Free The Magdalen Martyrs by Ken Bruen

they’d send a uniform.”
    I had to pay attention. She thought I was a plainclothes. Decided to lean heavy on intuition, said,
    “Mrs Monroe.”
    “Ms.”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “The correct form of address for a lady of unknown marital status is Ms.”
    As she said this, she appeared totally demented, and I nearly shouted,
    “Spinster.”
    With my best interested, nay concerned, expression, I asked,
    “Ms Monroe, would you like to tell me . . . in your own words . . . why you called us?”
    Deep sigh. The only other woman on earth who could pull this shit so convincingly was my mother. Truth to tell, I was having difficulty seeing this person as “the angel of the Magdalen”. Still, Bill had been adamant about her compassion. She said,
    “This is the third time I’ve been broken into.”
    Then she paused, said,
    “Shouldn’t you be writing this down?”
    Indeed.
    I tapped my forehead, said,
    “All goes in here.”
    No way was she buying that, so I prompted,
    “Three occasions?”
    “Yes, once in broad daylight.”
    She made a grimace of disgust, said,
    “The most recent time . . . they relieved themselves on the carpets.”
    Feeling the pills coast, I nearly said,
    “You’re shitting me.”
    Went with,
    “Very disturbing. Any idea of the culprits?”
    She clicked her teeth. A disconcerting noise, almost related to “giddy-up”. She said,
    “From the estate no doubt.”
    “Ms Monroe, there are so many estates, could you be more specific?”
    Now impatience showed and she snapped,
    “Really! As if there could be any other.”
    “I see.”
    If she wasn’t going to name it, then neither was I. I tried to appear thoughtful. As if I was weighing this.
    I wasn’t.
    I said,
    “I shall submit a full report.”
    She put her hands on her hips and smirked,
    “In other words, you’ll do nothing.”
    I stood up, thinking,
    “The offer of tea would have helped.”
    She put her hand to her forehead, said,
    “Oh.”
    And looked like she was going to faint. I steered her to a chair, got her sitting. She smelled of carbolic soap, like a harsh disinfectant. I asked,
    “Can I get you something?”
    “A little sherry. It’s in the kitchen, the press above the kettle.”
    I went. The kitchen, too, was spotless. Demonically antiseptic. Found the sherry, got a water glass, poured a healthy measure, took a swig, thought,
    “Jesus, that is sweet.”
    Took another. Yeah, almost treacle.
    Bought the glass in. She took it in both hands, sipped daintily, said,
    “I do apologise. I’ve recently had a bereavement.”
    If. . .
    If I’d been paying attention, if I wasn’t awash in chemicals, if I was more of a guard, if my head hadn’t been up my arse . . .
    I would have asked her about it. Maybe even heard the name and, oh God, what a ton of grief might have been averted.
    Instead I asked,
    “Are you OK?”
    Her colour was returning. She said,
    “You have been most kind.”
    The tone was alien to her. Gratitude did not come easily and certainly not naturally.
    “Will you be all right? Should I call somebody?”
    “No, no there’s no one to call.”
    You hear that, you usually feel for the person. But I couldn’t bring up that kind of feeling for her. If anything, she gave me a sense of revulsion. What I most wanted was to get the hell away from her. I blamed the sherry sloshing over the drugs, and that simply adds to my list of awful judgements. I said,
    “I’ll be off then.”
    Sounding like the Irish version of
Dixon of Dock Green.
She didn’t speak as I let myself out. I’d been half tempted to nick a few of the books but didn’t want to touch anything she owned.As I walked down by the university, I could picture her, hunched in that chair, the lonely sherry beside her and not a sound in the house. A sense of triumph, at the very least a sense of relief of being now free of Bill Cassell, should have been happening.
    It wasn’t.
    What I most focused on was the pint of Guinness I was going