Inspector Les Clue

Detective Inspector Leslie “Les” Clue wasn’t always a broken man. Decades ago in Dublin, he started out as one of the good guys – a young, idealistic copper who truly believed in law and order. But the city’s underworld and high society both had a way of grinding down good men. Now, as February 2026 dawns, Les Clue finds himself smoking a cigarette under a sputtering streetlamp, the cold air sharp with the smell of rain. In his coat pocket, he thumbs the old Metropolitan Police badge etched with his name – CLUE, LES – and feels a wave of regret and resolve wash over him. Across the street, the courthouse windows glow late into the night. He knows Judge Blackheart is up there in his chambers, likely preparing for the will reading at Mallon Hall or destroying evidence – maybe both. Les tilts his head back and exhales, watching the wisps of smoke curl upwards. This is the calm before the storm. In a few short weeks, on 21 February, he will face Blackheart at that will reading in Donegal, and the truth he’s carried for so long may finally see daylight. For now, alone with his memories, Les allows himself a rare indulgence: to remember how he fell from grace, and how he clawed his way toward something like redemption.

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In the early 1990s, Detective Les Clue was a different person – earnest, hard-working, and perhaps a bit naive. He wasn’t the finest sleuth on the force (other officers joked his surname was ironic, since he missed plenty of clues), but he was honest to a fault in a department awash with graft. That integrity made him stand out – and also made him vulnerable. It wasn’t long before a powerful figure took notice of young Inspector Clue: Judge Reginald “Ropes” Blackheart. Blackheart loomed large over Dublin’s courts, known for his harsh sentences and even harsher influence behind closed doors. The silver-haired judge summoned Les one afternoon after a routine burglary trial in 1994. Les can still recall the scene in the judge’s chambers: the heavy scent of cigar smoke, Blackheart’s cold eyes studying him from behind a mahogany desk. “You have potential, Inspector,” Blackheart purred. “This city needs men who can make the hard cases stick. I’m watching your career with interest.” At the time, Les felt pride swell in his chest. Imagine – a pat on the back from the legendary Judge Ropes! He had no inkling that he’d just shaken hands with the Devil.

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Over the next few years, Blackheart tightened his grip on Les’s destiny. The judge became a mentor of sorts, inviting the young detective for late-night whiskeys at an exclusive club, regaling him with war stories of criminals slipping through legal loopholes. Blackheart’s mantra was seductive: “By-the-book won’t always cut it, lad. Sometimes you have to get your hands dirty for the greater good.” Les, eager to prove himself in a tough, cynical city, started to accept this dark wisdom. Bit by bit, he compromised. Blackheart would drop hints about certain cases – an arson spree in ’96, for instance – suggesting who the “real culprits” might be. In that arson case, Blackheart nudged Les toward a pair of outspoken political activists: Monty Mallon and his lover Sebastian Swoon. Monty was a posh-born rabble-rouser who had publicly called Blackheart a corrupt tyrant, and Sebastian was a firebrand poet who lambasted the establishment online. They were thorns in Blackheart’s side, and he wanted them gone. Les found no solid evidence tying Monty or Sebastian to the fires, but Blackheart kept up the pressure: “They’re guilty of something. If you can’t pin this on them, find something else. The city will thank you.”

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Under his mentor’s watchful eye, Les concocted a case out of scraps and suggestions. A coerced witness here, a misplaced piece of evidence there – and suddenly Monty and Sebastian found themselves accused of terrorism and arson. Les testified in court, embellishing the thin case with confident authority, all the while feeling a gnawing doubt. Blackheart presided over the trial, concealing his wolfish grin behind a façade of judicial impartiality. The verdict was a foregone conclusion: Monty Mallon got 15 years in prison; Sebastian Swoon got 5 years and a vicious tongue-lashing from Judge Blackheart about “moral deviancy” for good measure. As the guilty sentences were declared, Les locked eyes with Sebastian. The defiant young man spat a single word at him: “Traitor.” That hit Les harder than any punch. But he buried the guilt and accepted the promotions that came in the wake of these high-profile convictions. By 1998 he wore the rank of Chief Inspector like a badge of honour, though inside he felt more hollow with each case.

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Blackheart wasn’t done. With Monty and Sebastian out of the way, he used Les to settle scores and tidy up loose ends all over town. A kidnapping case where evidence inconveniently pointed to the judge’s wealthy friend – Les made sure the trail led to a petty crook instead. A murder where Blackheart’s golf buddy was a suspect – Les “found” a knife in a drifter’s flat to frame an innocent. Every time Les crossed a line, he told himself it was for justice, or at least for his career. But each lie laid another brick in the wall between him and his conscience. The media hailed him as a formidable detective who got results; they didn’t see how deeply compromised he had become under Blackheart’s tutelage.

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At last, the house of cards began to wobble. Toward the end of the 1990s, Sebastian Swoon’s circle of friends – tech-savvy and outraged – started a blog called “The Black Heart of Justice,” anonymously exposing inconsistencies in Blackheart’s cases. They dissected Les Clue’s investigations piece by piece, shining light on all the corners he’d cut and truths he’d buried. The murmurs turned into headlines. In 1999, an internal inquiry was launched into Detective Clue’s cases. Les still remembers sitting in a sterile boardroom as a panel of superiors enumerated his “irregularities.” Blackheart was nowhere to be seen – the Judge had hung him out to dry. In fact, Blackheart publicly lamented that an officer he once mentored had “sadly lost his way.” Betrayed and exposed, Les had no defense. To avoid prosecution, he resigned in disgrace. The next day’s newspapers screamed “DISGRACED INSPECTOR CLUE QUITS; TAINTED CONVICTIONS OVERTURNED?” In a matter of days, Les went from rising star to pariah.

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That autumn, Les sat alone in his tiny flat, the rain hammering on the windows. Before him on the table lay his service revolver. He poured whiskey and considered ending it all – one bullet to atone for every life he’d helped ruin. He thought of Monty languishing in prison on his false testimony, of a man hanged based on crooked evidence, of Sebastian’s accusatory glare, of the good name he’d inherited now dragged through mud. As tears blurred his vision, his eyes fell on a photograph stuck to his fridge: a cheeky, gap-toothed eight-year-old girl beaming at the camera – his niece, Chloe Clue (then just a child known as Emily). She had adored “Uncle Les the hero detective.” The thought of that little girl reading that her beloved uncle had eaten his own gun was unbearable. Les put the whiskey aside. He would live. If he was going to die one day, it would be after doing something – anything – to make his life mean something again.

Les’s fall from grace left him virtually unemployable in law enforcement. But one final lifeline came – ironically – from Judge Blackheart himself. A letter arrived, embossed with the letterhead of Masters, Crook & Toole Solicitors LLP, a law firm as crooked as its name implied (their marketing tag lines was

“Masters - Crook & Tool - Attorney's at Law  'Keeping Clients at Large for as Long as Possible' (And Tax accountants) since 1843” 

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They offered Les a job as a “consultant,” which really meant being Blackheart’s fixer and hatchet-man. The attached note in Blackheart’s neat handwriting read: “We take care of our own – R.R.B.” It was a bitter pill, but Les was destitute and desperate. In a move that felt like selling the last piece of his soul, he accepted. Thus began his 2000s in exile – not a geographic exile, but a moral one, working in the shadows to clean up after criminals and corrupt magnates at Blackheart’s behest. Need someone to strong-arm a witness or bribe a guard? Call Les Clue. He hated every second of it, yet he told himself he deserved this purgatory. He was a dog on a leash, tied to the very man who had ruined him. Part of him even rationalized it: staying in Blackheart’s orbit kept him close to the enemy, close enough perhaps to find that one piece of evidence or opportunity to bring the Judge down for good. It was a feeble hope he clung to.

Amidst this darkness, unexpected light found Les in 2003. That year, he was assigned as security detail at a high-profile charity gala – the kind of event crawling with underworld figures in tuxedos. The gala’s star performer was Dolly Pardon, a sultry singer with a voice like smoke and honey. Dolly was everything pure in that rotten scene – an angel singing in a den of vipers. Les watched her from the periphery of the ballroom, drawn to her warmth and vivacity like a moth to flame. After her set, Dolly approached the lone, brooding figure in the corner (Les was never good at mingling). With a playful smile she teased him, “You look like you’d rather be anywhere else but here, love.” He replied gruffly, “Not my crowd.” Dolly laughed and handed him a champagne glass: “Then let’s be not their crowd together.”

That night sparked a passionate, clandestine affair between the disgraced detective and the chanteuse. For the first time in ages, Les felt truly seen – Dolly looked past the hardened fixer to the wounded man underneath. They danced in the after-hours emptiness of the club, stole kisses in alleyway shadows, whispered fears and dreams in cheap hotel rooms under assumed names. Les fell deeply in love, and Dolly with him. But their romance was dangerous. Dolly’s career thrived on her image, and being linked with a notorious ex-cop was risky in the gossip-hungry 2000s. Worse, Blackheart caught wind of their liaison. Perhaps one of Sebastian’s blogger friends leaked a grainy photo of the two, or maybe Blackheart’s ever-watchful spies simply reported back. In any case, the judge made it clear to Les that this affair must end. Blackheart hinted that Dolly’s livelihood – perhaps even her safety – depended on Les’s cooperation. He had no qualms threatening an innocent woman’s future to keep his hound on a tight leash. Fearful for Dolly, Les reluctantly cooled the relationship. With heavy hearts, they parted ways to protect each other. Dolly left Ireland for a while on an extended European tour, tears in her eyes as she said goodbye. Les returned to London’s shadows, more heartbroken than ever, yet even more determined to someday break free of Blackheart’s control.

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The breaking point came in 2005 in a blaze of violence. Dolly had come back to Dublin to open a new jazz club with a secret investor – none other than Rowan Mallon (Monty’s brother). Unbeknownst to Dolly, Rowan had borrowed money from some dangerous loan sharks to fund the venture. On opening night, as music and laughter filled the club, a gang of thugs led by cruel Rico Ransom barged in to collect Rowan’s unpaid debt. Les was there off-duty (Dolly had invited him discreetly), lurking at the edge as always. He saw Rico drag Rowan out by the collar and start to beat him mercilessly in front of the stunned crowd. Dolly’s song cut off with a horrified gasp. Something snapped in Les Clue. He waded into the brawl without a badge, without backup – fueled by instinct and a long-suppressed sense of justice. Les intercepted Rico’s fist before it could land another blow on Rowan. A brutal melee ensued: Rico broke Les’s lip; Les cracked Rico’s nose with a savage head-butt. One of the goons slashed Les’s forearm with a knife; Les pulled his old revolver and held the gang at gunpoint, snarling a threat to “paint the walls” with their brains if they didn’t back down. Surprised and bloodied, Rico decided it wasn’t worth dying over and retreated, spitting curses.

The aftermath was chaos. Rowan Mallon was battered but alive – and wisely fled Ireland soon after to avoid further retribution. Dolly, shaking, rushed to Les’s side. In that moment, Les became a hero again, however briefly – he had saved innocent lives rather than ruined them. But the incident had consequences. Blackheart was livid that his pet fixer had started a public incident with criminals he often counted as associates. It took a lot of Blackheart’s influence (and money) to smooth things over with Rico’s bosses and hush the matter up. Dolly, grateful but frightened for Les, decided to distance herself for his sake. She left to tour abroad once more, writing tear-stained letters to Les promising that one day, when things were safer, maybe they could try again. Les sank back into his grim routine, but now a spark of defiance had returned to him. Saving Rowan and Dolly that night reminded him of the officer he used to be – the man who wanted to protect people.

Over the late 2000s, Les began quietly fighting back from within the belly of the beast. He started keeping a secret journal of every illicit deed Blackheart ordered, every bribe paid, every threat delivered. And he found discreet ways to leak information to the outside. Sebastian Swoon had been released from prison in 2004, and he, along with Monty (still incarcerated but appealing), had ignited a movement to overturn wrongful convictions. Through back-channels, Les fed them tidbits – an anonymous tip here, a copied file there. On the surface, he remained Blackheart’s loyal shadow; but underneath, he was slowly undermining the Judge’s empire. By 2011, the work of Monty’s activists bore fruit: Monty Mallon’s conviction was quashed and he walked free after 13 years. Les watched from afar as Sebastian joyously embraced Monty on the courthouse steps amid cheering crowds. He felt pride and shame intermingled – pride that justice prevailed at last, shame that he was the cause of their lost years.

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Once out, Monty and Sebastian formed an organisation dedicated to reviewing other dubious cases – effectively hunting the clues Inspector Clue had fabricated. Les, in disguise, attended one of their public rallies, standing in the back. When Monty spoke passionately about corruption and second chances, Les felt something like hope. This was the path to make amends. Meanwhile, his own family was catching on. His niece Chloe (formerly that bright-eyed Emily, now a sharp law student in her twenties) confronted him during a Christmas family gathering in 2012. Over the kitchen sink, as they dried dishes, she said quietly: “Uncle, I volunteer with Monty Mallon’s group. They’re doing good work… and I’ve read about the cases. About you.” Les’s blood ran cold. He tried to stammer a denial, but she stopped him. “I know, Uncle Les. I know you did terrible things back then.” Les hung his head, unable to speak. But then Chloe put a hand on his shoulder, her eyes full of compassion. “You always taught me to stand up to bullies. Judge Blackheart is the biggest bully of all. I don’t care what you did before – I care what you do now. Help us stop him.” In that moment, Les realized that someone still believed in the goodness buried inside him. His beloved niece knew his sins and yet was urging him to atone, not to run. Les hugged her and wept like a child. Yes, he vowed. He would help bring down Blackheart, whatever the cost.

The next year, 2013, everything accelerated. Mounting legal investigations finally cornered Blackheart. High-profile allies turned on him to save themselves; even the untouchable Judge Ropes was facing possible criminal charges at last. Blackheart, panicked, fled the country – off to Patagonia as mentioned. Masters, Crook & Toole’s Dublin office collapsed overnight. Les was left jobless but oddly liberated. For the first time in nearly two decades, Blackheart’s chains were off. But his quest for redemption wasn’t over – not as long as Blackheart still breathed free air abroad. Les spent the 2010s rebuilding what remained of his life. He testified in secret inquiries about what he knew, carefully balancing self-incrimination with exposing Blackheart. He met with Monty and Sebastian privately, handing over his detailed journals of Blackheart’s misdeeds. Those two had every reason to hate him, but they proved gracious. Monty shook Les’s hand and said, “We couldn’t have done this without you.” Sebastian, slower to trust, eventually nodded in gratitude (if not quite friendship). Even Dolly Pardon returned to Dublin and reached out. One chilly afternoon in early 2020, Dolly and Les met for tea like old friends. They talked about the weather, then about music… and then words failed and they embraced, crying for all that was lost and forgiving each other for the years of silence. Dolly’s warmth thawed a part of Les’s heart he thought long frozen. She teased that once the Blackheart business was settled, she expected him to finally take her to a proper dance – no more hiding. He dared to smile at that thought.

Now it is early 2026, and fate has drawn Les Clue back into Blackheart’s orbit for a final act – but this time, Les is on the side of the angels. Rowan Mallon’s death and bizarre will have set the stage for a confrontation at Mallon Hall. Les has been asked (or rather ordered) by the returning Blackheart to attend the will reading as a security aide – a cruel joke, really, to make the disgraced Inspector play butler to the judge yet again. But Les agreed, with other plans in mind. He’s been working closely with Monty’s team and the authorities. In fact, tomorrow morning he will quietly give a statement to a tribunal preliminary hearing – the first time he’ll openly testify against his former master. It’s a preliminary maneuver, a legal step before the main event. Les stands ready to reveal how Blackheart pulled his strings all those years, to finally name the Devil’s deeds in a court of law. It’s terrifying – Blackheart once was like a god to him, and the power dynamic still causes Les’s hands to tremble at times. But resolve steadies him.

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In a few weeks on 21 February, everyone will gather at Mallon Hall for the reading of Rowan’s will. Les knows all the key players will be there: Monty and Sebastian will attend (Rowan was Monty’s brother and surely left him something). Dolly Pardon will likely be present in support, possibly even set to perform a song in Rowan’s honour – she loved Rowan for backing her club and cause. Chloe, his niece, will be there too, helping Monty’s activist-legal team to observe proceedings. And of course, Blackheart will preside like a dark lord. It will be a powder keg of old grudges, secrets, and greed. Les can smell the tension already. But this time, he isn’t walking in as Blackheart’s pawn; he’s coming as a witness, a protector, and if need be, an executioner of the Judge’s twisted legacy. He has slipped a small digital recorder into his pocket, ready to capture any incriminating utterance. He’s alerted a journalist (Tina Tout’s people, in fact) to be on standby for a scoop. Quietly, Les has even arranged extra police presence in the area – not that Blackheart knows.

Under the flicker of that streetlamp, Les drops his spent cigarette and grinds it under his heel. The hour is late. He casts one last look at the courthouse where he once worshipped a false idol. No more. Les Clue is done running from his past. He straightens his back and walks off into the night, heading home to get a few hours’ rest before tomorrow’s important testimony. As he walks, he imagines his younger self – that keen lad in an ill-fitted suit, dreaming of justice – walking beside him. Les can’t undo the wrongs he committed, nor fully erase the stains on his soul. But he can, at long last, do what’s right. He can help expose Judge Blackheart for the fiend he is and make amends to those he hurt. In a way, it’s poetic: the man once known as Inspector Clue, who helped fabricate evidence, will now present the truth as the ultimate clue to bring a tyrant down. And if danger comes… well, Les still has his old revolver and the determination to use it for justice this time. He pats the pocket where it rests, just in case.

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Redemption is within reach, but not guaranteed. Les knows this. He also knows Blackheart will not go quietly; the judge will try every trick to secure that treasure and escape the noose of the law. It might get ugly. It probably will. Les breathes in the damp night air and closes his eyes for a moment. In his mind, he sees the faces of Monty and Sebastian, of Dolly, of Chloe – and even of Rowan Mallon, the man whose final act has drawn them all together. So many of them were wronged by Blackheart, and some by Les’s own hand. They’re all converging on Mallon Hall, like players drawn to the final act of a long, twisted play. Les intends to make sure this ending is a just one. He adjusts his collar against the chill and disappears into the darkness, a fallen detective ready to finally step back into the light.

Inspector Les Clue leaned against a lamppost in the midnight drizzle, coat collar turned up against the Dublin chill. A feeble halo of light caught the smoke from his cigarette, wreathing his lined face like a ghost. In two weeks’ time he’d be facing Judge Reginald “Ropes” Blackheart again, up north at Mallon Hall, when Rowan Mallon’s will was read. The thought tied his gut in knots. Judgment Day, he mused bitterly, flicking ash into a puddle. For twenty years Blackheart had been the devil on his shoulder, the spider at the centre of every web in Les’s life. And Les had been the unlucky fly. He tipped back a sip from his flask – Irish whiskey, cheap and biting – and let his mind drift back through the years, through the smoke and mistakes, to how it all went wrong.

He hadn’t always been a burnt-out shell with a conscience full of bullet holes. Once, Inspector Leslie Clue was a rising star in the Garda. Back in the early ’90s he was fresh-faced, idealistic, and too eager to prove himself. Dublin was a city of two faces then: friendly pubs and Sunday masses on one side, organised crime and rotten politics on the other. Les walked the beat with pride, thinking he could really make a difference. That’s when he first crossed paths with Judge Blackheart, the infamous hanging judge of the High Court. Blackheart’s reputation preceded him: a man with a permanent scowl, silver hair, and a heart as black as his robes. In court he was all cold dignity, but Dublin’s underworld whispered that “Ropes” Blackheart pulled strings from the shadows.

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Les learned just how true that was. One evening in ’94, after Les testified in a gangland murder case, Blackheart summoned the young inspector to his chambers. The smell of cigar smoke and old leather law books filled the room. Blackheart offered Les a tumbler of scotch and a sly smile. “You’ve got promise, son,” he said, voice as smooth and sharp as a razor. “But playing it by the book won’t always cut it. This city needs results.” Les felt a chill then that had nothing to do with the drafty courthouse. Still, he was flattered. A nod from the Judge Blackheart could rocket a career. So when the judge started spinning tales of criminals slipping through legal loopholes, of heroes who must sometimes get their hands dirty, Les listened. He told himself it was just talk among colleagues. He told himself he’d never cross the line.

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A couple of years later, Blackheart decided to test that resolve. Dublin was rattled by a string of arson attacks – warehouses going up in flames on the docks. The evidence was scant, the pressure to make arrests high. Blackheart took Les aside after a courthouse hearing and planted a seed: “Word is, those fires were set by anarchists – maybe that loudmouth Monty Mallon and his lot.” Les knew of Monty Mallon – a trust-fund activist always railing against corruption in the press, calling Blackheart a tyrant any chance he got. Monty and his partner, a fiery poet named Sebastian Swoon, were making powerful enemies with their campaign to expose crooked officials. Blackheart’s “word is” was nothing more than a suggestion to frame the two rabble-rousers for the arsons. Les hesitated; there was no real evidence, just political grudges. But Blackheart leaned in, fixing him with an icy stare. “We know they’re trouble, Inspector. If we can’t put them away for one thing, we will for another. Are you a man of the law or not?”

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That challenge hit Les like a sucker punch. In his mind’s eye he saw himself pinning a medal to his own uniform, a city safer thanks to him. He caved. Les falsified reports, coached a witness to pick Monty’s photo, “found” a set of gasoline-soaked clothes conveniently near Sebastian’s flat – all the tricks he swore he’d never do. He felt each lie like a stone in his shoe, but once he started, turning back wasn’t an option. The case went to trial, and lo and behold, Judge Blackheart presided with that mask of stern righteousness. Monty Mallon sat at the dock, defiant chin raised; Sebastian Swoon beside him, eyes burning holes into Les from across the courtroom. Les took the stand and spun a convincing tale of evidence and investigation, heart pounding like a guilty drum. It was enough. Blackheart’s summation dripped with scorn: “These dangerous men sought to burn our fair city. Let them be an example.” Monty got 15 years for crimes he didn’t commit. Sebastian got 5. As the guards led them away in chains, Sebastian twisted back and spat one word at Les: “Traitor!” The spit hit the courtroom floor, but the word hit Les square in the chest. He almost flinched. Judge Blackheart simply smirked from on high, banging his gavel with grim finality.

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Les tried to numb the guilt with work. After the big win, promotions came easy. By ’98 he was Chief Inspector Clue, the judge’s golden boy who never met a crime he couldn’t solve (or fabricate). He broke up a kidnapping ring by leaning on a small-time crook to take the fall for a wealthy friend of Blackheart’s. He “solved” a murder by planting Blackheart’s golf buddy’s pistol in an ex-con’s flat. Each time, Blackheart made sure Les got public credit. Each time, Les felt that knot of remorse tighten. Off duty, he drank more. At home, he avoided the mirror. The city saw a decorated detective; Les saw a fraud in too deep.

Blackheart kept tugging Les’s strings, and Les danced to the devil’s tune. They often met in a private back room of the Clover Club, a jazz joint where deals were done in the dark. One night over whiskey, Blackheart chuckled, “You and I make a good team, Clue. Two sides of the same coin, eh? Justice served – one way or another.” Les forced a grin. His hands shook so badly he clinked ice in his glass just to mask it. He remembered the wide eyes of an innocent man he’d put in cuffs that morning and felt sick. But he swallowed that feeling like he swallowed the whiskey. After all, who was he to defy a High Court Judge who dined with ministers and mobsters alike? Blackheart had tentacles everywhere – from the Garda Commissioner’s office to the O’Malley crime family’s inner circle. Say no to Blackheart? Might as well sign your own death warrant, career-wise or literally.

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Yet secrets have a way of coming to light. By the late ’90s, rumors of Les’s dirty deeds started circling the Garda. A hush-hush internal review of Monty and Sebastian’s arson case began; someone upstairs smelled a rat. That someone, it turned out, was an aggressive young reporter named Tina Tout. She’d caught wind of inconsistencies and shone a light in every dark corner – from police files to court transcripts. Tina’s exposés in the papers emboldened others. Sebastian Swoon’s old activist friends ran a pirate blog called “The Black Heart of Justice,” dissecting Blackheart’s most dubious verdicts (and Les’s cases) with forensic detail. The walls were closing in. Blackheart responded with pre-emptive ruthlessness: he cut Les loose. In early 1999, Les was brought before a disciplinary board. Evidence had “surfaced” that painted Les as a lone bad apple – sloppy evidence handling, secret meetings with dubious informants, unexplained cash in his accounts. All true, except for the lie that he’d acted alone. Blackheart’s name was scrubbed clean; the judge sat on high, watching Les twist in the wind. Facing disgrace and likely prosecution, Les struck a deal: he resigned quietly, and the review board quietly dropped the inquiry to avoid a scandal.

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One rainy afternoon, Inspector Clue walked out of Dublin Castle in the rain, badge and honour left behind on a desk. The papers had a field day: “Clueless Inspector Quits in Shame”, they jeered. Les didn’t care about headlines – he cared that he had nowhere to go. The brotherhood of the Garda turned its back on him. Former friends crossed the street to avoid him. That night he drank himself into a stupor in his one-bedroom flat. In the dark, he opened his desk drawer and pulled out his service revolver. The metal felt cool and certain in a world suddenly chaos. He pressed the muzzle to his temple, finger on the trigger. Tears streamed down his face – for Monty, for Sebastian, for all the lives and lies he’d destroyed. He thought of his late father (a cop too) who’d raised him to uphold the law, not pervert it. His finger tightened... and then his bleary eyes fell on a photograph propped on the desk: a gap-toothed girl of nine with a big grin, perched on his shoulders at the beach – Chloe, his niece. She adored him once. If he ate a bullet, what would she think? That her uncle was a coward? A villain? Les grit his teeth and lowered the gun. He would not be remembered that way. If he was going to hell, it wouldn’t be by his own hand, not that night.

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Morning brought no salvation, but it did bring a letter slid under his door. On elegant letterhead from Masters, Crook & Toole Solicitors, it offered “Consulting work in Security and Investigations.” Les snorted at the firm’s fitting name – he knew a pawprint of Blackheart when he saw one. Sure enough, tucked in the envelope was a note scrawled in Blackheart’s florid hand: We take care of our own. –R.R.B. “Our own,” like Les was a prized pet. It made his blood boil. But pride doesn’t pay rent. One phone call later, he was officially a “consultant.” The next decade of Les Clue’s life was a slow crawl through purgatory. Blackheart kept him on a leash – summoning him for hush jobs whenever needed. Some nights Les played bodyguard at Blackheart’s high-society soirées, glowering in the corner while judges and gangsters clinked glasses. Other nights he was dispatched to scare off a reporter or to slip an envelope of cash to a blackmailing witness. It was filthy work, but after what he’d done, Les felt he deserved to swim in filth. He was living on scraps of self-respect, telling himself maybe, just maybe, he could find a way to expose Blackheart’s whole operation from the inside. But that hope was as thin as a cigarette paper and just as easily burnt.

Then came Dolly Pardon. 2003. The name seemed like a joke – a stage name obviously – but to Les it was salvation in sequins. Dolly was a singer, the star attraction at a charity ball hosted by Masters, Crook & Toole (even villains like to pretend they have hearts once a year). Les was posted by the champagne table, stick-in-the-mud among the glitterati. Then Dolly took the stage in a red satin gown, and her first smoky notes of “Crazy Love” silenced the room. Les forgot to scowl; he stood transfixed. She had a voice that could cut through sorrow. After her set, Dolly slipped away from admirers and found Les nursing a club soda. She gave him a once-over – he must have looked as pathetic as he felt – and then one of those radiant smiles. “You look like you hate it here as much as I do,” she said, lilting accent wrapping around him like a warm shawl. He tried to muster a witty reply but only managed a rueful, “Not my crowd.” Dolly chuckled, a low delightful sound, and clinked her champagne to his soda. “Then cheers to us misfits.”

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That night, Les Clue allowed himself to be happy, if only for a few hours. He and Dolly talked in a quiet alcove until the waiters started stacking chairs. She was sharp, funny, kind – and, incredibly, interested in him. He found himself confessing little bits of truth: that he’d left the police under a cloud, that he wasn’t proud of his work. She didn’t recoil. Dolly understood about shadows; she had some of her own. One stolen kiss in the deserted lobby and Les was a goner. Thus began a secret love affair. They met in out-of-the-way pubs, walked the canals at night holding hands, laughing like teenagers. Les couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed. With Dolly he felt human again. They had to be discreet; Dolly’s career was on the rise, and Les’s reputation… well, better to keep it under wraps. But bliss has a short half-life in Les’s world. It didn’t take long for Blackheart to sniff out his fixer’s newfound joy. Perhaps one of the judge’s lackeys spotted the detective and the singer sharing a kiss by the Ha’penny Bridge. However it happened, Blackheart confronted Les one morning at the law firm. The judge’s face was like granite. “I hear you’re consorting with Miss Pardon. End it. Immediately.” Les’s hackles rose – Dolly was his light, the one good thing in a rotten life. He squared his shoulders, “Or what?” Blackheart’s thin smile was worse than a gun to the head. “Or I will ruin her. Venue permits can vanish, reporters can discover nasty rumours. Accidents do happen. You know I don’t make idle threats, Clue.” Les’s hands balled into fists. He wanted to drive one right through that bastard’s teeth. But he saw Dolly on stage in his mind’s eye – saw her career, her life – go up in smoke like those warehouses he burned Monty for. He couldn’t risk it. With a heart heavier than a gravestone, Les ended things with Dolly that very night. He fed her some lie about needing to sort himself out. She cried; he cried. Then she was gone, off to London on a tour and out of his reach. Blackheart, satisfied, tossed Les an approving nod like he was a dog who’d obeyed a command.

​

That was the last straw for whatever remained of Les’s soul. He sank into a deep, cold fury – at Blackheart, at himself, at the whole damned charade. His chance at love had been strangled just like his conscience had been, and Blackheart held both garrottes. Les returned to work, but now he was looking for any crack in Blackheart’s armor, any way to bring the man to justice. Two years later, in 2005, fate handed him an opportunity wrapped in violence. Dolly (brave girl) came back to Dublin to open her own little jazz club, and Rowan Mallon – yes, the Rowan Mallon who happened to be Monty’s wealthy brother – was her silent partner financing it. Opening night was meant to be glitz and glamour. Les went, keeping to the edges of the crowd, just to hear Dolly sing from a distance. But trouble barreled through the doors instead: Rico Ransom, a local thug with slick hair and brass knuckles, and his crew. Rowan Mallon had apparently borrowed money from the wrong people (Rico’s employers) to fund Dolly’s club. Rico was there to collect in blood. He seized Rowan by the lapels mid-song and started roughing him up in front of everyone. People screamed. Dolly froze on stage, microphone clattering to the floor. Something inside Les snapped the chain. He was a Garda detective again, if only for tonight – badge or no badge. “Oi! Let him go,” Les barked, stepping between Rico and Rowan. Rico sneered, a gun glinting at his waist. “Walk away, old man. This ain’t your business.” Rowan coughed up blood, dazed. Dolly was begging them to stop, poised to leap off the stage.

​

Les’s hand twitched toward an absence at his hip – he had no gun on him, nothing. Rico swung and Les took the punch full on the jaw to spare Rowan another. The room blurred. Another punch – Les blocked this one clumsily, countered with a crack of his own fist into Rico’s nose. The goon staggered back, cursing. Rico’s friends moved in, but Les grabbed a bottle off a table and brandished it like a club. “Who’s first?” he growled, wild-eyed, blood dribbling from his split lip. For a second, nobody moved. Then Rico spat on the floor, signaling retreat. “Screw this. Not worth the bullet. We’ll settle up later,” he snarled, shoving Rowan to the ground. The gang melted back into the night as quickly as they came, leaving a stunned silence and a room full of upturned tables. Les’s heart was pounding out of his chest. Rowan Mallon, battered but alive, managed a shaky thanks. Dolly rushed over, cradling Les’s bruised face in her hands, her eyes shining with gratitude and fear. Les realized his little outburst had probably just painted a target on his back – on all their backs – but in that moment, he didn’t care. He’d done something right. The old thrill of protecting and serving surged in his veins. It felt damn good.

​

Of course, Blackheart was furious. The judge had to pull strings hand over fist to smooth things out – paying off Rico’s bosses not to retaliate, mollifying the law partners whose swanky event had turned into a pub brawl. Les got a private tongue-lashing: “You think being a hero suits you? Don’t try it again. Remember your place.” Les bit his tongue so hard he tasted iron. Remember his place? His place was six feet under if Blackheart had his way. But outwardly, he nodded and resumed the role of beaten dog. Inwardly, that night lit a fire. Rico’s fist had almost knocked sense into him – the sense that he could still fight back.

Les started small. He began keeping a secret ledger of Blackheart’s misdeeds – dates, names, bribes – every dirty secret he’d been a part of. It was dangerous; if Blackheart even suspected it, Les would need more than a whiskey bottle to defend himself. But he kept at it, stashing the ledger in a safe deposit box under an alias. And he reached out, quietly, to Monty Mallon’s circle. Monty was still rotting in prison at that time, but Sebastian Swoon was out and raising hell online and in activist meetings. Through a back-channel (an old friend in the postal service), Les anonymously mailed a bundle of photocopied case notes to Sebastian’s group. It was a gamble – could be traced back to him if someone looked hard. But he figured Blackheart’s cronies weren’t exactly poring over snail mail to anarchists. The info helped. Bit by bit, the truth trickled out. A whistleblower here, a leaked report there – Blackheart’s fortress was finally showing cracks.

​

In 2011, the unthinkable happened: Monty Mallon’s conviction was overturned. The courts admitted the original trial had been a sham built on fabricated evidence. They didn’t publicly name Les or Blackheart, but everyone in Dublin’s legal circles knew. After 13 years behind bars, Monty walked out of Mountjoy Prison a free man. Les was there – not up front amid the cheering crowd of journalists, family and supporters, but parked in a beat-up car across the street. He watched from the shadows as Sebastian practically bowled Monty over in a fierce hug on the courthouse steps. Dolly Pardon was there too, lifting her sunglasses to wipe away tears of joy while capturing the moment on her phone. Monty Mallon, older and leaner, raised his hands, proclaiming to the cameras that justice had finally prevailed. Les’s eyes stung with tears at the sight. He had no right to join their celebration – he was the reason Monty lost 13 years to begin with – but seeing Monty free and unbroken was like feeling the sun on his face after a long winter. He allowed himself a small smile. Maybe, he dared think, the truth does come out in the end. Maybe Blackheart can be beaten.

​

Monty didn’t waste a minute of freedom. He became the spearhead of a movement to review wrongful convictions, teaming up with Sebastian and even Dolly (who publicly backed their cause with her celebrity clout). And one keen young law student who’d been working with them behind the scenes – none other than Chloe Clue, Les’s own niece, now all grown up and every bit as determined as her uncle once was. Chloe had put two and two together about her favourite uncle years back, and to Les’s amazement, she hadn’t disowned him. Instead, she reached out, carefully at first. In late 2012, she turned up at Les’s door with an envelope of documents – evidence she’d compiled on Blackheart – and a look of steely resolve in her eyes. “Uncle Les,” she said softly, “I know what happened. I know you did bad things because of him. But we’re going to fix this. You are going to fix this.” Les’s pride crumbled; that she still had faith in him at all… it was more than he deserved. From that night, uncle and niece became secret allies. Chloe fed him updates from Monty’s team and legal advice from her studies; Les risked his thin safety by sharing more from his ledger and insights into Blackheart’s habits. If Blackheart was the spider, they were learning the threads of his web.

Their confidence grew as Blackheart’s waned. By 2013, the judge’s empire was imploding. There were official investigations circling him like wolves. Knowing he’d likely face criminal charges, Blackheart did what he did best – he ran. One day he was in the news lambasting a “witch hunt” against him; the next, he was gone. Rumour had it he fled as far as Patagonia in South America. Masters, Crook & Toole quietly dissolved its Dublin office (no honour among thieves once the head thief absconds). For the first time in forever, Les Clue woke up without Blackheart’s shadow looming over him. He felt strange, lighter but adrift. He still carried guilt like an old injury, but with Blackheart gone, at least he could start to make amends openly. He gave a closed-door testimony about the false cases (with assurances it’d remain sealed until Blackheart could be brought to court). He formally apologised to Monty and Sebastian, who, to his enduring surprise, accepted it with grace. Monty even clapped him on the shoulder and said, “We’re glad to have you on the right side now, Les.” Sebastian was slower to thaw, but after a long night sharing pints and war stories (with Dolly and Chloe refereeing), he, too, shook Les’s hand. It was more forgiveness than Les thought he’d earn in ten lifetimes.

The 2010s saw Les as a quiet ally to justice. He kept a low profile, working odd security jobs for an honest living, and dedicating the rest of his time to helping Monty’s organisation from the background. Blackheart might have been thousands of miles away, but his name still carried poison here. Tina Tout’s much-hyped Notflix documentary about Blackheart’s corruption aired in 2024, further vindicating Les’s efforts and making Blackheart even more radioactive. Les watched every minute of it – grim and gratified – as Tina laid bare the judge’s career of carnage, including a segment on the Monty Mallon frame-up. They contacted Les for an interview, but he declined to appear on camera. He wasn’t ready to show his face to the world as that guy. At least not then.

​

Time marched on. Dolly Pardon, bless her, found her way back into Les’s life. She had never quite let go of him, it turned out. With Blackheart gone, Dolly felt safe reaching out. In 2020, after one of Monty’s charity benefit concerts, Dolly and Les found themselves alone on a moonlit walk. She took his hand, and it was like coming home after a long exile. They weren’t foolish kids now; grey streaked Les’s hair, and Dolly had a few smile lines that only made her more beautiful to him. They talked for hours, of what could have been and what might still be. By dawn, they decided to take it slow – a few quiet dinners, see where things led. But the spark was there, warming the cold corners of Les’s heart.

​

This fragile peace wouldn’t last forever. Late 2025 brought news that shook them all: Rowan Mallon was dead. The intrepid adventurer, Monty’s elder brother and the patriarch of Mallon Hall, had met his end. Some said heart failure at age 80-something; some whispered it smelled like foul play. And the kicker: Rowan’s will named Judge Reginald Blackheart as the executor of his vast estate, including the legendary (and possibly mythical) Montezuma’s Gold treasure Rowan long sought. Les nearly dropped his coffee on hearing that. Was Rowan mad? Why invite that viper back to Ireland? Monty suspected it was Rowan’s last grand joke – or perhaps a trap for Blackheart. Either way, like a shark smelling blood, Blackheart surfaced. After a decade in exile, the disgraced judge slithered back to Donegal to oversee Rowan’s will reading scheduled for 21 February 2026.

​

And that is the date now circled in red in Les’s mind, looming like a dark sunrise about to break. Blackheart is back on Irish soil, and Les Clue has been dragged into the fray once more. Officially, Blackheart requested his old “security specialist” Les to attend the will reading at Mallon Hall – presumably to keep order among the squabbling heirs and maybe to keep an eye out for Monty’s troublemaking friends. In truth, Les figures Blackheart just enjoys parading his pet traitor on a leash, a final humiliation. But Blackheart doesn’t know the leash has been severed. Les has switched sides for good, and he’s coming to Mallon Hall armed not just with a holstered pistol, but with evidence and allies. Monty and Sebastian will be there – Monty as a beneficiary, Sebastian as his partner and aide. Dolly will be there too, likely as Monty’s guest (and with her talent for charming a crowd, she can be the eyes and ears for their side). Young Chloe Clue will be present, ostensibly as Monty’s legal assistant, but really as an undercover sleuth taking note of every twist. Even Tina Tout has reporters sniffing around the event, ensuring any whiff of Blackheart’s old tricks could become headline news by midnight. In short, Judge Blackheart’s victory party might just turn into an ambush of truth and justice.

Les hasn’t slept well in days, nerves jangling between anticipation and dread. He pats the inner pocket of his coat where a tiny tape recorder sits – his insurance policy. If Blackheart tries anything dodgy at the will reading, Les plans to catch it in stereo sound. The ledger he kept all those years is safely copied and in the hands of a trusted solicitor (notary) who’s ready to forward it to authorities at a signal. It’s strange; after everything, Les Clue is finally doing what a detective is meant to do: catching a criminal. Only this time, the criminal wears a judge’s collar and knows every dirty trick in the book (hell, he wrote the book). Les drops his spent cigarette and grinds it under his heel. The rain has stopped. Across the city, a church bell tolls one o’clock in the morning. February 21 is almost here.

​

He pushes off the lamppost and starts walking to his flat, each step splashing in puddles reflecting the amber streetlights. As he walks, he rehearses in his head how it might go down at Mallon Hall. Perhaps Blackheart will bluster through the legal formalities, then try to declare Rowan’s treasure “unclaimable” without his wise guidance, angling to keep it for himself. Monty and the other heirs will certainly object. Blackheart might lose his temper – that famously controlled judicial temper finally snapping – and reveal more than he intends. Or maybe one of Blackheart’s old allies, like some gangster from his past or a crooked financier, will show up to stake a claim and things will turn ugly. If chaos reigns, Les will do what he always should have done: protect the innocent, nail the guilty. There’s even talk that Inspector Les Clue might be called formally to assist if the reading spirals into a criminal matter – a touch of poetic justice, the ex-inspector investigating his former master. He almost smiles at the irony.

​

Les stops at a corner, beneath another streetlight that buzzes like a tired hornet. In the puddle at his feet, he sees his reflection – older, grizzled, but eyes open and clear. “No more running,” he mutters to himself, the words turning to mist in the cold air. He’s ready to face Blackheart. Whatever the will contains, whatever schemes unfurl at Mallon Hall, Les intends to meet them head on. For Monty and Sebastian, who lost years they can’t get back. For Rowan Mallon, who maybe died trying to make things right in his own enigmatic way. For Dolly, who gave him love and forgave his sins. For Chloe, who believes in the uncle she once idolised. And for himself – that young cop who took a wrong turn at Blackheart’s behest and has wandered the long, hard road of atonement ever since. Les owes that lost young man the truth.

In the noir novels Chloe used to lend him, the detective often narrates: “I knew this gig could be my last.” Les allows himself a chuckle at the thought. If Blackheart has his way, Mallon Hall could indeed turn deadly. The judge must be seething, cornered by fate – and a cornered rat will bite. Les is quietly prepared for that, too; he’s got a first aid kit and his old service revolver cleaned and ready. Come what may, he won’t be caught flat-footed again.

​

Another drag of whiskey from his flask, a final fortification of courage. The warmth spreads through his chest, and he straightens his back. In the distance, he imagines he can see a faint glow to the north – the lights of Mallon Hall? Probably just the city’s neon haze playing tricks. But he pictures the grand estate on that upcoming night: candlelight and tension, champagne and suspicion, all eyes on Blackheart as he opens Rowan’s final testament. Les Clue will be there in the wings, hand resting lightly near his holster, watching the judge like a hawk. This time, if Reginald Blackheart so much as blinks wrong, Les will pounce.

He tips an imaginary hat to the darkness and walks on. A line from an old pulp story echoes in his head: “The wheel of fortune turns for every man.” For two decades, Blackheart held Les under that wheel. But it’s turning now. The showdown is set. Inspector Clue is stepping out of the shadows. And by the time the sun rises on 22 February 2026, one way or another, the legend of Judge Blackheart will be over – and Leslie Clue might finally find redemption written in the record books instead of shame.