Free The Wrong Kind of Blood by Declan Hughes Page A

and have a look. Body just wash up?”
    The redhead had been staring at me; now she turned to Dave with a grin of derision.
    “You know this clown, Detective?”
    “I used to,” Dave said.
    The redhead’s name was Detective Inspector Fiona Reed. Dave explained briefly who I was. Fiona Reed didn’t look impressed.
    “You realize you risked contaminating a crime scene? If you have the experience D.S. Donnelly says you have, you should know better,” she said.
    “That body looked like it went in the sea a few days ago,” I said. “Thousands of folk would have walked back and forth along upper and lower promenades since, the weather we’ve had. No forensics to speak of, I’d say, except on the body itself.”
    Behind D.I. Reed’s back, Dave Donnelly was rolling his eyes.
    Reed put her hand on my forearm and squeezed. She had quite a grip.
    “Don’t be a smart aleck, Loy. Especially when you know fine well you’ve just behaved like a prick. And don’t think because you used to be friends with Dave, you can tag along after him.”
    She tightened her grip on my arm, then released it. Dave was trying to suppress a grin. He wasn’t trying very hard.
    “Now get out of here, and let the real detectives do their work.”
    I did my best to look abashed. It wasn’t difficult. My arm felt like someone had closed a door on it.
    “I’ll see him to the tape, D.I. Reed,” Dave said.
    She looked at him, then back at me, shook her head once and walked away. Dave set off toward the lipless Guard. I followed.
    “You’re some fuckin’ eejit, Ed,” Dave said. “You don’t want to make an enemy of Fiona Reed.”
    “I know I don’t,” I said.
    “You just have,” Dave said.
    “Have you an ID on the body, Dave?” I said.
    “It’s not Peter Dawson anyway.”
    “Does that mean you know who it is?”
    We reached the tape. The lipless Guard didn’t like me any more than D.I. Reed did, but at least he kept his hands to himself. The police photographer had arrived, along with the forensic team I had seen earlier at the town hall. Behind them a tall, raven-haired woman in a long black dress was being led along by a female Guard. The woman wore dark glasses, and as she approached the promenade, she stumbled, and laid her hand on the Guard’s shoulder for support.
    “That’s Mrs. Williamson. I better get back,” said Dave, turning to go.
    “Dave? Would it help if I said please?”
    He turned back and said, “You’re supposed to be a detective. Work it out for yourself. And don’t pull a stunt like this again, Ed.”
    Then he was on his way across to join Mrs. Williamson.
    When I got back to the car, I checked the index cards I had found in the Dawsons’ bin. No Williamson there.
    The other list read:
Dagg
T
L
JW
    The T was Tommy Owens. The L was Linda. But before Linda arrived, Peter took off — to meet JW? Perhaps — except who was JW? Could the W stand for Williamson?
    I took the photographs from my pocket. The flyer I had found on my windscreen came with them. It highlighted the failure of Seafield County Council to ensure the survival of the community swimming pool, and warned of the danger of this public amenity being sold to private developers. It proposed a public meeting at the bandstand on Seafield Promenade, and a march from there to the pool. The flyer closed: “Issued on behalf of the ‘Save Our Swimming Pool’ campaign by Noel Lavelle and Brendan Harvey, Labour Party councillors, Seafield County Council.” The names seemed familiar.
    I looked through the list of fourteen names again: Brian Joyce, Leo McSweeney, James Kearney, Angela Mackey, Mary Rafferty, Seosamh MacLiam, Conor Gogan, Noel Lavelle, Eamonn Macdonald, Christine Kelly, Brendan Harvey, Tom Farrelly, Eithne Wall, John O’Driscoll. There were the Labour pair. What about the rest? Were they all local councillors? Another name on the list rang a bell: James Kearney. I got Rory Dagg on his mobile and asked about the Kearney whose office