The Magdalen Martyrs Read Online Free PDF Page A

the trek up Taylor’s Hill. No doubt about it, this was where the cash was. Past the Ardilaun Hotel and I came to Irish gates. A brass plate proclaimed, “St Anselm”.
    Pushed them open and walked up a long, tree-lined drive. I was struck by the quiet. Like being in the country. Then the house, a three-storey mansion, ivy creeping along the windows. I stood at the front door, rang the bell.
    A few minutes later, the door opened. A woman asked,
    “Yes?”
    English accent with an underlay of Irish. She was thatindeterminate age between thirty and forty. Dark hair to her shoulders and a face that should have been pretty but didn’t quite achieve it. Maybe because of the eyes, brown with an unnerving stare. Button nose and full mouth. She had the appearance of someone who’s recently lost a lot of weight. Not gaunt but definitely stretched. I asked,
    “Mrs Boyle?”
    She gave me a long focused look, said,
    “Yes.”
    “I’m a friend of your husband’s.”
    “Were.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “Wrong tense, he’s dead.”
    “Oh . . . I am sorry.”
    “Would you like to come in?”
    “Yes, thank you.”
    I followed her, noticing how her arse bounced. I felt a tiny stir of interest. The house was ablaze with paintings. I don’t know were they any good, but they had the sheen of wealth. Led me into a sitting room, all dark wood. A bay window opened out to a large garden. She said,
    “Have a seat.”
    I sank into a well-worn chair, tried to get my mind in gear. She asked,
    “Like a drink?”
    “Some water, perhaps?”
    She had moved to a full bar, now cocked a hip, said,
    “I would have taken you for a drinking man.”
    She managed to coat the
taken
with a sexual undertone. I loosened the tie, said,
    “Used to be.”
    She said,
    “Ah . . . I’m going to have a screwdriver.”
    “What?”
    “Vodka and OJ. This time of the day, it cuts the glare.”
    “I believe you.”
    She rubbed at her arms a few times. I knew the burn from speed could do that. Watched as she fixed the drink. She had the quick movements of the practised drinker. Held up the bottle, said,
    “Stoli.”
    “I’ll take your word for that.”
    “You watch movies?”
    “Sure.”
    “You see the likes of Julia Roberts, she orders a drink, it’s going to be Stoli on the rocks.”
    “I’ll bear it in mind.”
    She gave a vague smile, not related to humour. Chucked some ice in the glass, then poured the vodka freely. One of my favourite sounds has always been the clash of ice in a drink. But to a dry alcoholic, it’s akin to the torment of hell, a signal to despair. She asked,
    “How did you know Frank?”
    So distracted was I, I’d no idea who she meant till she added,
    “My husband . . . the
friend
you’ve called to see.”
    “Oh, right . . . we, um . . . go way back.”
    She nodded, let the rim of the glass tap against her teeth, a grating noise. She said,
    “Ah, you must have been at Clongowes with him.”
    I clutched at the lifeline, agreed,
    “Yeah, exactly.”
    She moved over to the sofa, settled herself, let her skirt ride up along her thigh, said,
    “Wrong answer, fellah.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “Frank didn’t go to Clongowes.”
    She didn’t appear unduly concerned, moved to the bar, added a splash of vodka, I took a deep breath, said,
    “You got me.”
    She gave a tiny smile, asked,
    “But who is it I’ve got?”
    “Jack Taylor.”
    “Like that’s supposed to mean something.”
    “I’m been paid to check you out.”
    A slight raising of her eyebrows and,
    “For what?”
    “See if you killed your husband.”
    “You’re fucking kidding!”
    The curse rolling off her tongue easily, then it hit and she said,
    “Terry, that little faggot.”
    I nodded and she said,
    “Jeez, you’re not too big on client confidentiality.”
    I stood up, said,
    “So, did you do it?”
    “Gimme a break.”
    “That’s a no.”
    I moved towards the door, and she said,
    “You have some neck, just call and ask me if I killed