by Joe McNally
A winter Sunday dusk. One of my favourite times to sit in the Snug by the fire with my special lead crystal glass, a gift from Martell, who used to sponsor the Grand National. Half full of whiskey and ice, it was luxuriously heavy.
I sipped and watched the last of the light fade over the garden, the sun house. I’d pinged Mave, but she’d reverted quickly to old habits and was still asleep in her Welsh eyrie. I’d called Mac and told him to forget about the request to exhume Enda Magultry, that my suspicion Shanahan was an innocent man had been wrong.
I told him where Colossus was. He didn’t ask how I knew, and just said he’d arrange to have the horse picked up.
An innocent man.
Shanahan was not that. I had not lied. He hadn’t killed Jimmy, or any of the others in this. But he was a worse man by far than the young red-headed executioner.
Finbarr Quaidd had made no special plea. He’d denied nothing. He had accepted that if somebody turned out to be smarter than he’d been in dispensing his own form of justice, then he was willing to put his hands up.
Jimmy had been sacrificed for the success of Quaidd’s project. With a few months, at best, to live, Jimmy would have given his life anyway if Quaidd had explained the end game.
I think.
Who knows?
Young Quaidd might live another sixty years. How many could he kill in that time, if he chose to carry on pursuing paedophiles? Would more Jimmy Sherricks die too for the cause? Did paedophiles deserve summary execution? Would Quaidd give every one of them the chance to save themselves with the implant?
Did Watt and Kilberg and Magultry deserve death?
Mave’s terrible anguish when she saw those images came back to me. If I’d seen those images, would I have wanted to kill those in that paedophile ring?
Yes.
I stared into the fire flames. Then my selfishness kicked in as it had done after Jimmy’s death, when I thought I could get the rides back at Watt’s. Maybe I could free myself of responsibility here by shifting it to the shoulders of Mister Sherrick? Here’s the story Jim, now, do you want me to hand Finbarr Quaidd in?
Cop out. Passing a burden to an old man who’d buried his son and would have to do so again. I shook my head, ashamed at my own weakness.
The burning logs crackled. I glanced up and through the double doors to the desk, half-expecting to see Mave there. Then I rose and turned to put down my glass on the mantelpiece above the fire. My reflection looked at me from the mirror and we watched each other a while. ‘You’re a gloomy bastard,’ we said. ‘Cheers.’ We drank to each other and I went to ping Mave again.
No answer.
I pulled out my phone like a sixgun, as Bayley Watt would have said, and called my bookies’ man, Gerry Waldron.
‘How was Dublin?’
‘I saw little of it, Gerry, but it was good to meet Rory Moran who did such fine work in helping me nail Shanahan, and find the horse.’
‘I didn’t know you’d found the horse.’
‘Peter McCarthy’s arranging to have it picked up and put away somewhere it can’t do you guys any more harm.’
‘So Shanahan’s the man?’
‘All the evidence points that way, and there’s plenty of it.’
‘I hear he has our money in an offshore account.’
‘So they tell me. Let’s hope he hasn’t spent it.’
‘Your man at Betstore wants you to work for the Association of British Bookmakers as Integrity Director. I told him he’d be wasting his time, but I promised to mention it.’
‘Where does he want the integrity directed to? And where do I find it in the first place?’
Gerry laughed. ‘I knew your answer would be something along those lines.’
‘I’m a jockey, Gerry. The brains behind all this was someone who hates the limelight.’
‘The thing is, Eddie, it takes a lot more than brains, this kind of thing. That’s what you’ve got.’
‘So does a pig. And a mule.’
He laughed again, a soft genuine sound that I liked. ‘Maybe when you retire, eh?’
‘Who knows?’
‘Anyway. I’ll pass on the news. They’ll probably wait for Shanahan’s conviction before paying that charity money.’
‘That’s okay.’
‘Cancer, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes. See if there’s a special one for pancreatic cancer, Gerry, will you?’
‘Of course I will.’
‘Thanks, my friend.’
‘Look after yourself.’
‘You too. Oh, Gerry…Your young project manager, Ishrat. She’s an absolute star and deserves to go far.’
‘I’ll tell her boss.’
No going back now. Once you start something you’ve been putting off, momentum can kick in. Rather than holstering my phone, I dialled Mister Sherrick’s number and told him the police were confident they had the man they’d been after.
‘It’s been a long road, Eddie.’
‘For you especially.’
‘It feels more like six years ago than six weeks.’
‘It does. I’ll come and see you soon, if you don’t mind. We don’t need to talk about all this. I used to enjoy those long chats we had by your fire.’
‘Me too. You’re welcome here anytime.’
‘When’s your next fiddle gig?’
He laughed. ‘Friday.’
‘Can I come to that?’
‘You’ll be the youngest there by forty years.’
‘I’ll bet there’ll be plenty feet can tap quicker than mine.’
‘You’ll have no peace from the women. How’s your dancing?’
‘My dancing’s more likely to injure me than riding.’
‘The old dears will steer you right.’
‘Pull me up, more like.’
‘Ha! We’ll see. Seven o’clock start.’
‘I’ll be there!’
Halfway through refilling my glass, Mave pinged me, and I felt a little burst of excited anticipation, whiskey swishing as I hurried to the desk. She was staring right at me, wide-eyed. ‘You’re a persistent sod in waking a woman up!’
‘So I’ve been told.’
‘I’ll bet. What do you want this time?’
I laughed. ‘Some friendly banter.’
‘My banter tank is in for a refill. You emptied it last week. How did it go in Dublin?’
‘It went well in the end.’
‘In the end? Did you find the kid?’
‘I did. He wasn’t what I thought.’
‘As in?’
‘Well, put it this way, I spoke to him for half an hour and came away pretty sure that Shanahan was the man after all.’
‘The man for what?’
‘For locking up.’
‘You’re being evasive.’
‘I am.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t want to lie to you.’
She smiled slowly, shaking her head, still looking at me. ‘You are a man-child. If we ever lived together, I would marvel for a while at the novelty of your character, then I’d kill you out of frustration.’
‘How long is “a while”?’
‘A month. Max. Probably half that.’
‘Forewarned is forearmed. Book me in for a week in summer.’
‘Can you swim?’
‘Like a dolphin.’
‘Can you climb a cliff?’
‘A small one. Well, a sand dune, really.’
‘In a raging storm in Hell’s Mouth, could you keep your head when all around you are losing theirs?’
‘I very much doubt it.’
‘Will you help me with this bloody project?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then name your dates for the hotel Cliff Shack.’
‘First week in July.’
‘Any special dietary requirements?’
‘Chewing the fat.’
She looked at me for what seemed a long time. I tried to keep smiling, keep my wit sharp, but t
he impetus had gone. Mave said, ‘You’re quipping your way round your problem, Mister.’
‘You know me too well.’
‘Tell me about this kid Quaidd.’
I told her.
‘Why were you so certain it was him?’
‘Because of you. When you spotted the ringer names were anagrams, it opened my mind up. I saw Sinful Priests on the banner the kid had and realized it had been his starting point for Fruitless Spin and the others. And Raglan Unit hit me right between the eyes with Alan Turing.’
‘That was clever, Eddie.’
‘I had a fine teacher.’
‘You did, and now she’s going to teach you something else. Are you listening?’
I nodded.
‘Ever heard of the greater good?’
‘I have.’
‘What you’ve done is for the greater good. Forget you’ve been involved in any of this, and just imagine somebody gave you a piece of paper on each of them. One on Quaidd and one on Shanahan, laying out what you already know. You’re asked to choose which should stay free for the greater good. Who would you choose?’
‘Finbarr Quaidd.’
‘So would I. So would ninety nine percent of law abiding people.’
I nodded. ‘Okay.’
‘Right. Now some homework.’
I looked at her.
‘That little elasticated head lamp I saw on your coat rail, does it work?’
‘Like a lighthouse.’
‘Put the drink down. Put the headlamp on and change into your running gear. What’s your favourite run?’
‘Through the wood behind the house.’
‘Get going then, and leave all that crap that’s in your mind out among the trees.’
‘Yes, Miss.’
‘There’ll be questions on it when you get back.’
‘A check for mind crap?’
‘Correct. I’ll be waiting here. Off you go.’
I got changed and went out.
And I raced through the wood in the dark, each step pounding my doubts into the forest floor, creating a rhythm, reviving a song, and echoing my inborn urge…keep on running.
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Thanks
Joe McNally