The Emerald Lie

Got a message from Sister Maeve. She had located the man and boy. They had indeed been on Aran but questions from locals had them depart fast. The man had seemed, in the words of the locals,

... to be a little overaffectionate to the boy.

Yeah, right.

So the fuck legged it.

Now the chances were good he might still be in Galway. I called Owen Daglish, a disgruntled Guard, still on the force but very bitter with the powers that wanted a new type of policeman.

Meaning, not Owen.

He was old school.

Translate, he never had a suspect who didn’t respond to the lesson of the hurley. As in, beat the living shite out of him without leaving the marks. Did I concur with this form of faux vigilantism?

Pretty much.

You wanted something from Owen, you had to buy him drink.

Lots of.

We met in Garavan’s, the barman greeting,

“Jack, I heard you were in jail.”

People heard all sorts of shit about me, never... ever... like

... you joined the Samaritans

Or

Even

... you volunteer at Age Concern.

Nope.

It was always down and dirty.

And,

Whisper it,

Shabby.

Some of it was even based on truth.

Owen was already working on a pint, chaser riding point. He looked

... fucked.

Par for the course for a Guard on the way out and down. He was wearing what had once been euphemistically termed a wax jacket. Now it not only was non-wax but barely resembled a jacket. Some guys, they let three days go unshaven and get that

Don Johnson

Jason Statham

Vibe.

Others

Look

Vagrant.

Guess which Owen was.

He said,

“Stanley Reed? Supposedly he and his son have some history.”

You had to appreciate his straight down to biz attitude. The barman brought a refill for Owen and a pint and chaser for me. No words were exchanged. This is the almost sacred ritual between good bar guys and valued customers.

Valued, as in

They tip.

A lot.

I said,

“Tell me.”

“Mr. Reed has a sheet of sex offenses as long as a tax bill. The boy, Daniel, is actually a nephew but UK cops believe he is indeed, if you’ll pardon my French...”

Pause.

... “Diddling the poor lad.”

Jesus.

He produced a sheet of paper, said,

“This cost, Jack.”

I passed over an envelope, laden with euros. He flicked through the notes, went,

“Humph.”

Signifying nothing, nothing at all. He said,

“I don’t expect them to last long there as the Guards are attempting to get an English warrant.”

Delay and deferral, the name of the bureaucratic game. I asked,

“Can’t they hold him on some pretext?”

He sighed, sank the pint, said,

“See, Jack, the fuckup with the Grammarian, they are not rushing to arrests so much.”

He played with his empty glass and I signaled for a refill. He added,

“That whole clusterfuck, Ridge is for the high jump.”

“What?”

He gave a bitter laugh, said,

“Someone has to carry the shit can and she’s the designated driver.”

I said,

“I owe his aunt some money for supposedly trying to prove Wilson was innocent.”

He examined the fresh pint for flaws, found none, said,

“Don’t think she’ll much care by this stage. The mad bastard is no longer an issue.”

He glanced at the paper in my hand, asked,

“What are you planning to do with that, Jack?”

I smiled, malice in my soul, said,

“Something fucking biblical.”

He touched his glass against mine, said,

“We expect nothing less.”