Windfalls like that come once in a lifetime. No more retail. No dingy apartment. Ben could move closer to Aoife. He could be a father. But tempting as it was, something wasn’t right. It was impossible to ignore; a dissonant note that couldn’t be unheard.

Alec Sparling remained a mystery. What he had told them was the product of the man’s delusions; a web so irrationally spun as to addle his own agenda. All Ben knew for certain was that affording double the original fee wouldn’t trouble his private treasury in the least. He probably carried that kind of cash in his back pocket, in a black wallet, folded neatly between other colourless things.

Ben’s patience for the superstitious had been bled dry. The Tír Mallachts were the worst of their kind. Enslaved by simplicity, isolated, and abandoned by civilisation, they had become dangerous, like dogs guarding their territory. They had tracked them back to their car. They had followed them to Chloe’s. And in doing so they had gone too far.

Sparling was familiar with their traditions. Maybe it was a hobby of his to prey on the financially forlorn, to send them there under false pretences so that the Tír Mallachts could have their fun. Or maybe he was the lecher that Ben now suspected him to be, terrifying young women into his arms and, in turn, his bed; imprisoned in his roller-shuttered mansion until his libido yearned for other perfect candidates.

Sparling had been on the detective’s radar. What if he was a suspect in some long-running case? How else would Barry know the private address of someone who went to such efforts to stay off the grid? If the detective wanted the dirt on the good doctor, he could have it.

Ben would fold out a deckchair across from Sparling’s gate and watch him being driven away, bound in a straitjacket, fated to live out his last years in a white, padded room, reiterating the story of Father Brendan over and over as if anybody cared.

‘Triple it,’ Ben said, ‘and you’ve got yourself a deal.’

Sparling nodded. ‘Very well, if that’s the sum you desire.’

‘I’ll be back on Monday,’ Ben replied, ‘and you had better have it ready.’

‘I’ll have your fee delivered to the gate, Mr French. There you may count it at your own avaricious leisure.’

Sparling re-examined his wristwatch and lifted himself to his feet. Their meeting had adjourned. He looked towards the tall windows, considered the daylight mournfully, and clasped his hands together.

‘The autumn evenings are getting shorter,’ he said. ‘I trust you don’t have too far to travel.’

‘It’s not really an issue,’ Ben replied. ‘The dark doesn’t scare us like it does you.’

‘Very good, Mr French,’ Sparling said, insinuating the slightest smile. ‘For what it’s worth, I’ll have your money waiting for you on Monday.’

*