Free The Nameless Dead by Brian McGilloway Page A

costs: the
empty houses further back in the estate were a magnet for couples seeking quiet spots for half an hour, or kids, too young to get into the bars, looking for shelter as they drank their carry-outs
on a Saturday night.
    ‘It’s a rough-looking spot, all right,’ McCready said.
    ‘It’s a shit-hole,’ Dunne said. ‘The builder used the cheapest stuff he could get in the houses. We were in a month and the plaster started falling off the ceilings. The
bloody door locks were so cheap we found out our door key could open all the neighbours’ houses as well, and theirs ours.’
    ‘Builds neighbourly trust, I’d imagine,’ I said.
    ‘Can they do nothing to get it finished?’ McCready said.
    ‘Who? The Council?’ Dunne snuffled into his hand, rubbing his nose vigorously. ‘They won’t even fix the shitters.’
    Of all the problems facing the inhabitants of Island View, the worst by a stretch was the fact that the sewage-pumping station had broken soon after the developer had fled the jurisdiction,
meaning that the effluent of the households pumped out of a pipe to the rear of the estate into a mound in the corner of a field. In autumn, sodden nappies and the detritus of each household
floated in the pools created by the heavy rains. Even that, though, was preferable to what happened to the same area in the heat of summer.
    ‘It’s not right,’ Dunne added. ‘Christine shouldn’t have to live in a place like this. I wanted better for her. You know?’
    I nodded, my estimation of the man rising significantly.

Chapter Fifteen
    As we reached the main road, having left Christine Cashell’s, a red BMW pulled in past us and continued on towards the back of the estate. I was fairly certain I
recognized the driver.
    ‘I want to check something for a minute, Joe,’ I said, doing a U-turn and following the car.
    The driver of the BMW was a local thug named Peter O’Connell. We’d been aware of O’Connell for months now; he’d slotted into the gap left by Lorcan Hutton, one of our
most proficient drug dealers, who had been murdered a year previous.
    We followed at a distance, helped somewhat by the fact that I was driving my own vehicle rather than a marked squad car. Finally we saw the flash of the brake lights as the car pulled up outside
number 67, one of the unoccupied houses to the rear of the development. It was in relatively good repair in comparison with the shells surrounding it; notably it was one of the few unoccupied
houses that had managed to maintain all its windows unbroken.
    O’Connell climbed out, shutting the door and locking it with his key fob. He was a tall fella, just shy of 20, his face still red and pock-marked from adolescent acne, his hair spiked and
tipped. He glanced around, then placed one finger tight against his left nostril and snorted the right one clear of mucus onto the pavement. Pinching his nose between finger and thumb, he wiped it
clean, then rubbed his hand against his trouser leg. He hoisted at his belt, pulling his trousers fractionally closer to his waist. Such was their style, they dropped again towards his hips,
exposing the white of his underwear. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his top, then sauntered towards the front door of the house, exaggeratedly rolling his shoulders as he walked.
    At the front door he withdrew a bunch of keys from his pocket, selected one and opened the door. A moment later the room to the rear of the house illuminated. The houses had not been wired for
electric this far into the estate, which meant he had lanterns in the house.
    ‘Do we go in?’ McCready asked.
    ‘Let’s give it a moment,’ I said. ‘I want to catch him in the act.’
    ‘Are you waiting for Morrison?’
    I shook my head. ‘Morrison won’t turn up here,’ I said. ‘He’s too smart to get his hands dirty. But I’d guess O’Connell is using this as his office, so
we can expect callers.’
    ‘Even if we get O’Connell, Morrison’ll