Read Online The Wrong Kind of Blood by Declan Hughes - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Declan Hughes
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was he dressed?”
“Cream chinos, white shirt, navy sports jacket. It’s his uniform.”
Dagg’s phone rang. He found it and checked the number that flashed up on the face. “Sorry, I have to take this,” he said, and then barked into the phone, “I said sit outside his office, not ring his office… that’s ’cause they’re liars, they say the permits are in the post, but they never are… all right, once more with feeling: GO TO COUNTY HALL, SIT OUTSIDE JIM KEARNEY’S OFFICE, DO NOT COME BACK UNTIL YOU HAVE THE PERMITS.”
Dagg looked at me, still glaring, then raised his eyebrows, rolled his eyes and grinned. We had reached his car, a black ’94 Volvo Estate, parked down a laneway leading to an old terrace of small redbrick cottages.
“I know,” he said, “I should have a brand-new four-wheel drive with bull bars and all the rest. But they’re hell to park. And they make you look like a gobshite.”
He loaded his stuff onto the backseat, then looked over the roof of the car at me. “I don’t like spoiled rich kids, Mr. Loy. And maybe it’s not his fault, but that’s what Peter is. He doesn’t understand work, or money, or responsibility. He plays at his life. How he holds on to that wife of his, I’ll never understand.”
“Sounds like you’d like to hold on to Linda Dawson yourself,” I said, my tone light.
“I’m married with three kids,” Dagg said, without indicating whether that was a reason for or against an interest in Linda. He didn’t sound like the most content of family men.
Dagg looked at his watch.
“I’ve really got to go,” he said.
“One last thing. The refurbishment at the town hall. Do you know who did the original work?”
“Whoever they were, they deserve to be in jail. That’s partly why we’re here, there are structural fissures that… the whole place could have caved in by now.”
“Can you remember the name of the builder?”
“Not offhand. But I have the plans back in the office, I can find out for you.”
We exchanged mobile numbers and I walked back down the hill. As I reached the slip lane for the town hall, I was nearly run over by Dave Donnelly’s unmarked blue car. It screeched past me into traffic and swerved around the corner toward Bayview.
Six
THE BARMAN IN THE HIGH TIDE SAID HE WASN’T WORKING last Friday, but one of the girls who had been was due on in twenty minutes. I ordered a bottle of beer and drank it at the bar. The High Tide was two stories above the Seafront Plaza, and had been decorated in a bland modern style, with large abstract daubs on the eggshell walls and coffee and cream tones in the soft leather furniture and polished granite fittings. At four o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon, there were three jowly, balding suits drinking brandy, two overdressed women in their forties with a bottle of white wine and a bunch of fancy carrier bags, and a party of women in their twenties clutching pints of lager and bottles of alcopops and making a lot of noise. After they had sung “Happy Birthday” for the ninth time, replete with obscene variations, the barman had a word with them, and after they had sung it a further five times, they tottered out in a cloud of hilarity, heels clicking and phones beeping, their shouting voices echoing back up the metal stairs as they crashed out onto the street.
A church bell began to toll, and I walked over to the side windows and looked up toward St. Anthony’s. A hearse was pulling into the churchyard, and a crowd of people parted to let it pass. I wondered whether the concrete corpse in the town hall would ever be taken to a church, ever be given a name and blessed before it was returned to the earth.
I was about to ask for a Jameson when a short, plumpish girl with blond highlights and too much orange makeup on her pretty face told me her name was Jenny, and that the barman said I wanted to talk to her. I showed her the photograph of Peter Dawson and asked if she remembered
“Cream chinos, white shirt, navy sports jacket. It’s his uniform.”
Dagg’s phone rang. He found it and checked the number that flashed up on the face. “Sorry, I have to take this,” he said, and then barked into the phone, “I said sit outside his office, not ring his office… that’s ’cause they’re liars, they say the permits are in the post, but they never are… all right, once more with feeling: GO TO COUNTY HALL, SIT OUTSIDE JIM KEARNEY’S OFFICE, DO NOT COME BACK UNTIL YOU HAVE THE PERMITS.”
Dagg looked at me, still glaring, then raised his eyebrows, rolled his eyes and grinned. We had reached his car, a black ’94 Volvo Estate, parked down a laneway leading to an old terrace of small redbrick cottages.
“I know,” he said, “I should have a brand-new four-wheel drive with bull bars and all the rest. But they’re hell to park. And they make you look like a gobshite.”
He loaded his stuff onto the backseat, then looked over the roof of the car at me. “I don’t like spoiled rich kids, Mr. Loy. And maybe it’s not his fault, but that’s what Peter is. He doesn’t understand work, or money, or responsibility. He plays at his life. How he holds on to that wife of his, I’ll never understand.”
“Sounds like you’d like to hold on to Linda Dawson yourself,” I said, my tone light.
“I’m married with three kids,” Dagg said, without indicating whether that was a reason for or against an interest in Linda. He didn’t sound like the most content of family men.
Dagg looked at his watch.
“I’ve really got to go,” he said.
“One last thing. The refurbishment at the town hall. Do you know who did the original work?”
“Whoever they were, they deserve to be in jail. That’s partly why we’re here, there are structural fissures that… the whole place could have caved in by now.”
“Can you remember the name of the builder?”
“Not offhand. But I have the plans back in the office, I can find out for you.”
We exchanged mobile numbers and I walked back down the hill. As I reached the slip lane for the town hall, I was nearly run over by Dave Donnelly’s unmarked blue car. It screeched past me into traffic and swerved around the corner toward Bayview.
Six
THE BARMAN IN THE HIGH TIDE SAID HE WASN’T WORKING last Friday, but one of the girls who had been was due on in twenty minutes. I ordered a bottle of beer and drank it at the bar. The High Tide was two stories above the Seafront Plaza, and had been decorated in a bland modern style, with large abstract daubs on the eggshell walls and coffee and cream tones in the soft leather furniture and polished granite fittings. At four o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon, there were three jowly, balding suits drinking brandy, two overdressed women in their forties with a bottle of white wine and a bunch of fancy carrier bags, and a party of women in their twenties clutching pints of lager and bottles of alcopops and making a lot of noise. After they had sung “Happy Birthday” for the ninth time, replete with obscene variations, the barman had a word with them, and after they had sung it a further five times, they tottered out in a cloud of hilarity, heels clicking and phones beeping, their shouting voices echoing back up the metal stairs as they crashed out onto the street.
A church bell began to toll, and I walked over to the side windows and looked up toward St. Anthony’s. A hearse was pulling into the churchyard, and a crowd of people parted to let it pass. I wondered whether the concrete corpse in the town hall would ever be taken to a church, ever be given a name and blessed before it was returned to the earth.
I was about to ask for a Jameson when a short, plumpish girl with blond highlights and too much orange makeup on her pretty face told me her name was Jenny, and that the barman said I wanted to talk to her. I showed her the photograph of Peter Dawson and asked if she remembered
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