waste among the ashes. We can’t rule out that it’s asbestos. The burnt fibers are harmful if released in the air. No one can touch the ashes until a team with protective gear arrives. And at this moment I have no idea how long that will take.”
“These files might be a ticking time bomb, who knows what confidential information they might contain,” said O’Hare, his voice rising.
“Lung cancer is a horrible disease. I’ve never seen anyone die of it myself, but I hear the sufferer finally drowns in a froth of blood and phlegm.”
O’Hare raised a voluminous handkerchief from his pocket and placed it over his mouth. For a moment, he and the detective stared at the ticking time bomb. A look of frustration burned within the solicitor’s eyes before his charming equilibrium restored itself.
“Very well, Inspector. Thank you for your assistance. I would like to be notified when the contents of the fire are examined. Those files are still the property of the firm.”
When O’Hare had left, Daly returned to the fire. The solicitor’s instinct for survival had proved a solid enough foundation on which to base a minor deception, he thought to himself as he sifted through the ashes and retrieved the file. One misled solicitor would hardly upset the scales of justice.
7
O liver Jordan. The name still meant nothing to Celcius Daly, but it was the only one he could decipher as he scanned the scorched legal notes. It was written several times in a pedantic hand so minute as to be practically illegible, added almost as a footnote to what appeared to be police custody notes. It was the same name inscribed on one of the crosses in Hughes’s makeshift cemetery. The only other detail that jumped out at him was the date of the notes, taken between August and November 1989.
He decided the file would have to wait for a more detailed examination. It was early afternoon, and he was late for a meeting with a local politician. He placed the papers into an evidence bag along with Devine’s pager and tossed them onto his passenger seat. He told Irwin he was leaving and drove back to the station.
He had yet to drink his first coffee of the day, and he craved its cerebral buzz. Concerned that he might nod off to sleep, he rolled the window down a chink. The drip-drop of birdsong from the tree-lined shore threaded into the car. The forest was alive with the bubbling sounds of blackbirds and thrushes.
Daly was on his way to meet Owen Sweeney, a Republican politician. He had known Owen as a boy, given him lifts to school on the back of his bike while he did his morning paper round, in fact, but their paths had diverged many years ago. Sweeney had rung him in a fury over the helicopter search for David Hughes. The helicopter was equipped with a PA loud-hailer system. At one point, on Sunday afternoon, it had hovered over a crowd returning from a GAA match, requesting them to assist in the search for the missing man. A panic had ensued because the football fans thought a dangerous maniac was on the loose. Sweeney claimed the helicopter pilot had targeted the fans on purpose, to harass them on their way home.
The press will have a field day on this one, he had warned Daly. The detective imagined the headline: ALZHEIMER’S PATIENT IN PAJAMAS AND SLIPPERS TERRORIZES GANG OF FOOTBALL FANS . Daly loathed the melodrama and political blackmail that accompanied community liaison work in post-cease-fire Northern Ireland.
At a bridge, he passed a mud-spattered transit van, which appeared to have broken down. He slowed and observed the driver—a skinny, pasty-faced youth standing at the side of the vehicle with a mobile phone pressed to his ear.
The van had a flat tire, and even though he was in a hurry, Daly braked and pulled up with his warning lights flashing. He had a feeling that something else was wrong.
As soon as the youth saw Daly, he sprinted off, disappearing up a lane overgrown with brambles and bushes. The back door of the
“These files might be a ticking time bomb, who knows what confidential information they might contain,” said O’Hare, his voice rising.
“Lung cancer is a horrible disease. I’ve never seen anyone die of it myself, but I hear the sufferer finally drowns in a froth of blood and phlegm.”
O’Hare raised a voluminous handkerchief from his pocket and placed it over his mouth. For a moment, he and the detective stared at the ticking time bomb. A look of frustration burned within the solicitor’s eyes before his charming equilibrium restored itself.
“Very well, Inspector. Thank you for your assistance. I would like to be notified when the contents of the fire are examined. Those files are still the property of the firm.”
When O’Hare had left, Daly returned to the fire. The solicitor’s instinct for survival had proved a solid enough foundation on which to base a minor deception, he thought to himself as he sifted through the ashes and retrieved the file. One misled solicitor would hardly upset the scales of justice.
7
O liver Jordan. The name still meant nothing to Celcius Daly, but it was the only one he could decipher as he scanned the scorched legal notes. It was written several times in a pedantic hand so minute as to be practically illegible, added almost as a footnote to what appeared to be police custody notes. It was the same name inscribed on one of the crosses in Hughes’s makeshift cemetery. The only other detail that jumped out at him was the date of the notes, taken between August and November 1989.
He decided the file would have to wait for a more detailed examination. It was early afternoon, and he was late for a meeting with a local politician. He placed the papers into an evidence bag along with Devine’s pager and tossed them onto his passenger seat. He told Irwin he was leaving and drove back to the station.
He had yet to drink his first coffee of the day, and he craved its cerebral buzz. Concerned that he might nod off to sleep, he rolled the window down a chink. The drip-drop of birdsong from the tree-lined shore threaded into the car. The forest was alive with the bubbling sounds of blackbirds and thrushes.
Daly was on his way to meet Owen Sweeney, a Republican politician. He had known Owen as a boy, given him lifts to school on the back of his bike while he did his morning paper round, in fact, but their paths had diverged many years ago. Sweeney had rung him in a fury over the helicopter search for David Hughes. The helicopter was equipped with a PA loud-hailer system. At one point, on Sunday afternoon, it had hovered over a crowd returning from a GAA match, requesting them to assist in the search for the missing man. A panic had ensued because the football fans thought a dangerous maniac was on the loose. Sweeney claimed the helicopter pilot had targeted the fans on purpose, to harass them on their way home.
The press will have a field day on this one, he had warned Daly. The detective imagined the headline: ALZHEIMER’S PATIENT IN PAJAMAS AND SLIPPERS TERRORIZES GANG OF FOOTBALL FANS . Daly loathed the melodrama and political blackmail that accompanied community liaison work in post-cease-fire Northern Ireland.
At a bridge, he passed a mud-spattered transit van, which appeared to have broken down. He slowed and observed the driver—a skinny, pasty-faced youth standing at the side of the vehicle with a mobile phone pressed to his ear.
The van had a flat tire, and even though he was in a hurry, Daly braked and pulled up with his warning lights flashing. He had a feeling that something else was wrong.
As soon as the youth saw Daly, he sprinted off, disappearing up a lane overgrown with brambles and bushes. The back door of the
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