SMALL TOWN MURDERS: Irish mysteries with a dose of dark humour by Anne Crosse

Author:Anne Crosse [Crosse, Anne]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: sort1
Publisher: The Book Folks Irish crime fiction publishers
Published: 2021-05-08T22:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 14

Robert’s first impression of Brigit Barry was that she was an extremely pretty girl. He could see she had good skin, which was why she didn’t have to plaster on make-up, he presumed. Her hair was bottle-blonde but he could forgive her for that. You couldn’t blame her for wanting to look her best. She had a child whose father was dead, so, naturally she was on the lookout for someone else to take her on. Good luck with that, he thought. Not many men would be willing to take on another man’s child. And even if she had it adopted, she was, as the old timers used to say, second-hand goods.

A young woman came into the room and placed a tray on the table. Tea and biscuits for the guests, Robert noted. Two china cups and saucers. He cringed. He would have felt more comfortable with a mug.

“Would you like a cup?” James said, and pushed one of the cups towards Brigit.

“No, thanks,” Brigit replied.

“Shall I pour out the tea?” the young woman asked.

Brigit dismissed the woman with a wave of her hand and said, “I’ll do it.”

Robert picked up one of the biscuits and took a bite out of it. It was thick and wholesome, homemade, he realized.

James noticed how unsteady Brigit’s hand was as she poured out the tea. He could see she was nervous.

“Milk and sugar?” Brigit asked.

“We will sort that out ourselves,” James said.

“We are investigating the murders of Dick and Pat Dillon.” Robert made the formal announcement.

“He made a right idiot out of me,” Brigit snapped.

“You could say he’s got his comeuppance then, couldn’t you? So, that must make you happy,” Robert said.

“He made a right idiot out of me,” Brigit said, repeating her comment.

“So you’ve said,” Robert remarked.

“I have to keep convincing myself that that’s what he’s done. Because, one minute I hate him and the next minute I love him.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Robert said.

Brigit wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I am so glad he is dead. I really am delighted,” she said.

“So, who would, apart from yourself, in your own words, be glad he is dead? How about your uncle? Could he have had anything to do with Dick Dillon’s untimely demise?” Robert asked.

“My uncle wouldn’t harm a fly. I would, though. I sure as hell would if given half a chance.”

“I don’t think a pretty young woman like you would be capable of doing anything bad to anybody, no matter how awful they were to you,” Robert said.

“I’d harm a fly, though; dirty little buggers pitching on your food and you don’t know where they’ve been,” Brigit said jokingly.

“Tell us about Sundays Well,” Robert said, smiling.

“That bloody place. I suppose you could say that’s where my child was conceived. You could say it because it’s the truth.”

“Is that right?” Robert said.

“I should hate it, but I don’t.”

“Memories are always there to haunt you, aren’t they? But maybe you might like to tell us more, all in the strictest of confidence, of course,” Robert said.

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