Even the Dead Read Online Free

that half the brain cells are dead.”
    “I’m sorry,” Sinclair said awkwardly, looking down. “I didn’t mean—”
    Quirke sat forward and ground his half-smoked cigarette into the ashtray, clearing his throat.
    “About this poor bugger in the car,” he said. “Let’s face it, we’re both convinced he was hit on the head and shoved in the car and the car was then run into a tree to make it look like an accident, or suicide.”
    “Did you notice the strong smell of petrol?”
    “Yes, but what of it? Petrol explodes—car fires always smell of it.”
    “That strongly? It was as if he’d been doused in petrol himself.”
    Quirke thought for a moment, tugging at his lower lip. “Someone definitely wanted him dead, then.”
    Sinclair tasted the tea, grimaced, pushed the mug aside. Quirke offered his cigarette case and Sinclair brought out his lighter. Simultaneously they both expelled a cone-shaped stream of smoke towards the ceiling.
    In a far corner of the room a middle-aged woman with a bandaged leg began quietly to cry, though not so quietly that she could not be heard. Everyone carefully ignored her. The young man with her, who must have been her son, glanced about quickly, looking anxious and embarrassed.
    “So, what do we do?” Sinclair asked.
    Quirke smiled. “There’s an old friend I think I’ll drop in on,” he said.
    *   *   *
    Inspector Hackett was at his lunch at a sunny table in the front dining room of the Gresham Hotel. It was a treat he occasionally indulged in. He had often promised himself that this was how he was going to live when he retired: lunch at the Gresham, a stroll down O’Connell Street to the river and then right, onto the quays, to browse through the book barrows, or left towards the docks to spend a half hour watching the boats unloading. If the weather was inclement, he would drop into the Savoy Cinema and doze in front of a war picture or a Western. He had never much cared for the pictures, finding the stories unbelievable and the characters unreal, but he liked to sit in the velvety darkness, in a nice comfortable seat, and let himself drift off. He always sat near the back, where the sound of the projector was a soothing whirr and the courting couples were too engrossed in each other to distract him with their chatter. Then when the picture was over he could walk over to the Prince’s Bar in Prince’s Street, or the Palace farther on, and drink a quiet pint before boarding the bus for home and his tea.
    Idle dreams, idle dreams. Retirement was a long way off yet—and a good thing, too. There’s life, he told himself, in the old dog yet.
    To eat he had a bowl of oxtail soup that turned out to be a bit too thick and heavy, a plate of cold ham with cold potato salad—made with genuine Chef Salad Cream; he had checked with the waitress to make sure—and, to follow, a bowl of fruit cocktail with custard. He liked especially the coldness of the tinned fruit against the warm, silky texture of the custard. With the food he drank a glass of Jersey milk, for the sake of his lungs—TB was still on the increase—and, at the end, with his cigarette, a cup of strong brown tea with milk and four lumps of sugar—four lumps which, had his wife been there, would have been strictly forbidden.
    In fact, he was spooning up the hot sweet sludge the not-quite-melted sugar had left in the bottom of the cup when he heard his name spoken and looked up guiltily—but it wasn’t May, of course it wasn’t—and saw a familiar figure making his way towards him across the room.
    “‘The dead arose and appeared to many’!” he exclaimed, with a broad smile. “Dr. Quirke—is it yourself, or am I seeing things?”
    “Hello, Inspector,” Quirke said, stopping in front of him and smiling too, though not so broadly.
    “Do you know what it is,” Hackett said. “When I saw you I nearly swallowed the teaspoon, I was that surprised. ’Tis fresh and well you’re looking.”
    Quirke