Got a message from Sister Maeve. She had located the man and boy. They had indeed been on Aran but questions from locals had them depart fast. The man had seemed, in the words of the locals,
. . . to be a little over affectionate to the boy.
Yeah, right.
So the f**k legged it.
Now the chances were good he might still be in Galway. I called Owen Daglish, a disgruntled Guard, still on the force but very bitter with the powers that wanted a new type of policeman.
Meaning, not Owen.
He was old school.
Translate, he never had a suspect who didn’t respond to the lesson of the hurley. As in, beat the living shite out of him without leaving the marks. Did I concur with this form of faux vigilantism?
Pretty much.
You wanted something from Owen, you had to buy him drink.
Lots of.
We met i
