The Guards

Diy

I was going to say that I put on my best suit but I only have one. Bought in Oxfam two years ago. It’s dark blue with narrow lapels. Makes me look like a wide boy. Remember the Phil Collins video where there’s three of him. That’s the suit. I can only pray it doesn’t make me look like Phil Collins. If I say it was less than a tenner, you get the idea.

Course, that was before Oxfam got notions. I had a white shirt that unfortunately I washed with a navy t-shirt. I act like this is an accessorised outfit. A tie, loosened to give the “Mister, I don’t give a fuck” effect. Solid brown brogues. The shoe maketh the man. Spit shined till you could see your reflection.

Checked myself in the mirror. Asked,

“Would you buy a car from this man?”

No.

I had a mobile phone number for Sutton and rang that. Got the answering service and left a message. Walking into town I tried to feel like a citizen. Couldn’t quite pull it off. At the abbey, I went in and lit a candle to St Anthony, the finder of lost things. It crossed my mind to ask him to find myself, but it seemed too theatrical. People were going to confession, and how I wished I could seek such a cleansing.

Outside, a Franciscan bid me good morning. He was the picture of robust good health. My age, without a line in his face. I asked,

“Do you like your work?”

“God’s work.”

Served me right for asking. I continued on to Edward Square. Walked through Dunnes and saw six shirts I couldn’t afford. On through to Planter’s. It was big. Covered the whole of what used to be a parking lot. At reception I asked if I could see Mr Ford. The girl asked,

“Have you an appointment?”

“No.”

“I see.”

But she didn’t. She rang his office and he agreed to meet me. I took the elevator to the fifth floor. His office was modest and he was on the phone. Hand waved me to a chair. He was small, bald, with an Armani suit. An air of controlled energy from him. Finishing the call, he turned to me. I said,

“Thank you for seeing me. I’m Jack Taylor.”

He gave a brief smile. Small yellow teeth. Flash suit and bad teeth. The smile had no connection to warmth. He said,

“You say that name as if it means something. It means zero to me.”

I could smile too. Show him what Ultra-Brite might achieve, said,

“I’m investigating the death of Sarah Henderson.”

“Are you a policeman?”

“No.”

“Have you any official standing?”

“Zero.”

Nice to hop the word back. He said,

“So, I have no obligation whatsoever to talk to you?”

“Save common decency.”

He walked round the desk, adjusted the razor crease in his trousers, sat on the edge of the desk. His feet didn’t quite reach the floor. His shoes were Bally. I know so well what I can’t afford. Argyll socks with a snazzy pattern. He said,

“There’s no good reason not to sling your sorry ass on out of here.”

I realised the guy loved to talk, no sound so sweet as his own voice. I said,

“Would you be surprised to hear three girls, now dead, all worked here?”

He slapped his knee, said,

“Have you any idea of the hundreds of staff we put through our doors? I’d be amazed if they all lived for ever.”

“Did you know the girl?”

I don’t think I knew what sardonic really meant till I heard him laugh, he said,

“I very much doubt it.”

“Would you check, as a favour to the girl’s mother?”

He hopped off the desk, hit the intercom, said,

“Miss Lee, rustle up the file on a Sarah Henderson.”

He sat down, the portrait of relaxation. I said,

“That’s impressive.”

“An intercom?”

“No, how you didn’t even have to think for a second to get the girl’s name.”

“It’s why I’m sitting here in a suit worth three grand and you’re... shall we say... in last year’s remainder.”

The secretary arrived with a thin folder. Ford reached for glasses, pince-nez, naturally. Made a series of

M... m...’s

Hm... m...

Ahh’s...

Then closed the file, said,

“The girl was a shirker.”

“A what?”

“Work shy. We had to let her go.”

“That’s it?”

“Indeed. She was, alas, what we call a reject. No future whatsoever.”

I stood up, said,

“You’re right about that. She certainly has no future.”

Sutton was staying in the Skeff. Like every place else in Galway, it had recently been renovated. Any space is immediately seized for “luxury apartments”.

I found Sutton at the bar, nursing a pint of Guinness. Inspired, I said,

“Hey.”

He didn’t answer, took in my vaguely healing injuries, nodded. I took a stool beside him, signalled to the barman for two pints, said,

“Remember Cora?”

Head shake and

“I’m not from here, remember.”

The pints came and I reached to pay, but Sutton said,

“Put it on the slate.”

“You’ve a slate?”

“Comes with being an artist... a burnt-out artist in fact.” I thought it was best to take it head-on, said, “My hiding, your blaze, I didn’t believe they were connected. Or connected to anything else.”

“And now?”

“I think it’s all deliberate. I’m... sorry...”

“Me too.”

Silence then till he said,

“Run it all by me.”

I did.

Took longer than I thought, and the slate grew. When I’d finished, he said,

“Bastards.”

“Worse then that.”

“Can you prove anything?”

“Nothing.”

I told him about Green Guard, the security firm, said,

“They employ the guards.”

“They do. And you’re thinking... what?”

“See if my assailants are there.”

“Then?”

“Payback.”

“I like that. Include me in.”

“I’d like to meet Mr Planter too. He or Ford killed that girl. I want to know how and why.”

“Planter’s a rich fuck.”

“Oh yeah.”

“Probably got notions.”

“Sure to.”

He took a large swig. It left a white foam moustache. He asked,

“Think he likes paintings?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Lemme work on that.”

“Great.”

“Want to grab some grub or just get wrecked?”

“Wrecked sounds better.”

“Barman!”

Next day, I was dying. Not your run-of-the-mill hangover but the big enchilada. The one that roars — SHOOT ME!

I surfaced near noon. Events up till four the previous afternoon were retrieveable. Napalm after that. I do know Sutton and I ended up in O’Neachtain’s.

Glimpses peeked through:

Line dancing with Norwegians.

Arm wrestling the bouncer.

Double Jack Daniels.

My clothes were crumpled near the window. The remains of late night takeaway peering from under a chair. Trod on chips and what appeared to be an off-green wing of chicken.

Christ!

Did some serious throwing up. Morning prayer. Old establishment ritual, on my knees before the toilet bowl.

Twyfords!

They built bowls to endure.

Finally, purged, my system settled into a rhythm of spasmodic retching. The kind that tries to vacuum your guts up through the thorax. Thorax. Good word that. Gives a feeling of medical detachment.

I wanted the hair of the dog. Jeez, I wanted the whole dog. But it would lead to more lost days. I had vengeance to wreak, villains to catch. With trembling hands I tried to roll a joint. Sutton had given me some “waccy-baccy”, said,

“From the Blue Atlas Mountains, this is serious shit. Treat with respect.”

Couldn’t roll the spiff. Went to the cupboard, found a stale cherry muffin. Scraped the guts out. Heated the hash in tinfoil then poured liberally into the cake. Popped the mess in the micro-wave and blitzkreiged.

Boy, it looked a sorry sight. After it cooled, I tried a bite. Hey, not bad. Between tentative sips of water, I got it down.

Then sat back, see where it went.

Orbit.

Hash cookies are renowned for space travel. I can confirm it.

A deep mellowness enfolded me. My mind was tiptoeing through tulips. I said aloud... or did I?... “I love my life.”

That’s the best indicator of my condition. Time later, I got the munchies and began to eye the green chicken. Luckily, a frozen pizza had somehow survived my recent campaigns, and I got stuck into that. Halfway through, I fell asleep. Out for six hours. If I dreamt, it was of “Hotel California”.

When I came to, my hangover had abated. Not gone but definitely not howling. After a shower and oh so careful shave, I headed for my video shelf. It’s sparse but has my very essentials:

Paris, Texas

Once Upon a Time in the West

Sunset Boulevard

Double Indemnity

Cutter’s Way

Dog Soldiers

In 1976, Newton Thornberg wrote Cutter and Bone. Three ruined survivors of the sixties share a house. Cutter, a crazed crippled Vietnam vet. Bone, a draft dodging dropout. Mo, a mother and agoraphobic alcoholic. They investigate the murder of a young prostitute. They piss off the wrong people, and Mo and her baby are killed.

Cutter and Bone track a capitalist they hold responsible. Cutter, according to Bone,

has a savagery of despair. It precluded his responding to any idea or situation with anything except laughter. His mind was a house of mirrors, distortion reflecting distortion.

Cutter operates on two things:

Despair

Cynicism

Robert Stone wrote Dog Soldiers in 1973. Karl Reisz adapted it for the screen in 1978.

Again, it’s three fucked people.

Marge, hooked on pharmaceuticals. Her husband, John Converse, a war correspondent, and Hicks, who brings drugs into the States. John Converse sells out his friend to the DA and realises fear was extremely important to him. Morally speaking, it was the basis of his life. I am afraid, therefore I am.

Hicks, pursued by villains and agents, dies in an old hippie cave. Written on the wall is

I watched these movies back to back and felt, as I had felt all my life... fuckit.

Eleven in the morning, I’m sitting on a bench at Eyre Square. The debris of Sunday night is mildly stirring. Four o’clock, in the hours before dawn, that’s when it’s the war zone. The clubs and fast food joints disgorge the hordes.

The fights and yahoo-ism begin.

Top of the square is a statue of Pádraig Ó Conaire. They beheaded him. Christmas two years ago, a yob torched the crib.

Down near the public toilet, a young lad was murdered.

A city on the predatory move.

Progress my arse!

I’d a battered copy of Richard Farina’s Been Down So Long It Seems Like Up To Me in my jacket. It’s the green faded one. Pockets to burn, like Robert Ginty in The Exterminator. Richard Farina was Joan Baez’s brother-in-law. Would probably have written fine books but the dope took him out. I’m running a list in my head:

Jarrell

Pavaese

Plath

Jarrell, from a Caribbean cruiser threw himself

and

Gustav Flaubert (1849)

As my body continues on its

journey

my thoughts keep turning back

and bury themselves in days past.

Out loud, I mutter, in Irish, “Och, ochon.”

A new age traveller approaches, sits on the end of my bench. I’m drinking a cappuccino from a styrofoam.

No chocolate sprinkle. I hate that shit.

The traveller is mid-twenties, bangled in every conceivable area. She says,

“Caffeine will kill you, man.”

I don’t figure this requires a reply. She says,

“Did you hear me, man?”

“Yeah, so what?”

She scoots a little closer, asks,

“What’s with the negative waves?”

A cloud of patchouli envelopes me. I decide to cut through the hippy pose, say,

“Fuck off.”

“Oh man, you’re transmitting some serious hostility.”

My coffee’s gone cold and I put it down. She asks,

“Did you have red carpets in your home as a child?”

“What?”

“Feng Shui says it makes a child aggressive.”

“We had lino. Brown, puke-tinged shade. It came with the house.”

“Oh.”

I stand up and she cries,

“Where were you when John died?”

“In bed.”

“The Walrus will never die.”

“Perish the thought.”

And I’m outa there. I look back and she’s got the cappuccino on her head, sucking it down.

I’m bursting for a pee and risk the public convenience. A minor drinking school has temporary possession. The place is infamous since a paedophile ring preyed there. The lead wino shouts,

“Want a drink?”

Do I ever, but answer,

“No, but thanks a lot.”

My interview with Green Guard is at 12.30 so I still have some time to kill. Catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, my hair is wild. As I exit, I say,

“Take care.”

The school chorus,

“God bless yah, sur.”

Off Quay Street, I notice one of the old barber shops. Check my watch, reckon... go for it.

There’s no customers. A man in his late twenties puts The Sun aside, says,

“How you doing?”

“Pretty good, thanks.”

I clocked the English accent straight off, asked,

“Didn’t this used to be Healy’s?”

“You wot?”

He didn’t call me “guv” but it hung there, available at a comb’s notice. I said,

“I forget the numbers, but I think I want a No. 3.”

“You sure?”

“Well, Beckham was a No. 1, so I definitely want up from that.”

He motioned to the chair and I sat down. Avoided, to the best of my ability, my own reflection. I asked,

“London?”

“Highbury.”

I longed to say, “Highbury and shite talk“, opted for

“Grand bit of weather.”

The music was loud and the guy said,

“Joy Division... 1979’s ‘Unknown Pleasures’.”

I kind of liked it. The twisted mix of grace and savagery spoke to my withered sensibility. I said,

“All right.”

“Oh yeah, mate, they’re the biz. You know, it’s twenty years since Ian Curtis drank a bottle of Scotch, watched a Werner Herzog film on TV, turned on a Stooges’ album...”

He stopped. The punchline was coming and it wasn’t going to be good. I could do my role, asked,

“What happened then?”

“He went into the kitchen and hung himself from the clothes rack.”

“Christ.”

The guy stopped cutting my hair, hung his head. A moment of silence. I asked,

“Why?”

“Dunno. He was caught between a failing marriage and his lover. His health was fucked, and he couldn’t get a grip on the band’s huge success... gel?”

“What do you think?”

“I was you, I’d go for it.”

“Bring it on.”

He did.

When I was leaving, I gave him a decent tip. He said,

“Hey, thanks a lot.”

“No, thank you.”

I had phoned the security firm early in the morning. Using a false name, I said I wanted a job. Was asked,

“Any experience?”

“I was in the services.”

“Great.”

I wanted to see if any of their staff recognised me. From there, I was going to have to make it up as I went along. Worst scenario, I might even get a job.

En route, I went into Zhivago Records. The manager, Declan, was one of a rare to rarer species, a Galwegian. He said,

“How’s it going?”

“Okay.”

“Jeez, what happened to your hair.”

“It’s a No. 3.”

“It’s a bloody disgrace. What’s stuck in it?”

“That’s gel.”

“Saw you coming more like.”

“I want to buy a record, so could we cut the chit-chat?”

“Testy! What were you looking for?”

“Joy Division.”

He laughed out loud.

“You...?”

“Christ, do you want to sell me a record or not?”

“The compilation album... that’s the one.”

“OK.”

He knocked a few quid off, so I figured he’d earned the cracks. Outside, I took a deep breath, said,

“Showtime.”

The security office was on Lower Abbeygate Street. I went in and a receptionist asked me to wait, saying,

“Mr Reynolds will see you in a moment.”

I’d barely sat when she called me. The minute I walked in, the man behind the desk did a double take. I glanced at his hands. The knuckles were bruised and cut. We stood staring at each other. I said,

“Surprise!”

He stood up, a big man, all of it muscle, said,

“We don’t have any vacancies.”

“Too bad. I think I could do ‘rent-a-thug’.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

I held up my bandaged fingers, said,

“Like your work.”

He made to move from the desk, and I said,

“I’ll see myself out.”

The receptionist gave me a shy smile, said,

“Get the job?”

“Got the job done all right.”

Outside, I took a deep breath. So, I’d proved a link, but what did that give me? Rang Sutton and told him; he said,

“Well, we’re on our way.”

“But to where?”

“Hell, I’d say.”

“At least it will be familiar.”

Back home that evening, I was slow working through a six pack. The doorbell went. Answered to Linda, the bank clerk upstairs tenant. She went,

“Good heavens, what happened to you?”

“Just a scratch.”

“Drunk, I suppose.”

“Did you want something?”

“I’m having a party tonight, just a few friends.”

“You’re inviting me?”

“Well yes, but there are some ground rules.”

“I’ll be there.”

And I shut the door. Had just opened a fresh beer when the doorbell went again. Figuring “There goes the party,” I pulled the door open. It was Ann Henderson. I said,

“Oh.”

“You were expecting someone else.”

“No, I mean... come in.”

She had a batch of shopping bags, said,

“I thought you could use a solid meal. No! I knew you could use a solid meal. But first I need a shot of colada.”

“Pina colada?”

She gave me a look of almost contempt, said,

“It’s the highest dose of caffeine and sugar in a shot glass.”

“Wouldn’t a Scotch do the same job?”

Another look.

She found the kitchen. Not a difficult task as there are only two other rooms. I heard her gasp,

“Oh... my... God!”

“Sorry, I haven’t had much time to clean.”

“Come in. I m opening the wine.”

I did.

Already she was unpacking bags, sifting through pots, asked,

“Like spaghetti?”

“Shouldn’t I?”

“It’s dinner.”

“Love it.”

After she poured the wine, she ordered me out. I sat in the living room, finishing the beer. I didn’t really want to put wine down on top but thought, “Fuckit.” Which is the short version of the Serenity Prayer.

Half an hour later, we were seated at the table, mountains of food before us. She asked,

“Want to say grace?”

“Can’t hurt.”

“Thank you, Lord, for this food and drink.” I nodded.

I tried to eat politely. She shook her head, said,

“Jack, there is no way you can look cool and eat spaghetti. Let it dribble, eat like an Italian.”

I hate to admit it but I liked her using my name. Throwing caution to the wind, I ate like a demon. She watched me, said,

“I’d forgotten what a pleasure it is to watch a man eat.”

Even the wine wasn’t half bad. I said,

“Wanna party?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Upstairs... my neighbour... she disapproves of me, but I think she’d be surprised by you.”

“Why?”

“Well, you’re a surprising lady.”

She stood up, asked,

“Dessert?”

“No... I’m as full as a tick.”

I was wearing a grey sweatshirt that read AYLON. The w had long since washed away. I had stone-worn black cords and Du Barry moccasins. I looked like an ad. For GAP retro.

Ann was wearing a red sweatshirt. No logo. Faded blue jeans and pale Reeboks. We could have done one of those mortgage commercials. I didn’t mention this. She said,

“We’re not really dressed for a party, are we?”

“But we’re comfortable, right? They’ll think we’re an old relaxed couple.”

This made her sad. I did what you do in such cases; I said,

“Another drink?”

“Why do you drink so much, Jack?”

I could feel the evening getting away from me. I moved to my bookcase, took a volume out, flicked through, found the well thumbed passage, handed it over, said,

“Will you read this?”

She did.

Anthony Loyd, My War Gone By, I Miss It So.

I went into the bathroom, examined my No. 3. The gel was congealing. I considered a fast shampoo but thought “Screw it.” When I came back, Ann had left the book aside, said,

“That is so sad.”

“Does it clarify anything?”

“I don’t know.”

I didn’t want to get into this so said,

“Let’s get to that party.”

“Shouldn’t we bring something?”

“Isn’t there a bottle of wine left?”

“Oh, right.”

We went up the stairs in an awkward silence. At Linda’s door, we could hear music. Sounded like James Taylor. Jeez, what a bad omen. Knocked.

Linda answered. She was dressed in a long flowing sheath. I said,

“I brought a friend.”

Linda hesitated for just a second, then,

“Lovely. Do come in.”

We did.

Everyone was dressed to the nines. The women in long dresses, the guys in suits. We looked like the hired help. Ann went,

“Uh-oh.”

I introduced Linda to Ann. They regarded each other with cool assessment. Linda asked,

“What do you do, Ann?”

“I clean offices.”

“I see.”

But she didn’t.

A bar was set up along the wall. Complete with a bartender. He had a waistcoat and bow tie. I took Ann’s hand, said to Linda,

“Later.”

The barman said,

“Good evening, folks. What can I get you?”

Ann had white wine. I acted as if I were undecided, then,

“Gimme a double tequila.”

Ann sighed. I think the barman did too, but it was subdued. He asked,

“Lemon and salt?”

“Naw, skip the crap.”

Heavy chunky glass. I was pleased to see the base had one of those super-glued stickers. It read:

Roches

£4.99

A suit approached Ann, began his social skills. I joined as he was saying,

“On Sky News, before I left, they said a man was found crucified in North-West London.”

“Oh God!”

The guy let his hand rest lightly on Ann’s arm, said,

“Don’t worry, the report said his injuries weren’t life threatening.”

I said, “Hardly life enhancing either.”

Linda approached with a tall guy, said,

“Jack, I’d like you to meet Johann, my fiancée.”

‘Congratulations.”

Johann gave me a close look, asked,

“What is your profession, Jackues?”

“That’s Jack. I’m unemployed.”

Linda gave a tight smile, said,

“Johann is from Rotterdam, he’s a programmer.”

“Great, my telly’s on the blink.”

Malice

with a Galway-ed

bite

Ann was on her third glass of wine. Oh yeah, I was counting. Easier then counting my own. I was still on the tequila. John Wayne used to say it hurt his back. Every time he drank it, he fell off his stool.

Linda approached, asked,

“Might I have a word?”

“Fire away.”

“A quiet word.”

The music had grown in volume. Sounded suspiciously like techno Gary Numan. That awful. Linda led me to the bedroom. Closed the door. I said,

“Alas, I’m spoken for.”

She ignored this, sat on the bed. The room was cluttered with furry animals,

Pink bears

Pink frogs

Pink tigers

Leastways, I think that’s the colour. I wasn’t about to verify. Linda said,

“You’ll be aware I’ve been doing very well at the bank.”

“That’s good... isn’t it?”

“Of course. They have generously agreed to help me buy a house.”

“Way to go, Linda.”

“This house.”

“Oh.”

“I’ll be doing major renovations.”

“Ah, don’t worry about that. I’m out all day.”

“Jack... I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

For a bizarre moment, I thought she meant the bedroom. Then I rallied, tried,

“I’m a sitting tenant.”

As opposed to a sitting duck.

Being evicted is no doubt a shock to the system. The mind is liable to turn in any direction. I thought of guns. Well, a gun. I said,

“Did you know Special Garda Units are getting a new pistol. Not just any pistol but the Rolls Royce of handguns.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Oh yeah. The Sig Sauer P-226 has been issued to members of the Emergency Response Unit.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“It’s Swiss. That’s where the precision comes in. See, all that neutrality gave them time to design a serious weapon. Do you think there’s a moral there?”

“Jack... I’m serious, you’ll have to find new accommodation.”

“Course, you being in the bank business, you’re not going to piss on the Swiss.”

She stood up, said,

“I must get back to the party.”

“They’re £700 a pop. I don’t suppose the lottery will spring for them.”

She was at the bedroom door, said,

“Come on, Jack.”

“No, I’m going to sit here and think of weapons.”

She was gone.

I didn’t think I could move into the Skeff with Sutton. Maybe it was time to make that move to London. A knock on the door. I said,

“Yeah.”

Ann came in, asked,

“What are you doing, Jack?”

“Talking to pink teddy bears.”

“A bad sign.”

“Oh yes, but for who... me or the teds?”

“Linda looked very serious when she came back to the party. What happened?”

“We were discussing guns.”

“Guns.”

Back at my flat, Ann said,

“I feel a bit tipsy.”

“Want to prolong it?”

“Good heavens, no.”

There was an awkward silence. I didn’t know what to do. She said,

“Will you kiss me?”

I did, if badly. She said,

“That’s a poor effort, try again.”

I got better.

Then we were in bed and it was wonderful. Slow, strange, exciting. After, she said,

“It’s been so long.”

“Me too.”

“Really?”

“Oh yeah.”

Then her voice wavered, she said,

“I haven’t mentioned Sarah all evening.”

“You don’t have to, she’s there in your eyes all the time.”

She hugged me close, said,

“What a beautiful thing to say”

I felt better than I had in longer than I’d ever admit. Then she asked,

“Did you ever love someone?”

“There was a woman, when I was in the guards. She made me feel more than I was.”

“That’s a good feeling.”

“But I screwed it up.”

“Why?”

“It’s what I do best.”

“That’s no answer.”

“I could say it was the booze, but that’s not true. There’s a self-destruct button in me. I keep returning to it.”

“You can change.”

“I don’t know if I want to.” On that sombre note, we went to sleep.

She was gone when I woke. A note on the pillow,

I wasn’t sure what I’d let myself in for.

I never meant to kill him.

A current expression,

“It got away from me”, is hackneyed beyond tolerance. Used to excuse everything from

Wife battering

to

Drunk driving

Well, it got away from me. What began as an exercise in intimidation ended in murder. Here’s how it went down.

After my sojourn with Ann, I met Sutton the next day. Sojourn is a lovely word, has a resonance of culture and wonder. So I was feeling good, feeling strong and ready I made arrangements for Sutton to pick me up at Seapoint, the huge ballroom that sits sentinel to Salthill.

I’d served my dancing apprenticeship to the late sixties showbands there.

What bands!

Brendan Bowyer

The Indians

The Freshmen

Those guys came on stage at nine, played non-stop for hours. And did they give it large. Flogged their guts out with cover versions of everything from

“Suspicious Minds”

to

“If I didn’t have a dime...”

If not a time of innocence, it was most definitely an era of enthusiasm.

As I sat on the promenade, The Specials’ “Ghost Town” was playing in my head. A No. 1 from 1981, it caught perfectly the civic unrest of London back then.

Sutton pulled up in a Volvo. It looked seriously battered. I got in and asked,

“Where did you find this?”

It was an automatic and he set it on cruise, said,

“Bought it from a Swede in Clifden.”

He glanced at me, asked,

“What’s the difference with you?”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you’ve got a shit-eating grin going there.”

“Do I?”

“Yeah, like the cat got the cream.”

Then he slapped the wheel with his palm, exclaimed,

“I get it... you got laid... you dirty dog, you did, didn’t you?”

“I got lucky.”

“Well I never! Good ol’ Taylor. Who was it, that rock chick, what’s her face, Cathy B.?”

“Nope.”

“Don’t make me do the hundred guesses trip. Or did you get a hooker, eh?”

“Ann Henderson.”

“The dead girl’s mother?”

“Yeah.”

“Jeez, Taylor, how bright was that?”

Cathy B. had found Ford’s address. When I’d told Sutton, he asked,

“The guy isn’t married?”

“No.”

“Let’s go visit his gaff, see what shakes.”

We parked at the side of Blackrock. The Salthill Towers loomed behind us. Sutton asked,

“Where’s he located?”

“Ground floor.”

Breaking in was a breeze. The lock was one of those Yale jobs. We walked into a spacious living room, expensively furnished. Tidy, too. A long coffee table had a book, open-ended, but nothing else. I checked the title, Finnegans Wake. Sutton said,

“Yeah, like anyone actually reads this.”

We did a thorough search, found nothing. Sutton asked,

“You sure anybody lives here?”

“There’s suits in the wardrobe, food in the fridge.”

Sutton leaned against the sitting room wall, said,

“See this carpet?”

“Expensive, I’d say.”

“But it’s not level. See near the lamp, it rises slightly.”

“So?”

“So, let’s roll that sucker.”

With the carpet back, we stared at loose floorboards. Sutton bent down, pushed them aside, said,

“Bingo.”

Began to hand up a series of videos. A batch of magazines, too. A glance showed the subject, child pornography Sutton said,

“Put all this crap on the table.”

I did.

We checked out two of the videos. More of the same. Sutton asked,

“What now?”

“Let’s wait for him.”

We raided the fridge, found some nice steaks, got them cooking. Round 6.30, I was dozing when I heard a key in the lock. Sutton was standing, looking relaxed. Ford came in, was into the sitting room before he saw us. Sutton had moved to the door. Ford glanced at the table, its piled contents. If he was panicked, he hid it well; he asked,

“What do you want?”

“Information.”

“Ah.”

“Tell me about Sarah Henderson, the other girls.”

He sat down, looked towards Sutton, said,

“More ex-garda.”

“Does it matter?”

“No, I suppose not.”

“So Mr Ford, tell all.”

“It’s no big deal. Mr Planter likes young girls. Sometimes they get awkward, start making threats. What can I say, they get depressed, go for the long swim.”

Till then, I’d stayed calm. But something in his smug expression, the contempt in his voice, got me. I was up and smacking him across the face. I pulled him to his feet and he spat at me. I threw him from me, and his head came down heavily on the coffee table. He didn’t move. Sutton was over, checking for a pulse, said,

“The fucker’s gone.”

“What?”

“He’s dead.”

“Christ.”

“We better get out of here. We clean off everything.” We even put the videos back in place. As we left, Sutton wiped the door handle, said,

“Let’s hope they think he fell.”