Deccie Must Die (MCM Investigations #2)

by Caimh McDonnell

Deccie, like everyone else in Ireland, had slagged off Bono. Damn bleeding-heart do-gooder. Tax-dodging so-and-so. He didn’t do enough; he did too much. The new music was shite; the old music was shite. The new way they played the old music was shite. Say what you wanted about the fella, he provided an invaluable service in being somebody everybody could hate,

“Didn’t people clap on their doorsteps or something?” “No,” said Brigit firmly. “That was in Britain. Thankfully, the Irish government didn’t patronise people who have been underpaid for decades by encouraging the public to give them a round of applause. They’re highly skilled medical professionals, not kids in a nativity play.”

Seeing your first pair of boobs is a big deal for a young man. The last thing he wants them to be is eighty-six years old and belonging to a woman screaming about the bin men stealing her rubbish.”

Brigit stood and waited impatiently for Phil Nellis to park. It was like watching continental drift, if a tectonic plate had indicators.

there were two types of smoke alarms and one of them wasn’t connected to the mains, which they do as standard in these fancy-pants modern buildings nowadays.

Like there was anything about human history that gave even the first hint that there was a higher intelligence at play.

Oliver Dandridge had left early, possibly to hang upside down in a cave, or maybe he was working the night shift as the child-catcher.

You were never really in a conversation with Phil Nellis, it felt more like you were there while it was happening.