.. Meehan – Mr.. Jack Meehan. They told me at his office that I might find him here.”
Inside,” Harry said.
He moved into the snug and Father da Costa followed, pausing just inside the door to put down his umbrella.
It was Rupert who saw him first in the mirror behind the bar. “Good God Almighty!” he said.
There was a long silence and Meehan turned on his stool very slowly. “And what in the hell are you doing there? Rattling the box for Christmas or something? Will a quid get rid of you?”
He took out his wallet ostentatiously and Father da Costa said quietly, “I was hoping we might have a few words in private.”
He stood there with the umbrella in his hand, the skirts of his cassock soaking wet from the long grass of the convent cemetery, mud on his shoes, grey beard tangled, waiting for some sort of response.