Jack exploded as soon as the man was out of earshot. ‘I thought the Gestapo’d been outlawed years ago.’
‘He’s just a playground bully.’
‘What’s he called?’
‘I believe he’s called Jones.’ McKenna smiled, although Jack noticed a tremble in the hand holding McKenna’s cigarette. ‘They’re all called Jones. They all look the same as well, so nobody can identify them.’
‘His sort gives the security services a bad name,’ Jack said. ‘God knows where they dig ’em up.’
‘D’you know, Jack,’ McKenna sighed, ‘I wish that bloody John Beti’d minded his own business! But for him, the woman could’ve stayed happily swinging from that tree until she turned to dust, and nobody any the wiser.’
Walking down to the canteen for coffee, Jack thought about the man from Special Branch, and about the dividing line, at times almost non-existent, between those who made evil, and those whose job it was to fight the wickedness. He was in the canteen queue, standing behind a pretty policewoman with the scent of fresh air on her uniform and in her hair, before he realized McKenna had quite deliberately provoked Special Branch with the Irish enquiries.
Wil Jones the builder, one of those Joneses whom God must have loved because He made so many of them, McKenna thought, paraphrasing Abraham Lincoln on the ordinary people of this world, turned up at the police station at precisely 16.57, according to the report made out by the duty officer. Covered in dust, his shoes gritty with sand, Wil sat on the edge of a chair in McKenna’s office.
‘You’re not going to be too happy about this, Mr McKenna,’ Wil offered. ‘I reckon we’ve found you another body. In the ground where we was digging the trench to the septic tank that isn’t there yet. You’ve no idea the trouble we’re having digging, which is why I reckon nobody bothered before. We started off in one direction yesterday, got so far, and the bloody sides of the trench kept caving in. All sand, you see, once you get a bit away from the cottage. Anyway, this morning, I said to Dave, we’ll go another way, p’raps find better ground. So we did. Been at it all day,’ he went on, glancing at the wall clock. ‘Then Dave, he jumps out of where he was digging, like he’d been bitten by a snake, and starts yelling fit to wake the dead! I looks, and there it was. A leg, as far as I can make out. And a foot on the end of it.’
‘Would you like a cup of tea, Will?’ McKenna asked.
‘I’ll have a quick one. Don’t want to be too long away. I left Dave on his own, and it’s not fair on him.’ Wil shivered. ‘Not in that place, fair play.’
Dr Roberts looked with some pleasure at the foot and lower leg extruding from the right side of the drainage trench. ‘Well preserved, Michael,’ he said. ‘Most interesting. No doubt because of the acid nature of the soil.’
‘Well, you might be able to reconstitute some organs for donor use, then, mightn’t you?’ McKenna snapped. ‘Save a bit of grave robbing, won’t it? Especially if nobody owns up to this body either!’
The doctor regarded McKenna, a little smile lingering around his mouth. ‘D’you know, Michael, people say Jack has a sharp tongue at times,’ he observed. ‘Could strip paint with yours, you could.’
McKenna stalked off. ‘Oh, get on with it! Dig it up, or whatever youintend to do, and tell me when you’ve finished.’ He stopped, then walked back. ‘And its hands had better not be bound. I’ve had enough of executions to last me a long time.’
He disappeared into the cottage, while Jack stood by the trench, watching as the pathologist instructed Dewi, another officer, and two of the forensic team, on ways and means of disinterring the body without causing further damage.
The work was made easier for them by the same factor which frustrated Wil. Peaty, crumbly soil trickled away from the trench side, exposing the other foot, then more of each leg.
‘He’s just a playground bully.’
‘What’s he called?’
‘I believe he’s called Jones.’ McKenna smiled, although Jack noticed a tremble in the hand holding McKenna’s cigarette. ‘They’re all called Jones. They all look the same as well, so nobody can identify them.’
‘His sort gives the security services a bad name,’ Jack said. ‘God knows where they dig ’em up.’
‘D’you know, Jack,’ McKenna sighed, ‘I wish that bloody John Beti’d minded his own business! But for him, the woman could’ve stayed happily swinging from that tree until she turned to dust, and nobody any the wiser.’
Walking down to the canteen for coffee, Jack thought about the man from Special Branch, and about the dividing line, at times almost non-existent, between those who made evil, and those whose job it was to fight the wickedness. He was in the canteen queue, standing behind a pretty policewoman with the scent of fresh air on her uniform and in her hair, before he realized McKenna had quite deliberately provoked Special Branch with the Irish enquiries.
Wil Jones the builder, one of those Joneses whom God must have loved because He made so many of them, McKenna thought, paraphrasing Abraham Lincoln on the ordinary people of this world, turned up at the police station at precisely 16.57, according to the report made out by the duty officer. Covered in dust, his shoes gritty with sand, Wil sat on the edge of a chair in McKenna’s office.
‘You’re not going to be too happy about this, Mr McKenna,’ Wil offered. ‘I reckon we’ve found you another body. In the ground where we was digging the trench to the septic tank that isn’t there yet. You’ve no idea the trouble we’re having digging, which is why I reckon nobody bothered before. We started off in one direction yesterday, got so far, and the bloody sides of the trench kept caving in. All sand, you see, once you get a bit away from the cottage. Anyway, this morning, I said to Dave, we’ll go another way, p’raps find better ground. So we did. Been at it all day,’ he went on, glancing at the wall clock. ‘Then Dave, he jumps out of where he was digging, like he’d been bitten by a snake, and starts yelling fit to wake the dead! I looks, and there it was. A leg, as far as I can make out. And a foot on the end of it.’
‘Would you like a cup of tea, Will?’ McKenna asked.
‘I’ll have a quick one. Don’t want to be too long away. I left Dave on his own, and it’s not fair on him.’ Wil shivered. ‘Not in that place, fair play.’
Dr Roberts looked with some pleasure at the foot and lower leg extruding from the right side of the drainage trench. ‘Well preserved, Michael,’ he said. ‘Most interesting. No doubt because of the acid nature of the soil.’
‘Well, you might be able to reconstitute some organs for donor use, then, mightn’t you?’ McKenna snapped. ‘Save a bit of grave robbing, won’t it? Especially if nobody owns up to this body either!’
The doctor regarded McKenna, a little smile lingering around his mouth. ‘D’you know, Michael, people say Jack has a sharp tongue at times,’ he observed. ‘Could strip paint with yours, you could.’
McKenna stalked off. ‘Oh, get on with it! Dig it up, or whatever youintend to do, and tell me when you’ve finished.’ He stopped, then walked back. ‘And its hands had better not be bound. I’ve had enough of executions to last me a long time.’
He disappeared into the cottage, while Jack stood by the trench, watching as the pathologist instructed Dewi, another officer, and two of the forensic team, on ways and means of disinterring the body without causing further damage.
The work was made easier for them by the same factor which frustrated Wil. Peaty, crumbly soil trickled away from the trench side, exposing the other foot, then more of each leg.
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