The pair laugh as McNally wiggles his eyebrows.
“Believe me, though, sir. You don’t know what you have yourself in for. When?”
“How about tomorrow night?”
“Keen bean, well… Why don’t you come over to mine, and we’ll ask her around? I’ll get Jane to make something for dinner and we can have a few drinks.”
“Will it be gluten free, fat free, taste free…”
“Almost definitely,” he laughs, “no, she only suggests doing that to keep us healthy. I have enough buns in work, I can’t blame her.” He pats his stomach. “She’ll make something nice tomorrow, or we can just get a takeaway.”
“Whatever’s less bother for Jane,” McNally taps Ferguson’s car roof, “thanks, Ferguson. I’ll see you at 8am for the briefing.”
Saluting him as he closes the door, Ferguson yanks the car into reverse as McNally slinks over to his own car. A date, at his age? Maybe this new city has changed him after all.
Chapter Forty-Two:
6am comes too soon. Uncurling his arm and reaching it out of the covers, Paul turns the alarm off at a much slower pace this morning. That’ll teach his wife for waking him several times in the very late hours of last night. Laughing with her whole body at some silly video or picture from Facebook on that stupid tablet of hers. Worst thing she ever bought. He preferred it when she had the lamp on until all hours, her nose engrossed in a book. At least she was quiet then. But it seems the wonders of the Kindle surpass just reading nowadays.
Placing his bare feet on the fluffy rug below their bed, he yawns and winces as his bones crack on his ascent to standing. Pulling on a pair of shorts and an old t-shirt, he blindly searches in the dark for his discarded trainers, which he finally finds kicked through into the ensuite. Giving the wife shaped lump in the duvet a dagger glare, knowing she is the culprit for this, he shakes his head before trotting down the stairs and out the front door.
Picking up pace, he decides he’ll cross the Craigavon Bridge this morning, before looping back over the Peace Bridge to the Cityside again. He continues up Foyle Road, passing the old Railway Museum, and crosses the deserted T-junction at the bottom deck of the old bridge. Jogging across, he takes in the spectacular views of the old buildings embanking the Waterside. He loves the bright mornings, it sure as hell beats the miserable and dull wet ones, which are fast approaching, with September leaking away in front of them with each passing day. He may enjoy them whilst they last. Putting that foul thought to the back of his head, he begins to plan his day. It may be a Saturday, but that doesn’t mean he can lounge around and watch TV all day. He would be so lucky.
What needs done today? Glenn had messaged before lunch yesterday, requesting for an informal meeting in the Marks and Spencers café in Foyleside this afternoon. Business talk. That’ll be an expensive lunch, he can barely afford a McDonald’s Happy Meal until pay day, still two weeks from now. And it’s Jacquie from the office’s birthday on Tuesday. She always asks around for a few bob each for a cake and a card whenever it’s someone else’s, so he supposes they’ll have to do something for her too. He may grab a card on his way home from the meeting, none of the other soft bastards would bother their arse.
His thoughts escape him as he nears the Waterside, specifically where the bridge melts away into the quay, separating the River Foyle from the local businesses right up until the railway station. Is that a scarecrow on the fence dividing the walkway and the carpark? It couldn’t be. Why would someone have a scarecrow stuck up? But the clothes make it look almost human shaped. Perhaps he’s seeing things. He’ll come level with it and it’ll just be some stupid sign. ‘Lordy lordy, Wendy’s forty,’ or the sorts. Needs to get his eyes checked. He’s nearing 50 now, he’s done well to escape the shackles of glasses this long.
But no, as he comes off the bridge, the shape starts wriggling. Oh, fuck. It’s a person. A man in his early twenties. Alive. Rushing to his aid, Paul’s mouth falls open as he sees his arms and legs pinned to the fence with cable ties. His eyes wide and pleading desperately. His mouth pissing with blood.
Chapter Forty-Three:
2016
_____
After a sleepless night all round, the Parkers and Chris, all still in yesterday’s clothing, congregate at the island, facing a standing Dermott, DI Quigley and DS Ferguson. They’d just been told that there was no progress so far. All CCTV around the hotel had been checked, and guests were contacted but none saw him leave. They also said he was in brilliant form, helping support a good cause, and didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. The Foyle Search and Rescue are still looking, they are reassured, despite all their protests that he wouldn’t have killed himself.
“We have to explore every avenue,” DI Quigley looks irritable, perhaps they weren’t the only ones running on no sleep, “if he didn’t enter the river voluntarily, he also could’ve been pushed. We have to take that into consideration also.”
“And the CCTV on the bridges?” Nuala taps her nails off the island’s top.
With three bridges in total connecting the Waterside and the Cityside, and one being a walking bridge, there are several hours of footage that need to be inspected. Surely they couldn’t have finished all that already?
“Still under review. Believe me, we have all our men on this investigation and doing everything we can.”
“It’s one of those underground organisations, I’m telling y-“
“Nuala, I understand you’re frustrated and scared and you want to get your husband back, but pointing the finger of blame towards a paramilitary-style action without significant evidence won’t
