Cross

I decided to tell the truth, not something the Church was much accustomed to.

'I was sleeping.'

He was furious, spat, 'Sleeping it off, more like.'

I wasn't going to let the gobshite get to me. 'I'm not drinking.'

He snorted. It came out through his nostrils and was not a pretty sound, especially when you're halfway through breakfast.

He said, 'You missed the funeral. That friend of yours was buried and you weren't bothered to even get your arse out of bed?'

I kept my voice level as I poured a cup of tea.

'I was asked not to attend.'

He let out a snigger of – delight?

'Well, by the holy – barred from a funeral, you're some beaut.'

I felt my tolerance slide, but no, he wouldn't get to me.

I asked, 'How did it go?'

He mimicked, 'Go? The parents were crushed and his sister, the poor creature, was in bits.'

I was surprised, asked, 'He had a sister?'

He loved that.

'Jaysus, the poor lad worked with you and you didn't even know he had a sister. Isn't that just typical of Taylor, Mr Selfish, Mr couldn't care less.'

The temptation to bang him on the upside of his dandruffed head was building.

He noticed my bandaged hands.

'In the wars again?'

Took the cheap route, said, 'Yeah, a priest annoyed the shite out of me.'

He stood up, asked, 'Did you know that ex-Guard they pulled out of the canal?'

'What?'

'Fellah named Heaton. Drunkard like yourself. Did the world a favour and drowned himself.'

I was trying to take this in when he added, 'He didn't have to take the dog with him – that was really sick.'

'Dog?'

'The dirty yoke, he'd tied a dog to his stomach. What kind of perverted mind does that to one of God's gentle creations?'

So much for resolutions, Malachy had got to me in just about every way there is. I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt this was my fault. The dog-napping case had seemed so trivial. Now it was something completely different and I hadn't one clue what the hell was going on.

I spent the next few hours trailing round the pubs, the betting shops, the usual places Eoin Heaton would have frequented, and managed to discover that he'd been heading for a warehouse on Father Griffin Road the evening he'd died. He'd told one of his mates he was on the verge of solving a major scam.

Took me another few hours to find out the address of the place, and by then, when I got to it, it was closed. I had the name of the owner, though. A man called King.

Next, I rang Ridge from my mobile and she said she'd some information on Rory, the brother of the burned-car girl.

My mind was speeding. I had so much happening, and all at once, that I decided another good night's sleep was vital before I took action on all those cases.

Ridge came by early the next morning. Dressed in jeans and sweatshirt, she seemed almost relaxed. I noticed her eyes, they seemed a radiant blue and had a shine in them, and for once her clothes seemed just right. They not so much fitted her as blended into the whole air of confidence she was exuding.

For the first time in ages she took a full look at my place. In truth, it wasn't much. The sitting room, one battered sofa, the small television and, of course, the bookshelf, jammed with volumes. She checked the carpet – dust motes in every corner – then her eyes hit the small kitchen: the cups left in the sink, the dishcloth that badly needed to be thrown out, the packets of cereal way past their sell-by dates, and, in the bin, takeaway cartons of fast food, pizza and Chinese, testifying to the lonely bachelor in all his shabby glory.

She crinkled her nose.

'Do I smell smoke? Are you smoking again?'

I snapped, 'Who are you, my mother?'

Before she could lash back, I softened with, 'Any new information?'

She told me what she'd learned.

The Willises' eldest son, Rory, had killed a woman in a hit and run, been arrested, got bail and skipped, to England, they thought. The woman he'd killed, Nora Mitchell, had two children in their late teens, early twenties, who had been living in Brixton. Her family were not reachable and Ridge said, 'They probably moved. Families often do after such a tragedy.'

All the sleep I'd been getting had me alert and – thoughts, ideas, hunches, whatever – my mind was getting crystal-clear pictures of a pattern. I waited a moment to put it together then dropped my bomb.

'Oh, they moved all right, and I think I know where.'

She paused.

'You're not suggesting her family are responsible?'

It was one of those rare moments, once every ten years, when I let my intuition act in unison with my experience.

I said, 'There's a connection, has to be.'

Ridge was highly sceptical, said, 'I'm highly sceptical.'

My mind was in hyperdrive and to stall I offered her coffee, then to rile her added, 'Or vodka?'

She looked like she was going to hit me.

'That was a one-off. And I'm off coffee, I don't need stimulants.'

Ignoring the mini lecture, I said, 'You need to get yer head out of yer arse is what you need.'

Her eyes danced in anger, but before she could reply I asked her about King, the warehouse guy, and told her about Eoin Heaton drowning in the canal.

She was vicious in her dismissal.

'Oh, for Christ's sake, he was a drunk, they go in the canal all the time, and if you ask me, not enough of them.'

I didn't rise to the taunt, asked, 'And what about the dog tied to his stomach?'

She gave a bitter, nigh twisted laugh, said, 'It's what drunks do, bring the innocent down with them.'

She was a piece of work.

I asked, 'Will you find out about King for me?'

'I'm not wasting time on a wild goose chase.'

Then I said, 'Maria Willis's funeral – I'm going to go.'

Ridge was horrified.

'God, how morbid are you? Why would you attend?'

'Call it a hunch.'

She looked like she might call it a lot of things, hunch not being one of them. She stormed past me, out the door.

I waited till she was in the hall, heading for the stairs and said, 'You're wrong.'

She didn't even look back. 'About what?'

'Geese. It's a dog chase. Get your terms of reference right.'

And I slammed the door.

Childish?

But very satisfying.

Back in the days of the Tinkers, when I'd worked with them, I'd met an English cop, name of Keegan. Now I've known crazy, been crazy, but he was so far out there, you'd have to invent a whole new order of madness. He'd been a great help to me and then, ignoring his advice, I'd made a tragic error of judgement. But we were friends and I called him.

Took a time to get him to the phone and his opening gambit was, 'Taylor, yah mad bollix.'

Same old greeting, same old banter.

We did the polite dance of asking for each other's health and all that stuff, then he went, 'So, whatcha want?'

Cut to the chase. I didn't bother feigning offence that he should think I was only calling for help, so I outlined the details of the crucifixion and asked him to check into the family of Nora Mitchell, anything he could get me.

He was quiet for a moment, then, 'You'll be wanting photos, rap sheets, if any, that sort of thing?'

'Exactly.'

'Have you a fax?'

I'd prepared for this, arranged with the local printers to receive and gave him the number.

He asked, 'What's in this for me, boyo?'

'My deep appreciation?'

'Fuck that, send me a case of Jameson.'

His parting words were, 'You're crucifying them now?'

What could I do but agree. He rang off with, 'You Catholics, you find a gig that works, you stick to it.'

Short of saying We had it nailed, I wished him luck. He said, 'Carry a Sig Sauer, luck won't matter.'

I paced my small room, all sorts of possibilities up for grabs. I wanted to make coffee but was too preoccupied to take the time to even boil a kettle.