The Ghosts of Galway (Jack Taylor)(26)
Interrogated
Bullied
Screamed at
Pushed
By Clancy and his crew of hard arse detectives.
A Guard gets killed, throw the rule book out the window. Allowed one phone call.
Yeah, right.
Clancy got right in Jeremy’s face, asked,
“Why did the call about a shooting name your house?”
Cooper had no idea, said,
“I’ve no idea.”
Clancy head butted him.
The other Guards actually gasped. Jeremy’s chair shot backward, spilling him against the wall with a mighty bang. Clancy said, “Oops.”
He looked at the assembled Guards, barked,
“The fuck are you standing ’round for? Find me the bollix who killed Ridge.”
Protestants are still fairly thin on the Galway ground. It is believed if you get in legal shit, get a Protestant, a Protestant lawyer. Maybe it’s some echo of colonial times or a harking to the whole landowner shite but the best lawyer in town was Robert Preston.
A Prod.
One of the few remaining Ghosts who hadn’t dispersed called him and, in jig time, he was at the station.
Trailing Brit fire and legal brimstone.
He stormed up to Clancy, snarled,
“My client looks as if he has been beaten.”
Clancy had many previous dealings with Preston, none of them civil. He rasped, “Suspect fell.”
Preston took his client by the arm, said,
“We’ll have you out of here in no time.”
Cooper was dazed from his fall, said,
“That big bastard attacked me.”
Preston smiled. Of such allegations were careers solidified. He said,
“That big bastard is heading for traffic duty.”
Clancy strode off, muttering darkly.
As no charges were made, Cooper was free to go, one of the Guards whispering to him, “We never forgot killers of our own.”
Preston was all over him, threatened,
“Would you like to repeat that for my recorder?”
The Guard pushed past Preston, said,
“Check under your car every day, wanker.”
Outside, Preston said,
“We need to have those bruises documented.”
Jeremy stared at him, as if just registering him, said,
“This is a cluster fuck.”
No argument from Preston.
Jeremy continued.
“You know what you need with a cluster fuck?”
He gave a peculiar emphasis to the f-word as if he actually tasted it, said,
“Jack Taylor.”
I was still in shock from the loss of Ridge.
That we had never reconciled just added another nasty layer of guilt and remorse to a mind already in grief overload. I was in my armchair, the pup in my lap, doing his tiny best to console me. They know when you are deeply hurt. I was sipping slowly from the newest awful concoction: Jameson with … breath it quiet …
Ginger ale.
I know. Heresy.
But I was in that zone where nothing really matters a fuck.
Even besmirching Jameson. The phone rang and the pup’s ears lit up. He hoped it might break my funk. And, more importantly, get him a walk. I answered with a weary “Yeah?”
Like I gave a good fuck.
Heard
“Mr. Taylor? Mr. Jack Taylor?”
“Yeah?”
“This is Robert Preston of Preston Lynch and Associates?”
I said,
“That don’t mean shit to me pal.”
Nervous laugh, then,
“I have been forewarned you have a somewhat terse form of communication.”
“Terse this. Get to the fucking point.”
Another chuckle.
I hate fucking chuckles.
He said,
“I can tell you’re a card.”
What?
I sighed loud and annoyingly.
He said,
“Sorry, defect of my profession, to prevaricate. Thing is, I have a client who may wish to avail your, um … specialized talent.”
Being in the shitty mood I was, I snapped,
“Will cost them.”
Intake of breath, then recovery.
“Of course, no one eats for free.”
I said,
“Don’t be an asshole.”
A beat,
Then,
“By Jove, Mr. Taylor, I do believe I like the cut of your jib.”
What? Jib?
I said,
“Talk fucking right.”
Laughter.
He asked,
“Might we meet in my modest office on Eglantine Street, noon tomorrow?”
I said,
“Like you legal types do, it will cost you for my time, whether I take the case or not.”
“I would expect no less. Au revoir.”
Did I detect just the tiniest note of sarcasm?
The Red Book?
Meant Jack shit to me. I flipped through it. Whatever it was, it wasn’t a patch on The Book of Kells. I put it in my bookcase, not entirely sure what I should do with it.
Sell it?
Most likely.
That evening, I was back from the pup’s walk. He was knackered. We’d done the walk from the Claddagh along Grattan Road, up to Blackrock, kicked the wall there as is the custom, then back along the beach of Salthill.
What the Brits would call bracing.