61

They fed him tea and toast. The tea was cold and the toast soggy. The Traveller’s head hurt like a fucker. The best they could give him was paracetamol. Waste of time, but he swallowed the tablets anyway.

The strapping on his left wrist made it stiff and clumsy. He laid it on the tabletop. The skin between the fingers itched. A wad of cotton and gauze was taped over his right eye, the eyelid hot and slick beneath it. A cop stared at him from across the table, all business. Gordon, he said his name was. Another cop stood in the corner and said nothing. He was pale and sweaty like he had the shits.

Gordon spoke to the tape recorder. ‘For the record, the suspect who identifies himself as Barry Murphy has declined legal representation.’ Gordon spoke to the Traveller. ‘Now, Mr Murphy, we have checked with our colleagues in the Garda Síochána, and they tell us there is indeed a Finbar Murphy living at the Galway address you provided. They asked the county records office to email us an image of his driving licence.’

Gordon turned over a sheet of paper. A standard European Union licence was printed on it. It carried a picture of a red-haired man with jug ears and a prominent overbite.

‘Jesus,’ the Traveller said. ‘Looks like he should be playing a banjo in front of a log cabin in Alabama or somewhere.’

Gordon didn’t return the Traveller’s smile. ‘So you agree that the man pictured on this licence, a licence registered under the name and address you provided to us, is not you?’

The Traveller shrugged. ‘Doesn’t look like it.’

‘Care to tell me your real name?’

‘Thomas O’Neill,’ the Traveller said.

‘And your address?’

The Traveller gave the cop the Wicklow address he’d memorised.

Gordon ripped the sheet from his notepad and went to the door of the interview room. He handed the paper to someone outside and returned to his seat.

‘Should I expect that name and address to check out,’ Gordon said, ‘or have you provided more false information?’

‘You never know,’ the Traveller said.

‘Your fingerprints don’t match any record we have access to,’ Gordon said. ‘It’ll be some days before the DNA swab we took comes back, but am I correct in expecting that to shed no light on you, either?’

‘Stranger things have happened,’ the Traveller said.

‘Quite,’ Gordon said. ‘What were you doing at the Royal Victoria Hospital yesterday afternoon?’

‘No comment,’ the Traveller said.

‘What did you want with the little girl?’

‘No comment.’

‘When Detective Inspector Lennon arrested you, you were in possession of a firearm, namely an Israel Military Industries Desert Eagle .44 calibre semi-automatic pistol. An unusual weapon in this part of the world. Did you bring this weapon across the border, or did you acquire it in the North?’

No comment.’

Not the most articulate individual, are you?’

‘Me?’ the Traveller said, grinning. ‘I’m articulate as fuck. But all the same, no comment.’