Headstone by Ken Bruen Read Free Book Online

not.
    Back to basics, use my feet. I trudged around the
    town, showing his photo. It’s a given. You do this
    kind of tedious work, you’re on a hiding to nothing.
    People will give you answers. It’s Ireland, no one
    is ever . . . ever going to simply say
    “No.”
    Would that they could but they can’t. Mostly they
    asked,
    “Why?
    What’s he done?
    What’s in it for me?”
    And of course, lots of misinformation. You had to
    follow that shite anyway. Mostly what you got was
    tired. My limp ached. I even did a Google search.
    Nope. He had really flown under the radar.
    Eventually, I had to phone Gabriel, give him my
    report. A very short one. I played with the idea of
    stringing him along, saying I had a definite lead.
    When I called him, his clipped sarcastic tone
    changed that idea.
    Quick.
    I hoped he’d fire me. I never wanted to have to
    listen to this sanctimonious gob-shite again.
    I’d begun the call with,
    “It’s Jack Taylor.”
    He snapped,
    “I know that.”
    Great start but I tried,
    “I’ve been tracking down every avenue of
    investigation.”
    “And?”
    Jesus, I disliked this bollix, said,
    “And…………..”
    let it hang for max impact, then,
    “I got nothing.”
    Silence and an ominous one.
    Then he ordered,
    “Stay on it.”
    Notice the lack of…….. please . I fucking did, said,
    “What?”
    “Are you deaf, Taylor?”
    Well actually, yes, in one ear, but didn’t feel this
    was the time to share. He continued in a curt, no-
    shite tone,
    “I’ll expect more positive news on your next
    report.”
    Report!
    I said,
    “Your money, pal.”
    He near shouted,
    “Not my money, the Lord’s!”
    Is there a reply to this kind of spiritual mugging?
    He ended with, “You’d be wise to remember,
    Taylor, that God is watching.”
    “A divine accountant, no less.”
    Rang off and thought,
    “Pray that.”
    You want to find a priest, there is one, dare I say,
    infallible route,
    “Ask a nun.”
    I knew exactly my pigeon. My previous case, I’d
    met a Sister Maeve. Like most of my relationships,
    it began well. Then, per rote, came apart. I liked
    her a lot but she, like so many others, had come to
    despise me.
    I’d say loathe, but I’m not sure nuns have that one
    in their training manual. She taught at the Mercy
    School in Newtownsmith, beside the Electricity
    Board, what the ESB failed to electrify, the
    teenage girls made up for. The name of the school
    in Irish has a lovely resonance,
    “Scoil an Linbh Íosa.”
    Last time I’d met her, a huge construction site was
    in full roar opposite. Now complete, it was a mega
    retail outlet, named, I shit thee not . . . Born. I
    walked down there, stopped at Holland’s shop, got
    a warm hello from Mary, God bless her, bought a
    large box of Dairy Milk.
    Beware of gimps bearing gifts.
    I glanced at the tabloids, all ablaze with the tragic
    suicide of the German goalkeeper. I said a silent
    Hail Mary for him.
    A Mhuire Na Gras………………
    Passed down by the Town Hall, advertising the
    coming appearance of Steve Earle. I loved his
    singing and even more his role in The Wire .
    “Galway Girl” began to unreel in my head.
    At the school reception desk, I asked if I might
    have a moment with Sister Maeve?
    “Yes.”
    Was she glad to see me?
    Take a wild fucking guess.
    She had aged but then, apart from Donny Osmond,
    who hadn’t?
    She fixed me with those clear, unyielding blue
    eyes, said,
    “Mr. Taylor.”
    In nun speak,
    “Aw fuck, not you.”
    I said,
    “Jack . . . please.”
    Her eyes gave that the disdain it deserved.
    Establishing, from the get-go, you are no friend of
    mine. Yet, during our brief time before, there had
    been genuine affection building. The death of a
    former nun had banjaxed that. I offered the
    chocolates, she said,
    “No thank you.”
    I felt whipped.
    I asked,
    “If I might have five minutes of your time?”
    Before, we’d gone for coffee and I remembered
    her childlike joy in a slice of Danish,