whined, and as the guy shouted variations on “He wasn’t fucking there” into his mobile phone, the girl kept her head down and tried to placate the now-howling toddler at her side, and as they weaved through the prosperous, cosmopolitan crowd, jostling other buggies and lurching against tables, spitting and swearing, I reflected that this did not remind me at all of California. In California, they would have employed security to ensure that people who have money to spend never have to look at people who don’t. I couldn’t remember whether it was better never to see people like that at all, or to see them and pretend they aren’t there.
I sat and looked at the two photographs I had collected. Linda had given me a shot of Peter Dawson, his face engorged and glistening. His deep blue eyes were shot with blood, his cheeks flecked crimson, his damp lips swollen into an anxious pout. For all the ravages of alcohol though, he looked like nothing so much as a startled boy, as if he had lost control of his life, and had no idea how to get it back.
The fragment I had found on Peter’s boat had presumably come from one of his empty “Family” box files. My father and John Dawson looked young and slim and careless in it, their pints of stout held aloft, their eyes shining, their mouths open in song or celebration. I stared at the photograph and cast down the years, trying to recall a time when I’d seen my father’s eyes shine like that. I came up empty.
I finished my beer and walked down to the car park near the yacht club. I found my rental car and fed the meter and took a flyer exhorting me to “Save Our Swimming Pool” from beneath the windshield wiper and put it in my pocket, then I went back up the hill and turned down a slip lane into the County Hall and Civic Offices, a set of three seven-story concrete and glass bunkers ranked parallel to, but out of sight of, Seafield Main Street. Two cranes flanked the central bunker, and a builder’s sign informed me that Dawson Construction were undertaking this refurbishment with the help of the European Union Structural Fund and the National Development Plan, that Rory Dagg was project manager and, in a spray-painted addendum, that Anto sucks big dicks.
And that looked like it was going to be as far as I would get. White and blue police tape ran from both legs of the builder’s sign to surround the town hall bunker, assorted police vehicles were parked in the forecourt and a Guard in uniform stood by the sign.
“What’s going on?” I said.
“Police business,” said the Guard, his thin lips sucked in over his teeth.
“I have an appointment with Rory Dagg, the project manager,” I said.
“Police business,” said the Guard again, his lips disappearing into his small mouth. He looked like he was afraid someone was going to steal his teeth. “No entry to the public.”
“I’ve an appointment with Rory Dagg,” I repeated. The Guard didn’t bother to reply to that. I didn’t blame him. We stood there in silence for a while, and then the town hall door opened and two men came out. Both wore hard hats. One wore a fluorescent yellow site jacket over a tan corduroy coat, green and navy plaid shirt, fawn chinos and pale tan Timberland boots. The other was Detective Sergeant Dave Donnelly. Dave saw me and came over at once.
“Ed Loy, the very man. I believe you’re here to meet Rory Dagg. Something to do with an investigation you’re running.”
Dave looked quizzically at me, the expression on his broad, open face poised somewhere between amusement and professional suspicion.
“That’s right, Detective,” I said.
Dave gestured for me to come under the police tape. He led me over toward what I assumed was his car, an unmarked blue saloon that might as well have had “Cop” sprayed all over it in gold paint. He leaned on the roof, lit a cigarette and grinned at me.
“What the fuck are you up to, Ed?” he said, his tone friendly but direct.
I sat and looked at the two photographs I had collected. Linda had given me a shot of Peter Dawson, his face engorged and glistening. His deep blue eyes were shot with blood, his cheeks flecked crimson, his damp lips swollen into an anxious pout. For all the ravages of alcohol though, he looked like nothing so much as a startled boy, as if he had lost control of his life, and had no idea how to get it back.
The fragment I had found on Peter’s boat had presumably come from one of his empty “Family” box files. My father and John Dawson looked young and slim and careless in it, their pints of stout held aloft, their eyes shining, their mouths open in song or celebration. I stared at the photograph and cast down the years, trying to recall a time when I’d seen my father’s eyes shine like that. I came up empty.
I finished my beer and walked down to the car park near the yacht club. I found my rental car and fed the meter and took a flyer exhorting me to “Save Our Swimming Pool” from beneath the windshield wiper and put it in my pocket, then I went back up the hill and turned down a slip lane into the County Hall and Civic Offices, a set of three seven-story concrete and glass bunkers ranked parallel to, but out of sight of, Seafield Main Street. Two cranes flanked the central bunker, and a builder’s sign informed me that Dawson Construction were undertaking this refurbishment with the help of the European Union Structural Fund and the National Development Plan, that Rory Dagg was project manager and, in a spray-painted addendum, that Anto sucks big dicks.
And that looked like it was going to be as far as I would get. White and blue police tape ran from both legs of the builder’s sign to surround the town hall bunker, assorted police vehicles were parked in the forecourt and a Guard in uniform stood by the sign.
“What’s going on?” I said.
“Police business,” said the Guard, his thin lips sucked in over his teeth.
“I have an appointment with Rory Dagg, the project manager,” I said.
“Police business,” said the Guard again, his lips disappearing into his small mouth. He looked like he was afraid someone was going to steal his teeth. “No entry to the public.”
“I’ve an appointment with Rory Dagg,” I repeated. The Guard didn’t bother to reply to that. I didn’t blame him. We stood there in silence for a while, and then the town hall door opened and two men came out. Both wore hard hats. One wore a fluorescent yellow site jacket over a tan corduroy coat, green and navy plaid shirt, fawn chinos and pale tan Timberland boots. The other was Detective Sergeant Dave Donnelly. Dave saw me and came over at once.
“Ed Loy, the very man. I believe you’re here to meet Rory Dagg. Something to do with an investigation you’re running.”
Dave looked quizzically at me, the expression on his broad, open face poised somewhere between amusement and professional suspicion.
“That’s right, Detective,” I said.
Dave gestured for me to come under the police tape. He led me over toward what I assumed was his car, an unmarked blue saloon that might as well have had “Cop” sprayed all over it in gold paint. He leaned on the roof, lit a cigarette and grinned at me.
“What the fuck are you up to, Ed?” he said, his tone friendly but direct.
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