Even the Dead Read Online Free Page B

her if he could have a jug of boiling water to revive the tea leaves in the pot. She offered to bring a fresh pot, but he wouldn’t hear of it. “‘A pot of tay will take two goes’—that’s what my old mother always said.”
    Quirke smiled, covering his mouth; Hackett by now was well on his way down the Old Bog Road. The eyes, though, were sharp as ever.
    “By the way,” Hackett said, when the waitress had gone, “how did you know where to find me? Or was it just a happy coincidence?”
    “I went round to Pearse Street. Your man, Sergeant Jenkins, whispered to me that you might be here. He made me swear not to tell you it was him gave you away, so not a word, right? I must say, you do yourself well. Lunch at the Gresham, no less!”
    “Ah, now you’re teasing me, Dr. Quirke, I know you are.”
    The hot water came and he slopped it into the pot. Quirke was always fascinated by Hackett’s clumsiness, which, mysteriously, tended to come and go, depending on the circumstances. Did he put it on, as a diversionary tactic, or was it a sign of mental agitation? No doubt he was itching to know just what it was that had brought Quirke here to seek him out. Right now he was watching Quirke over the rim of his refilled cup, those little eyes glinting.
    “I came to consult you about something,” Quirke said. “There was a crash in the Phoenix Park early this morning. You heard about it?”
    “I did. Some poor young fellow, ran into a tree and got burnt to a crisp. Suicide, by the look of it, my fellows are saying.”
    He put down his cup. No clumsiness now.
    “Well, my second-in-command,” Quirke said, “and probably soon to be commander in chief, young Sinclair, came to see me earlier.”
    “Did he go all the way out to the Strawberry Beds?”
    “No, no, I wasn’t in hospital. I’m staying for the moment with my—with Malachy Griffin and his wife, at their place on Ailesbury Road. They very kindly offered to take me in and look after me while I convalesced from whatever it is I’m supposed to be convalescing from.”
    “Ah, right. And how is Dr. Griffin? Is he enjoying his retirement?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “Do you tell me? That’s a pity, now, a real pity.”
    “He has taken up gardening,” Quirke said.
    “Gardening, is it! That’s a fine pastime. Will you give him my best regards? He’s a decent man, the same Dr. Griffin.”
    They eyed each other in silence for a moment. Mal Griffin had not always been the decent man he had since become, and for a long time had covered up things that should not have been covered up. Old water, Quirke thought, under old bridges.
    “Anyway,” he said, taking a sip of his glutinous, brownish-red drink, “what Sinclair had come to talk to me about was this poor chap who hit the tree up in the park.”
    “Is that so?” Hackett said mildly, looking into his cup. Cautious, now, Quirke thought, cautious yet keen, an old dog sniffing blood on the air.
    “There’s a contusion on the side of the skull, just here.” He pointed to a spot behind his temple and just above his ear. “Sinclair thought it seemed suspicious, and called me in to have a look at it.”
    “And did you?”
    “I did. And I agreed with him.”
    Hackett leaned back slowly in his chair, with his lips pursed and his chin lowered. “Suspicious in what way? In a way that made it seem the poor fellow didn’t come by it due to his unfortunate meeting with that mighty oak?”
    “Exactly.”
    Now Quirke leaned back too, and they reclined thus, watching each other. A strong shaft of sunlight through the window beside them had reached a corner of their table and was striking down through the polish and into the wood itself. Like a trout pond, Quirke idly thought, heather brown and agleam, the grain in the wood like underwater weeds drawn out in streels by the slowly moving current. A fish flashing, white on the flank, a fin twirling. Stones, small stones, washed small over the years, the years.