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Authors: Gene Kerrigan
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there. I don’t think it’s best.’
‘That old shite. Forget it.’
The two had worked on several cases together over the years, a couple of big ones but mostly routine. Grace, six years older than Synnott and now on the point of retirement, looked more tired than his age warranted.
Grace said, ‘You see much of Helen these days?’
‘We talk on the phone. It’s OK.’
‘Michael?’
‘He’s thinking of dropping out of college. Figures it’s a waste of time getting an education when there’s money to be made.’
‘What’s he want to do?’
‘The detail changes from week to week, but he reckons he’s a born entrepreneur.’
Grace grinned. ‘You hear a lot of that these days. They say I’m an entrepreneur like it’s a trade – like someone might say they’re a nurse or a mechanic.’
Although both men got on well enough, it was the Swanson Avenue murder case – four years earlier – that had bonded something like a friendship. Synnott had been a detective sergeant then, just arrived at Turner’s Lane, Grace had been one of the station’s senior detectives. Although there had been little contact since that case, the bond remained.
Harry Synnott gestured. ‘This place, it didn’t work out? So dull that you prefer retirement?’
Harry Synnott had last seen John Grace almost eighteen months earlier, two and a half years after the Swanson Avenue case, at the funeral of a colleague murdered during a kidnap. Severely affected by the killing, Grace went on sick leave from Turner’s Lane and never came back. The administrative work at the Phoenix Park HQ was a last resort, after drifting through several assignments.
Grace smiled. ‘Dull is one word for it. Traffic, sports events, immigration. Mostly admin. I went out on two immigration raids, then I couldn’t do it any more. The second one, kicking out a planeload of Nigerians who’d overstayed their welcome. You ever involved in that kind of thing?’
‘Not yet. It’s a thriving business.’
‘This country, everyone used to have a relation who worked himself to a stump on a British building site. Poor lonely bastards, sending home the money that made the difference, drinking the rest.’ He shrugged. ‘You’d think—’
Harry Synnott decided to keep his mouth shut. There’s a reason for the law being the way it is. Send out the wrong message, you lose control – floodgates and open doors.
‘Anyway, since then I’ve been shifting pieces of paper from one desk to another. By and by, it gets like you’re doing things out of habit. So—’
‘Perhaps it’s for the best.’
‘O’Keefe was good to me. I didn’t have to explain, he arranged the paperwork, it’s all painless.’
Synnott said, ‘Why don’t you come around to my place, Saturday night? I’ll cook something, we’ll open a bottle in honour of the next twenty years.’
Grace laughed. ‘If I want chicken nuggets I’ll go to McDonald’s. Come out to Sutton. Mona’s got tickets for some musical thing, herself and her sister. I’ll order in, you bring the bottle.’
‘You’re on.’
On their way back down the corridor, John Grace said, ‘What I’m hearing, O’Keefe has offered you something?’
‘There’s nothing solid, but he’s been sussing things out. Something very different, he said. And Christ knows I could do with a change.’
Grace raised an eyebrow. ‘We could be celebrating, come Saturday evening?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘It’s long overdue.’
Assistant Commissioner Colin O’Keefe didn’t seem to be aware that he’d lost a crumb of chicken from his sandwich and that it had found refuge half an inch above his left jawline.
Harry Synnott, sitting on the other side of O’Keefe’s desk, chewing on his own chicken sandwich, made a gesture towards his own face and O’Keefe flicked the offending particle away.
‘It’s more than a maybe,’ O’Keefe said. ‘If you decide you want it, the position’s there for the
‘That old shite. Forget it.’
The two had worked on several cases together over the years, a couple of big ones but mostly routine. Grace, six years older than Synnott and now on the point of retirement, looked more tired than his age warranted.
Grace said, ‘You see much of Helen these days?’
‘We talk on the phone. It’s OK.’
‘Michael?’
‘He’s thinking of dropping out of college. Figures it’s a waste of time getting an education when there’s money to be made.’
‘What’s he want to do?’
‘The detail changes from week to week, but he reckons he’s a born entrepreneur.’
Grace grinned. ‘You hear a lot of that these days. They say I’m an entrepreneur like it’s a trade – like someone might say they’re a nurse or a mechanic.’
Although both men got on well enough, it was the Swanson Avenue murder case – four years earlier – that had bonded something like a friendship. Synnott had been a detective sergeant then, just arrived at Turner’s Lane, Grace had been one of the station’s senior detectives. Although there had been little contact since that case, the bond remained.
Harry Synnott gestured. ‘This place, it didn’t work out? So dull that you prefer retirement?’
Harry Synnott had last seen John Grace almost eighteen months earlier, two and a half years after the Swanson Avenue case, at the funeral of a colleague murdered during a kidnap. Severely affected by the killing, Grace went on sick leave from Turner’s Lane and never came back. The administrative work at the Phoenix Park HQ was a last resort, after drifting through several assignments.
Grace smiled. ‘Dull is one word for it. Traffic, sports events, immigration. Mostly admin. I went out on two immigration raids, then I couldn’t do it any more. The second one, kicking out a planeload of Nigerians who’d overstayed their welcome. You ever involved in that kind of thing?’
‘Not yet. It’s a thriving business.’
‘This country, everyone used to have a relation who worked himself to a stump on a British building site. Poor lonely bastards, sending home the money that made the difference, drinking the rest.’ He shrugged. ‘You’d think—’
Harry Synnott decided to keep his mouth shut. There’s a reason for the law being the way it is. Send out the wrong message, you lose control – floodgates and open doors.
‘Anyway, since then I’ve been shifting pieces of paper from one desk to another. By and by, it gets like you’re doing things out of habit. So—’
‘Perhaps it’s for the best.’
‘O’Keefe was good to me. I didn’t have to explain, he arranged the paperwork, it’s all painless.’
Synnott said, ‘Why don’t you come around to my place, Saturday night? I’ll cook something, we’ll open a bottle in honour of the next twenty years.’
Grace laughed. ‘If I want chicken nuggets I’ll go to McDonald’s. Come out to Sutton. Mona’s got tickets for some musical thing, herself and her sister. I’ll order in, you bring the bottle.’
‘You’re on.’
On their way back down the corridor, John Grace said, ‘What I’m hearing, O’Keefe has offered you something?’
‘There’s nothing solid, but he’s been sussing things out. Something very different, he said. And Christ knows I could do with a change.’
Grace raised an eyebrow. ‘We could be celebrating, come Saturday evening?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘It’s long overdue.’
Assistant Commissioner Colin O’Keefe didn’t seem to be aware that he’d lost a crumb of chicken from his sandwich and that it had found refuge half an inch above his left jawline.
Harry Synnott, sitting on the other side of O’Keefe’s desk, chewing on his own chicken sandwich, made a gesture towards his own face and O’Keefe flicked the offending particle away.
‘It’s more than a maybe,’ O’Keefe said. ‘If you decide you want it, the position’s there for the
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