Into our third year of the water remaining: contaminated, poisoned, lethal.
The bottled water companies continued to rake in the cash. No recession for them. The rest of us poor bastards continued to boil the water.
Grudgingly.
A Garda car swerved into the cathedral car park. Call it instinct,
I knew they weren’t stopping to light candles.
A Ban Garda got out.
Wearing sergeant stripes.
Ridge.
Or in Irish, Ni Iomaire.
The uniform suited her. She looked kind of regal. Seeing her, the late winter sun bouncing off the gold buttons on her tunic, I felt the old pang. The deep regret I’d been kicked off the Force. Ridge and I went back even further than Stewart. We weren’t friends. More’s the Irish pity.
Fate seemed to continually throw us together. I admired her. Not that I’d ever tell her. Her family had been scarred by alcoholism and she had an inbuilt loathing of alkies. My last case, she’d received a serious beating but appeared to be recovered. Insofar as you ever get past such an event. I had a limp, a hearing aid, more broken bones than a nun has polished floors.
Ridge was gay and then married an Anglo-Irish landowner with the imposing name of Anthony Hayden-Hemple.
He regarded me as a peasant. Their marriage was truly one of convenience. He had clout, played golf with my nemesis, Superintendent Clancy, and played bridge with the elite of the city. He needed a mother for his teenage daughter, Ridge wanted promotion.
Deal done.
Seemed to be holding.
Sort of.
She leant against the car, her face expressionless. I said,
“Think you may have missed the noon mass.”
She threw a brief glance at the church, said,
“Wouldn’t hurt you to go the odd time.”
I gave her my best smile, full of bullshite and malevolence, said,
“I’ve just been in the Abbey, lit some candles for all sinners.”
She seemed to have many replies to this but let it slide, said,
“You’ll have heard about Father Malachy.”
I said,
“I’ve an alibi.”
Now her annoyance surfaced, she spat,
“Don’t be such a thundering eejit.”
And a shadow of rage and compassion caressed her face as she said,
“And the other attack?”
“What?”
She looked at me, asked,
“You don’t know?”
“Know what?”
But the temporary feeling of whatever had fled and she snapped,
“What am I? Your private source of information? Buy a bloody paper.”
To needle her, I asked
“How is your husband?”
Leant heavily on the last word. She said,
“He’s away on business.”
I moved to go, said,
“Give him my love. I’m on my way to see Malachy. You think he’d prefer grapes or a pack of cigs?”
She shrugged, cautioned,
“This is Garda business, stay out of it.”
I loved that, the tone of authority, the sheer condescension. I said,
“I’m all done with priests. This is purely a good Samaritan gig.”
She got back in the car, hurled,
“You need to call the Samaritans yourself.”
And burned rubber outta there.