Galway Confidential

22

What do you say to the person whose door you knock on, the person you suspect of being a vicious attacker of nuns?

You can hardly open with asking him if he had a TV license. I reckoned I’d play it as it presents, and my main concern was Raftery. He was not only fully convinced we had the right guy but bursting to bust heads with the hurly.

I said to him again,

“You need to follow my lead and cut back on the adrenaline high.”

He gave me a look, said through gritted teeth,

“You worry about yer own self fellah.”

Great.

I knocked on the door, waited.

It was opened seconds later by a man in a suit and tie, looking like he was about to head for work; he was in his early forties, regular features, eyes that weren’t dead but seemed to have an element of distance to them, as if something over your shoulder had his main interest. He had dark hair, cut short, streaks of gray.

He asked,

“Yes?”

I asked,

“Brian Lee?”

He nodded, his eyes resting for a moment on the hurly sticking out of Raftery’s duffel bag. I said,

“I wonder if we could have a few moments of your time?”

A flash of impatience flitted over his face. He asked,

“This is not a good time, and might I inquire what exactly you wish to discuss?”

Before I could act, Raftery literally brushed me aside, launched himself at Lee, pushing his arm hard into Lee’s chest, knocking him backward. He followed, pulling the hurly out and swiping Lee’s legs from under him. He snarled,

“Don’t play games with us, you piece of shit. We’re here about you attacking nuns.”

And then I got a good look at the man on the floor, grabbed Raftery, screamed,

“It’s not him!”

He stopped mid-swing, asked,

“What? Of course it is.”

I pointed to the man’s legs, said,

“Look at his right leg, it’s a goddamn prosthesis.”

Raftery reeled back in shock.

“It can’t be, our witness was so sure.”

I leaned down, helped Lee up from the floor, tried,

“I’m terribly sorry, there has been a dreadful mistake.”

Luckily, or maybe not, Lee was in too much shock to do more than nod his head.

I said,

“We’ll be going now, and again, terribly sorry.”

And I dragged Raftery out of there before Lee got his wits back and called the Guards. We got in the van. I took the driver’s side, burned rubber out of there.

Raftery said,

“It was an honest mistake.”

I glanced at him.

“Beating the shite out of an innocent man is slightly more than a mistake.”

Raftery said,

“Come on, isn’t it a rush just to beat some bastard, for the sheer hell of it?”

We got to my apartment, and I jumped out of the van, said,

“It would be better if I don’t see you for a time.”

Later, in the days of Galway Confidential fallout, I learned that Brian Lee was a former client of Raftery’s who hadn’t paid his accountancy bill and been warned,

“You’ll pay but not with money.”