Free Disappeared by Anthony Quinn

cunning, but too easily seduced by the powerful forces of money and politics.
    Any hope Daly might have had for a successful arrest was ended by the metallic rip of a quad bike blasting along the lane toward them. The youth gave Daly a cheeky wave before hopping onto the back of the bike. Then the driver fishtailed the machine and accelerated toward Daly. A wooden stick appeared in the passenger’s hand and hung low as the bike careened past. Daly felt a blow to his knees and fell to the ground as if shot.
    “Up the hoods!” shouted the boy with the stick raised in the air. The length of wood disappeared from view, along with the bike, but Daly had seen enough to recognize it was a hurley stick. It ought to have been a comfort that the youth was into Gaelic sport rather than guns or knives. Although the stick might not be classified as an offensive weapon, the young man had wielded it with the precision of a marksman.
    By the time Daly made it back to the broken-down van, it was raining heavily. He was soaked through and hobbling. He examined the back of the vehicle as a lorry passed, its headlights sweeping over him. In the flood of light, he saw that the containers were empty. Slowly he closed the doors. Why had the boy run off when there was no contraband to incriminate him? He got his answer when he saw the smashed glass of his own passenger window. He looked for the bag containing the legal files and the pager but it was gone. The wet black hull of another lorry thundered by, wipers lashing in the heavy downpour. Daly felt its cold wind pass through him as if he weren’t there.
    It was getting dark. Too late to ring Sweeney and apologize for missing the appointment. The day was almost over and two important pieces of evidence had been stolen from him in what appeared to have been a planned ambush. He had accomplished more as a boy on his morning paper round.

8
    D aly worried that, as the winter drew on, he and the office walls were beginning to share the same coloring—a dull matte gray. He suspected neither his face nor the walls flattered each other very much. The light of the frosty morning came in through the windows of the police station but did little to relieve the gloom inside or out.
    His last holiday had been a weekend break to Paris in spring. It was also the last time he and Anna had gotten drunk together. The last time they had enjoyed each other’s company. Pity all he remembered now was the expensively priced champagne and wine, and a view of the Eiffel Tower drowning in the rain-spattered window of a taxi. He supposed it had been romance of a sort.
    He surreptitiously eased his shoes off under the table. Leaning back in his chair, he thought of Devine working in a busy solicitor’s office, sitting bent and sun-starved, surrounded by legal papers, day in, day out, for more than forty years. An office that probably looked very like Daly’s own room. Four walls filled with a grayness that fought its way into every living cell of the body. Had Devine ever wondered if he was missing out on life? If so, his killers had robbed him of any chance of making up for lost time.
    The murder barely made sense to Daly. It contradicted the dull order of the legal profession and threw Devine’s whole life out of focus. Perhaps there had been something in the half-burnt files that provided a link to his horrific death. If so, why had it taken so long to come to light?
    Solicitors, like priests and doctors, were bound by an oath of confidentiality. It dawned on Daly that Devine had been privy to a horde of secrets. Maybe in his retirement, an act of recollection had floated up some detail from an old case. He had been unable to speak out at the time, but things had changed when he left the firm. Secrets had that effect as the years passed, mused Daly; they rose up with a force that could capsize lives.
    After a while, he slipped on his shoes and got to his feet. It was too soon to draw conclusions but he felt he was