The Guards Read Online Free PDF

techno ignorant?”
    “I am.”
    “I’ll keep it simple. I fed a number of items into the computer, teenage suicides over the past six months, and got two hits. Ever hear of Planter’s?”
    “Who make peanut butter?”
    “No, it’s a massive DIY shop at the rear of Edward Square.”
    “Where the new Dunnes is?”
    “Yes.”
    “Jeez, Edward Square! I mean … come on. In the middle of Galway, how Irish is that?”
    She gave me a look, then continued.
    “Of three suicides, three of the girls worked part-time there.”
    “So?”
    “So it’s strange. The owner, Bartholomew Planter, is a transplanted Scot. Rich as the lottery.”
    “It’s a reach, Cathy.”
    “There’s more.”
    “Go on.”
    “Guess who protect the premises.”
    “I dunno.”
    “Green Guard.”
    “And?”
    “They employ moonlighting guards.”
    “Oh.”
    “Oh is right.”
    She took the wine, drank, asked,
    “What now, hot shot?”
    “Maybe I’ll go see Mr Planter.”
    “Mr Ford.”
    “Ford?”
    “He runs the place.”
    “Well, I’ll go see him then.”
    She watched the water for a time, then,
    “Wanna fuck?”
    “What?”
    “You heard.”
    “Jeez, you’re all of what… nineteen?”
    “Are you going to pay me for my work?”
    “Am … soon.”
    “So, at least let me get laid.”
    I stood up, said,
    “Anything else?”
    “Of course.”
    “Well.”
    “Mr Planter likes to play golf.”
    “I don’t think that falls under suspicious behaviour.”
    “It does if you know who he plays with.”
    “Who?”
    “A Superintendent Clancy, that’s who.” I walked away.

DIY
    I was going to say that I put on my best suit but I only have one. Bought in Oxfam two years ago. It’s dark blue with narrow lapels. Makes me look like a wide boy. Remember the Phil Collins video where there’s three of him. That’s the suit. I can only pray it doesn’t make me look like Phil Collins. If I say it was less than a tenner, you get the idea.
    Course, that was before Oxfam got notions. I had a white shirt that unfortunately I washed with a navy t-shirt. I act like this is an accessorised outfit. A tie, loosened to give the “Mister, I don’t give a fuck” effect. Solid brown brogues. The shoe maketh the man. Spit shined till you could see your reflection.
    Checked myself in the mirror. Asked,
    “Would you buy a car from this man?”
    No.
    I had a mobile phone number for Sutton and rang that. Gotthe answering service and left a message. Walking into town I tried to feel like a citizen. Couldn’t quite pull it off. At the abbey, I went in and lit a candle to St Anthony, the finder of lost things. It crossed my mind to ask him to find myself, but it seemed too theatrical. People were going to confession, and how I wished I could seek such a cleansing.
    Outside, a Franciscan bid me good morning. He was the picture of robust good health. My age, without a line in his face. I asked,
    “Do you like your work?”
    “God’s work.”
    Served me right for asking. I continued on to Edward Square. Walked through Dunnes and saw six shirts I couldn’t afford. On through to Planter’s. It was big. Covered the whole of what used to be a parking lot. At reception I asked if I could see Mr Ford. The girl asked,
    “Have you an appointment?”
    “No.”
    “I see.”
    But she didn’t. She rang his office and he agreed to meet me. I took the elevator to the fifth floor. His office was modest and he was on the phone. Hand waved me to a chair. He was small, bald, with an Armani suit. An air of controlled energy from him. Finishing the call, he turned to me. I said,
    “Thank you for seeing me. I’m Jack Taylor.”
    He gave a brief smile. Small yellow teeth. Flash suit and bad teeth. The smile had no connection to warmth. He said,
    “You say that name as if it means something. It means zero to me.”
    I could smile too. Show him what Ultra-Brite might achieve, said,
    “I’m investigating the death of Sarah Henderson.”
    “Are you a