Read Sanctuary for Free Online

smiling. Mad bastard.
    I wasn’t sure why I was replaying this unless somewhere in my mind I expected Ridge to attack me. One way or another, she always did.
    I’d reached her house. Took a deep breath and rang the bell.

 
    Â 
11

Sweet Sobriety
    Â 
    Â 
    Ridge surprised me all right. She was sober, dressed in clean clothes, her eyes clear, and was holding a book. I nearly smiled. Books had brought me through so many hangovers, not that I could read them then, but they were a lifeline to some semblance of sanity.
    I said, ‘You look good.’
    She waved me in, asked if I’d like some coffee. While she went to make it, I took a look at the book she’d put aside.
Something to Hide
.
    Got that right, I thought.
    It was by Penny Perrick, an account of the life of Sheila Wingfield, Viscountess Powerscourt. Talk about perfect timing. I was about to ask her to investigate a case involving the West Brits or Anglo-Irish orwhatever the fuck you called them and here she was, reading about them. Sometimes you get lucky. I don’t, but this was definitely a help.
    She came back with two mugs of coffee. ‘Biscuits?’
    I said, ‘I don’t do sweet.’
    She nodded, knowing the truth of that.
    â€˜Interesting reading,’ I said.
    Ridge sat, sipped at her coffee, her usual antagonism not on display. Least not yet. She said, ‘It’s odd, I’m as Irish as it gets, reared in the Irish language and everything nationalistic, and not exactly in the lap of luxury, and yet I find a resonance with her.’
    I didn’t know zip about the woman so I asked, ‘Why?’
    I really wanted to say I’d never seen Ridge with a book in all the time I’d known her and she had been more than dismissive of my reading. She put her coffee aside.
    â€˜She was an Anglo-Jewish heiress, a poet, and the wife of the very last of the Powerscourts. She was racked by drink, drugs and illness, in conflict with the tradition she was supposed to maintain. She never really fitted into any of the worlds she tried to live in.’
    I could see the parallels. Ridge was a female guard in a force that worshipped macho bullshit, and worse, she was gay. A young woman, now she was threatened by cancer and could do little but wait.
    I nodded in what I hoped was sympathetic understanding. ‘Maybe I’ll read it.’
    She said, ‘I doubt it.’
    I wanted to ask her how she’d pulled herself together but she got there before me.
    â€˜You’re wondering how come I’m still not sucking on a bottle?’
    Jesus. Not the way I’d have phrased it, but yeah, the content was right.
    â€˜I’m just glad to see you, OK.’
    She laughed. ‘Good old Jack, evasive as ever.’
    Old
?
    She added, ‘Actually, it was you who helped me stop whining and drinking.’
    â€˜What did I do?’
    She looked right at me. ‘I’ve seen you stupefied by drink so many times, drowning in selfpity, hitting out at everyone, and I asked myself, do I really want to be like that?’
    The lash was back. I should have known it wouldn’t last. I wanted to say,
So happy to have provided you with the motivation
.
    Instead I tried to bite down my anger, asked, ‘Would you like a job? You know, till you get back on the force?’
    I told her about the phone call from Anthony Bradford-Hemple, the young girl’s missing pony and the threats. Instead of ridiculing me, she seemeddelighted. She got her notebook, took down the details, said she’d go out there today.
    I was surprised. I’d expected her to be insulted, offended, and to tell me to stick it. I asked, ‘You don’t mind working for me?’
    She stood, all energy now, said, ‘I’m not working for you, I’m helping you out. Or were you going to put me on a salary?’
    Christ, she was right back to her old self.
    â€˜The guy is loaded and will pay well,’ I told her.
    She