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in.
    'Christ. Okay – he was sick, but he continued working right up to the end, but as time wore on it began to really get to him that the people he was working for were such hypocrites. All smiling and nice to your face, but behind closed doors, they had all these secrets. You see, Mr . . . ?'
    'Mosley. Walter Mosley.'
    'Like yon detective fella?'
    I cleared my throat. 'Just stick to the story, son.'
    'Sorry, of course – Mr Mosley, you have to understand, we're painters and decorators. We get left alone in people's houses or offices all the time. Whenever you're gone, we go for a hoke. We all do it. Painters, cleaners, plumbers . . . We look in drawers, we open cupboards, we go into your bedroom, we switch on your computer, we check out your hidden DVDs. We don't generally steal stuff, and what we learn we keep to ourselves. It's like an unwritten rule. Tradesman's honour, we call it. We're just curious, there's no real harm in it. But my dad was dying, and he couldn't stand that his life was ebbing away while all of these people were prospering despite their sordid little secrets. So he wanted to expose them, and I knew he was doing it and I don't know if the satisfaction of it kept him going, but he certainly stayed on his feet much longer than the doctors told us he would, but as he was getting to the end he just couldn't do it any more, so he made me promise to finish his work. It's done now, Mr Mosley, there will be no more graffiti.'
    It was a sad tale, and it had the ring of truth to it, but a crime is a crime, is a crime. It wasn't an accident, it wasn't a one-off act of vandalism committed in a moment of madness; these acts were premeditated, they had sullied the reputations of hard-working individuals across the city. The fact that Dessie Martin was dead was unfortunate, as was the misguided decision by his son to carry on his campaign of hate. But justice must be served.
    'Jimmy,' I said, 'there are some very angry people out there.'
    'I understand that.'
    'And they want something done about this.'
    'I know . . . but if they sue . . . if they go to the cops . . . I've a young family, I . . .'
    'Would you be willing to undertake some form of community service?'
    'Yes – anything.'
    'Well. I will put that to them. Stay by your phone.'
    I cut the line. I drank another Coke. I ate a Twix. Then I called him back. He answered on the first ring.
    'Jimmy,' I said, 'you're a very lucky man. I have spoken to the Committee . . .' I paused there for a moment, and I could almost feel him quake at the mention of this nonexistent organisation, 'and they are willing to give you a chance. We have considered several possibilities for your community service – obviously employing your professional talents – amongst them repainting the headquarters of the Samaritans or a church hall in Finaghy, but ultimately they have decided that you must first whitewash over all the offending graffiti and then you must decorate, completely free of charge and without complaint and to the highest standard, a bookshop in Botanic Avenue that plays a vital role in educating the local community. Only on completion of this will we, they, consider halting the legal process that we, they, have recently set in motion. Are you prepared to do this?'
    'Yes . . . yes, of course,' he replied quickly, 'and thank you so much for giving me this last chance.'
    'The pleasure's all mine,' I responded.

9
    With Serial Killer Week over for another year, and the university closed for the summer, my usual trickle of customers had slowed to a turgid drip, leaving me more than enough time to contemplate both my navel and the unabashed beauty working in the jewellery shop across the road. I guessed that she wasn't the owner of the business, as she never seemed to be the last to leave or to lock the premises after her. Of course she might just have been rather accomplished at delegating responsibility, a path I had once ventured down with my trusty