The Ghosts of Galway (Jack Taylor)(13)

I was standing outside the hospital, debating a pint in the River Inn. A car pulled up, a blue Toyota, the window rolled down to reveal Ridge. She was dressed in casual clothes, her hair tied back in a severe bun, accentuating her no nonsense air. She said, “Get in.”

I was in no mood for any more shite so asked,

“You asking or ordering?”

She sighed, sounding not unlike my dead mother, a walking bitch. She gritted her teeth, said, “A request.”

I got in, made a show of settling my own self. She pulled off with a screech of tires. We drove in silence until she asked, “How is the she-wolf?”

“You mean Emily?”

Gritted teeth, then,

“Yes.”

“She is recovering and good of you to care.”

She near rear-ended a lorry, then,

“I don’t care.”

Well, that killed that topic. I played fake pleasant, asked,

“Day off?”

“Crime doesn’t have days off.”

I laughed, genuinely amused. Asked,

“They teach you that in detective school?”

She pulled up in Woodquay and parked, very badly, mostly from bad temper. I suggested, “I could show you a real simple method of effortless parking.”

Nope.

She went,

“The day I need you to teach me anything I will shoot myself.”

She got out, indicated the Goal Post, asked,

“Have you been there?”

One of the very few pubs I’d missed, I said I had not. Followed her in and she grabbed a table at the rear, barman came over, asked, “Get you folks?”

She said,

“Two coffees.”

The guy smiled, then,

“And you, Jack?”

“Pint and chaser.”

She glared at us both, then to the guy,

“That will be just one coffee.”

He gave her a sympathetic smile, said,

“Oh, I think I realized that, officer.”

She rounded on me.

“You said you hadn’t been here and how does he know to call me officer?”

I said with world-weariness,

“Ah, Ridge, so many questions and so precious little time.”

She intensified her glare.

I said,

“I have not been here but I do know my bar guys and bar guys know their cops.”

The drinks came, and if the coffee was meant to revive it didn’t. I asked,

“What’s on your mind, Ridge?”

She considered her options, then,

“There are rumors of a gang of antiestablishment who intend to cause chaos in the city. They have some daft name like spooks.”

“Ghosts,”

I said.

Surprised her. She had not been expecting a result so fast, asked,

“You know them?”

Tiny hint of admiration. I said,

“Heard of them, an urban rumor, supposedly they are the ones dumping animals on the square.”

She had to ease out the next question, hating it.

“Would you let me know of anything else you hear?”

“Why? Why would I help you, Ridge?”

She had no idea but tried,

“Once a Guard?”

Here was an opportunity for some serious payback, for all the years of cold abuse I could simply tell her to go fuck herself. I wanted to, for the instant bullet adrenalized rush of that.

I said,

“On one condition.”

She looked dubious, asked,

“What?”

I gave her my very warmest smile, almost meant it, said,

“You have to be nice to me.”

She looked like she might throw up, said,

“Not really sure I could do that.”

I let that simmer, then,

“I’m kidding, you could no more be nice than me joining the priesthood.”

She managed,

“Thank you, I think.”

I asked,

“Do we hug now?”



Ghost

?? Number

????? One





Jeremy Cooper was what used to be termed a spoilt priest. It didn’t mean petulant, though there were certainly enough of those about. It was that he had left the priesthood early because of circumstances.

These ranged from

Women

Greed

Arrogance

Or all of the above.

Jeremy left simply because he couldn’t take direction or orders as he read them. Born to lead was how he saw it and the Church did not. A high flier in the Vatican was the very least he had expected. Got a dud parish in darkest Sussex. Uh-oh.

No way.

Reared in London to Irish parents, he was immersed and enamored in all things Celtic. Not the new Ireland but a mythical subdued island where the clergy ruled. He was tall, athletic, played hurling with a viciousness that let his built-up frustrations bleed. He had even features that somehow failed to jell and gave the impression of not being quite finished. Brown eyes that misled to an impression of kindness. He had never been troubled by that weakness. He discovered he had a talent for crooked bookkeeping and used that to set up a financial consultancy first in Dublin and then in Galway.

Galway sang to him. It still had a whiff of republicanism and the Celtic Twilight still glimmered.