Кен Бруен - The Magdalen Martyrs

“Kirsten. Tell me what happened.”

“He went to her house. She says he had a drink... many drinks... maybe the drugs.”

He looked beseechingly at me, cried,

“But Senor Taylor, you have been in his company. He takes one... two drinks... todos ... no more... and the drugs, never. He hates them. She say he took many things. She go to bed, and in the morning, he is in the sickness.”

I knew.

Jesus, she’d kept the liquid E, spiked his drink. My very words to her,

“You don’t want to fuck with that stuff. It can cause a coma.”

He began to sob. Jeff shot me an inquiring look, but I waved him off I put my hand on Gerald’s shoulder, said,

“I’ll check it out, OK?”

Wiping his eyes, he said,

“Gracias. You think maybe he’ll be all right?”

“Sure, sure he will.”

He stood up, put out his hand. I said,

“Try not to worry, OK?”

When he’d gone, I thought about Terry and knew he sure as hell wasn’t going to be all right

It didn’t take me long to arrange the next step. I had most of the ingredients already. Rang Ridge, said,

“If I wanted to be certain you’d respond to a burglary, how would I arrange it?”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“What are you planning?”

“Ridge, you are going to respond to a break-in. In the course of your investigation, you’ll discover the solution to another crime, a major crime. Should bump up your rating.”

“I don’t like the sound of this.”

“You believe injustice or you just blowing smoke?”

Long silence, so I said,

“You’ll have to trust me on this.”

“That’s the hard part.”

I went for broke, added,

“Your uncle would have trusted me.”

Deep sigh, then,

“I’d have to be in the operators’ room when the call came in.”

“Tell me the time.”

“Just after four this afternoon.”

“OK, make sure you’re there at that time. Now listen carefully: when you’re at the house, be certain to look at the walkin closet in the bedroom. You’ll see a pile of sweaters on a shelf. Check them carefully. You got that, Nic an lomaire?”

“You used my name.”

“What?”

“Nic an lomaire. You said it; you used the Irish form.”

“Yeah, well, be sure you’re there for the call.”

I hung up.

Then I called Kirsten; she answered with an up-tempo

“Hello!”

“Kirsten, it’s Jack.”

“How are you, Jack?”

“Good. Listen, I need to see you.”

“Where and when, lover?”

“Three forty-five injury’s. Order some champagne; if I’m a little late, start without me. I might be running a little behind.”

“What are we celebrating?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“I love surprises.”

“This is a whopper.”

Click.

I was outside her house at 3.30 p.m. A few minutes later a car appeared, a BMW, Kirsten behind the wheel. She turned left, drove down Taylor’s Hill. I went up the drive and approached the front door. Two hard kicks knocked it back and, pulling on a pair of gloves, I went inside. Began to throw things around, ransacking the rooms. Then upstairs and tossed the bedroom, pulled open the walk-in closet. Took a deep breath, then scattered suits and shoes on the floor. The pile of sweaters was as I remembered. I moved them around, then reached in my pocket, took out Michael Neville’s gun and the envelope with his name and address, put them under the sweaters. Ensured the end of the envelope was sticking out. Checked my watch: 3.45 p.m.

I was in a phone kiosk at three minutes to four, rang the guards, reported the burglary in progress and hung up. By 4.15 p.m., I was past Threadneedle Road and out on Salthill Promenade. The sight of the bay did what it always did.

Lifted my spirits.