The Wrong Kind of Blood by Declan Hughes Read Free Book Online

me out the front door and around the side of the house. A small wooden shed stood behind a young beech tree. Inside the shed, Linda pointed to a gray wheelie bin.
    “What are you looking for?”
    “Anything that might have been in Peter’s office. The wastepaper basket, on the floor.”
    A bunch of newspapers lay at the top of the wheelie bin. I took out an
Irish Times,
spread it on the floor of the shed and tipped the first bag of garbage on top.
    “I’ll leave you to it,” Linda said, wrinkling her nose, and went back in the house.
    I worked my way through two small bags full of crushed orange juice and milk cartons, plastic tonic water bottles, apple cores and lemon peel. And an awful lot of cigarette butts, ash and vacuum cleaner dust.
    The third bag contained a Jo Malone grapefruit cologne atomizer, a Dr. Hauschka quince moisturizer bottle and an old toothbrush — so at least we’d made it upstairs. I sorted through used cotton buds and peppermint tea bags and eventually salvaged three receipts and two crushed index cards. I had a quick look in the carport, where a red and black Audi convertible sat in factory-fresh splendor, entertained a few rancorous thoughts about people with too much money and knocked on the front door.
    After washing my hands and face, I showed Linda my haul. Two of the receipts she identified as hers; they were for buying art materials from a shop on Harcourt Street.
    “It’s good you’re still painting, anyway,” I said.
    “I’m a Sunday painter, Ed. I teach art at the Sacred Heart in Castlehill now.”
    “Really? That’s—”
    “Yes, isn’t it? Disappointed alcoholic lady teacher. A suburban cliché, is what it is. This is from Ebrill’s, that’s a stationery shop in Seafield. It’s itemized too: envelopes, two reams of white A4, address labels. Thrilling stuff.”
    Linda went to the fridge, collected the grapefruit juice and the vodka, and brought them back to the table. She mixed herself a very strong second drink and downed half of it.
    “Slainte,” she said, and grinned with bad-girl bravado.
    I laid the index cards out on the table and flattened them. They were both lists. One had four items:
Dagg
T
L
JW
    The other had fourteen names.
    “You recognize any of these?” I asked Linda.
    “There’s a Rory Dagg who’s a project manager with Dawson Construction. No one else rings a bell.”
    “You said Peter was at the Seafield Town Hall renovation last Friday. Was Rory Dagg on-site?”
    “Could have been.”
    “Because then, this L could be you. This could be a list of people Peter was to meet that afternoon.”
    I looked at the other list: Brian Joyce, Leo McSweeney, James Kearney, Angela Mackey, Mary Rafferty, Seosamh MacLiam, Conor Gogan, Noel Lavelle, Eamonn Macdonald, Christine Kelly, Brendan Harvey, Tom Farrelly, Eithne Wall, John O’Driscoll.
    The T could be Tom Farrelly. The L might be Leo McSweeney. But who were they? Had they anything to do with a golf club to which Peter Dawson didn’t belong?
    Linda shook her head. Her eyes were gone again, lost in a mist of booze. I was tempted to join her. It looked safe in there; miserable, but safe.
    “Anything else? His car?”
    “It’s in the garage. There’s his boat.”
    “He sails? With a club?”
    “The Royal Seafield.”
    “Did you check it?”
    “He doesn’t go out much anymore. He used to crew for other people. I think the fact that his father bought him the boat put him off using it. But it’s moored in front of the clubhouse all summer. The Dawsons still count at the yacht club.”
    “I’d better have a look at it. What’s she called?”
    Linda pretended she hadn’t heard me. “What?” she said.
    “What’s the boat called?” I said.
    She shook her head, and smiled down at her drink.
    “It’s really stupid. He named it after this awful Beach Boys song that I… that we both used to like. The
Lady Linda
.”
    She looked up at me with a start, as if she had just woken up in the middle