Mutilated fingers
Hearing problems
A limp
Lethal dreams
And
A shitload of anxiety that Xanax barely kept a lid on. With a new woman in my life and happy for the very first time, would I risk it all?
Nope.
But.
It is that very but that has led me astray so many times. A sly curiosity niggled at me so I figured,
“Vague inquiries couldn’t hurt.”
I had one ally / friend still remaining in the Guards.
Owen Daglish.
He was a drinker of fierce proportions and that might have held my link to him. When I called him, he groaned, said,
“If you want information on anything, fuck off now.”
I did what you do.
I lied.
Said,
“Hey, I just want to buy you a pint.”
We met in the Stage Door. Sounds like a theatrical pub and there is always plenty of drama afoot but, get there early afternoon, it is quiet. Owen was already at the counter, murdering a pint. Seeing me, he said to the barman,
“Couple of large Jamesons.”
The barman was a nonnational, asked,
“Ice?”
Like, seriously?
Owen gave him the look, said,
“Not if you want to go on breathing.”
Owen was dressed in a cheap suit and cheaper shoes, and his hair needed a trim. He had the look of a guy who had been on the lash for too long. I said,
“You look, um... great.”
He laughed, said,
“Fuck you.”
Got the iceless drinks and moved to a corner table where Owen produced a silver tube and sucked on it.
Vaping.
Blew a cloud of vapor over our heads, said,
“Had to pack in the cigs so I’m reduced to this...”
He looked at the tube.
“This shite.”
I asked,
“What do know about the twins who were tied together and tossed in the river?”
He sighed deeply, then,
“I thought you were out of this game.”
“I am, really, but, you know, sounded like a bizarre case.”
He shook his empty glass and I got some refills. I settled for a single Jay. I was meeting Marion later and had to mind my manners. I said,
“Sláinte.”
He didn’t reciprocate, said,
“Superglue.”
“What?”
“Their mouths were sealed with it.”
“God almighty.”
He took a deep drink, said,
“Takes one sick fuck to do that.”
I asked,
“The father, Renaud, what’s his story?”
Now he turned to look at me, said,
“You seem awfully interested for a guy who is not investigating.”
Time to cough up.
I took out a flat envelope, said,
“A little something for the Garda fund.”
He put it quickly in his jacket, then,
“Seriously Jack, stay well away. Renaud was up to his arse in every kind of hedge fund scam. A guy like that, you don’t want to be around.”
To lighten the mood, I said,
“I appreciate your concern, Owen. It is kind of touching.”
He scoffed, said,
“Jack, I couldn’t give less of a fuck what happens to you.”
On that bright note we parted.
Marion worked as a speech therapist and was offered a chance to attend a conference in America.
Attending a conference in the U.S. was like a mini lottery win in Ireland. Half of the government usually were in on this scam. Plus all the travel expenses to be claimed. She asked,
“Jack, come with me.”
Phew.
So many years I had tried to go to America. It was my ultimate dream but always something conspired to ruin the plan. Usually my own self. Life is a bitch. Just when you’ve deleted the hope it sneaks up and kicks your arse.
I said,
“No.”
Cold as that.
She was taken aback and took a few moments to ask,
“Why?”
I said,
“It is not a good time.”
She gave a brief, rueful smile, then tried,
“Could you expand a little?”
I always hoped I wouldn’t be one of those assholes who whimpered,
“I need you to trust me on this.”
I said,
“I need you to trust me on this”
She considered for a moment, then,
“Fuck that.”
We had that awkward moment when you basically want to cut and run. The mature thing was to discuss.
Thrash out the issue
Ponder a bit
Concede, etc.
I ran.
Joffrey was at the door as I passed and he said,
“Shithead.”
Love has no past or future.
So it is with this extraordinary state of silence.
3
I crawled back to Marion, murmuring contrition. She forgave me in that Irish fashion:
V
E
R
Y
Slowly.
And, of course, with a codicil.
To mind Joffrey.
Like fuck.
I did weakly protest,
“I’m not great with kids.”
But she had me by the balls and said,
“I will only be gone a month. Joffrey is staying with relations and you...”
Pause.
“Could take him out twice a week.”
I said,
“I don’t think he likes me.”
She laughed, said,
“Joffrey doesn’t like anybody.”
Terrific.
I began a low-key investigation into the deaths of the Renaud twins. It wasn’t a mystery as to them being killed but a mystery as to why it hadn’t happened sooner.
Like that.
A series of pubs, clubs, and friends all spoke of the sheer nastiness of the boys. Using their money as a weapon, they had abused, bullied, and mocked just about everybody they ever encountered. Three girls at least hinted at rape being part of their repertoire but any allegations had been crushed by the twins’ solicitor, named Nery.
I went to see him.
His office was on Merchants Road and consisted of a lot of glass and bespoke granite. I went to reception and a frosty receptionist snapped that I needed an appointment. I decided to test the weight of the family name, said,
“I don’t think Mr. Renaud will be very pleased to hear that.”
Presto, I was in.
Nery looked like a cricketer gone to seed. Fading blond hair swept in a hopeful quiff, a suit that said,
“Here is serious fucking cash.”
He was in his late fifties with a high complexion and eyes that had never alighted on anything they liked. My appearance didn’t change that view.
He barked,
“ID?”
I said,
“My name is Jack Taylor and Mr. Renaud hired me to find out what happened to his sons.”
Nery grimaced — or it could have been a smile — said,
“They were murdered is what happened.”
I said,
“I can hear your deep sorrow even saying that.”
His head shot up and he asked,
“Sarcasm? Well, some washed-up drunk comes into my office and gives me... sarcasm?”
I wanted to slap his well-fed face but went with,
“Any light you could shed on the matter?”
He sniggered, said,
“Thomas is going to get a kick out of this.”
“Thomas?”
“Thomas Clancy, superintendent of the Guards.”
I held my hand up, said,
“Lemme guess. A golf crony?”