The Death of an Irish Politician

by Bartholomew Gill

  “Do you know Dingle?”

  “Vaguely. But the place is small, like Inishmore.”

  “More tourists, though, Paddies on holiday. Wear some bright clothes and carry a fistful of dollar bills. You’ll never be seen. Kelly’s is the name of the place.”

  “Half the people out there are named Kelly.”

  “You’ll find it, I’m sure. He’ll be expecting you, so don’t talk to the barman. Be patient, since he’ll do some checking before he recognizes you. But he can make you so inconspicuous you’ll think you’re one of the little people.”

  “I hope I won’t be needing his services.” McGarr thanked Murphy, then hung up.

  He called Noreen into the office and explained the situation to her.

  She said, “The important thing is to get a confession from one of those two. Then you’ll have something to bargain with, if you want to bargain.”

  “Yeah—but I don’t know that he’ll play the card, if I don’t or can’t or, knowing what he’s up to, won’t implicate his wife in all of this.”

  “Nonsense. Regardless of what happens now, the man has a chance to expand his power base by sacking you and putting his own man in this spot.”

  McGarr hadn’t thought of that. Horrigan, with the consent of the Taoseaich of course, would name McGarr’s successor. McGarr couldn’t go to any other minister either, since none would want to involve himself in the affairs of any other minister’s department, especially Horrigan’s. The man had the reputation for being a scrapper. Rumor had it that, in a political sense, even the Taoseaich himself was afraid of the man. “Well, why didn’t the bastard just come out and fire me?”

  “That would be too easy. O’Shaughnessy and Sinclair and McKeon and all the rest wouldn’t know why. Have you thought of the possibility that this situation involving you is just part of a larger scheme? Why didn’t Ovens talk? Why didn’t the blows kill him? Think of how all-powerful that man and his cronies would be with their own private police force.”

  “Yes, I have. The thing that bothers me is that I don’t believe we’ll ever be able to prove conclusively that either Leona Horrigan or Horace Hubbard is guilty of attacking Ovens, if they continue to hold out. A gifted prosecutor might make all this circumstantial evidence stick, but without Ovens’ testimony the case against either of them is tenuous indeed. Of course, the misdemeanors of concealing evidence, hindering an investigation, and so forth are possibilities. But both are first offenders. They’d probably have the charges filed. Perhaps Martin”—McGarr thought of the frail old man, a pensioner who enjoyed the odd sup and pub-hopping—”but what motive would he have had? The Yank had been good to him, I saw so myself. They probably got on as famously as one might expect from Ovens.”

  Noreen slid off the desk on which she had been sitting. “Well, the way I see it is that you’ve got to make her guilty in the same way he’s making you guilty of stealing the Bombing Report. We haven’t got much time.”

  It was 2:45 A.M.

  McGarr was shaking his head. “You know I don’t operate that way. If this job is going to be political, I don’t want it anyhow.”

  It was Noreen’s turn to shake her head. Her curls were springy. She was worried, her fine features drawn taut. “You’re talking to me now. We both know how much you wanted this position. I suspect your years in Interpol have spoiled you.” In order to avoid the charge of meddling in the affairs of any nation, the International Police scrupulously avoided any case that smacked of politics. “We’ve talked about this before. Meeting another person in the street is a political act. Anyhow, one of them knows who did it, and I’m betting the woman will break. She’s too emotional to hold out forever.”

  Noreen was right. McGarr sat up. Another thing occurred to him. “I’ve taken pains not to arouse Horrigan. It could be that he hasn’t yet placed any incriminating evidence on me—either at the house or in this office. Could you go home and—?”

  McGarr didn’t have to explain the thought further. Noreen packed up her wicker basket, pulled on her belted raincoat, and got two Gardai, whom McGarr instructed to watch his house, to drive her home.

  McGarr then called the night desk and asked the sergeant to put a Garda patrolman by his Cooper.

  Calling Ward and McKeon into the cubicle, he shut the door and explained the situation. He asked Ward to search every inch of the office and make sure the report had not been smuggled in already. He also asked him to post himself on the door in the morning and let only staff in, requesting them to show the contents of all packages and submit to pat-down searches. Anybody who objected could take the day off. McGarr hated to show he distrusted his staff, but Horrigan or one of his minions might well plant the material on one of McGarr’s men without that man’s knowledge and then another policeman besides McGarr would become involved inextricably in the devious minister’s plot.

  CHAPTER 6

  AND SO THE night passed in a flurry of questions, questions repeated, counter questions, accusations, threats, denials, and bursts of temper as McGarr and Bernie McKeon, spelled by Ward, grilled the two suspects. Twice McGarr thought he had Leona Horrigan on the point of admitting that Hubbard had attacked Ovens, but he had misjudged her. She was emotional but strong. She held out.

  With the approach of day, the wind stopped suddenly. A soft drizzle began falling. From the day-room window, McGarr could see the Liffey. It was the color of milky tea. Two swans followed the tide toward O’Connell Bridge, pecking at a cow pie. The Guinness brewery was wrapped in the steam from its mashing tins.

  At 6:10 McGarr called Delaney, who lived out in Enniskerry, and asked him to pick up Billy Martin on his way to work. He then called Sinclair’s house to learn if he had checked in there yet. His wife said he had been gone all night and asked McGarr if police business had really caused his absence. They had six kids. His wife’s physiognomy, what with the children, had suffered a radical decline. “Yes,” said McGarr, “he’s a dedicated and gifted policeman and I know he loves you very much.” He almost added that the morrow might see her hubby in McGarr’s seat but said, “The senior men have been up all night long, Frances,” and rang off.

  Shortly after 7:00 the phone began answering back. The first call was from Harry Greaves, who was having breakfast with his father in the old man’s kitchen in Dun Laoghaire. Harry, Sr., came on the wire. “Peter, boy, how’s by you?” Well into retirement, the old fellow was still sharp.

  “Billy Martin, Harry. What can you tell me about him?”

  Greaves had spent his lifetime on the docks in Dun Laoghaire, the quay side in Dublin. “Don’t know much. He’s not from these parts.”

  That was strange. McGarr could have sworn the man had a local accent.

  “He claims to be from the south someplace, Cork, I think.”

  Leona Horrigan was from Cork. “Anything else?”

  “I see him drinking with many old Fenians, the has-been crowd who still ask, ‘Where were you during the Troubles?’ of kids who were conversing with the Holy Ghost at the time. You know—porter-bottle revolutionaries.”

  Several minutes later Sinclair called from Dalton’s turf-accounting shop in Dun Laoghaire. “Nothing here, Peter. Dalton was arrested three years ago on suspicion of being involved in a border incident. Some shooting occurred but nobody got hurt. Since then he’s been inactive. Says he doesn’t know Driver. Knows Horrigan because he saw him steal a bicycle when they were kids.”

  “First name Seamus?”

  “That’s his brother.”

  “Put him on.” McGarr used to throw rocks at Liffey barges with Seamus Dalton, who got killed serving with the UN Peace-Keeping Force in Cyprus during the sixties. “This is Peter McGarr, Mr. Dalton. Do you remember me?”

  “Sort of, Inspector. My mother always told us you were a bad type.”

  “And she was right.” McGarr’s mind conjured the headlines that would soon be appearing in the papers. “Horrigan, the minister—what do you know about him?”

 
“Besides having been even worse company than you when we were kids, nothing.”

  “Did you see me in your shop Saturday morning?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you see?”

  “You made a phone call.”

  “Was there anybody in the box before me?”

  “Every tout in Dublin County, it seemed.”

  “But specifically, right before me.”

  “Well, we were so busy and usually I wouldn’t have noticed, but some time before you used the thing, a bugger was in there for a half hour. He had been popping in and out of the bar all morning long. I only took notice of him because he was so drunk one of my men had to dial for him.”

  “Tall and skinny with a moustache?”

  “Your man here asked me that already. I wouldn’t swear to it but I can have the clerk who dialed for him call you back when he comes in.”

  “Did he write down the number he wanted your man to dial?”

  “You’ll have to ask him.”

  McGarr thanked Dalton and told Sinclair to call his wife while waiting for the clerk to arrive. He hung up.

  With his lips, McGarr pulled a Woodbine from its packet. When he reached into his pocket to find his lighter, his car key jingled. That was when it occurred to McGarr that he had been too late in placing a guard on his auto. The possibilities that Horrigan or Driver might have slipped the Bombing Report into the Cooper were three in number: one, when he first spoke to Horrigan in Naas; two, at the hotel in Glendalough; and three, at the turf accountant’s shop in Dun Laoghaire.

  Liam O’Shaughnessy walked into the office. Through the open door of the cubicle McGarr signaled him. He wanted to have somebody along as a witness when he checked the car, which was parked out in the courtyard under the night gatekeeper’s eye. It then dawned on McGarr that Horrigan had somehow managed to get past the gatekeeper on Saturday night, which meant either the guard was lax or in the service of the minister for justice. No matter Horrigan’s position, he had no business in the Castle offices after hours and the gatekeeper should have told him so or called the chief of Internal Security to accompany Horrigan.

  After Ward patted down O’Shaughnessy, the big man walked into the cubicle with a styrofoam cup of tea in either hand. Outside, the city had awakened and the morning rush of traffic along the quays had begun.

  The phone rang.

  It was Solicitor Greaney complaining about Inspector Slattery, who had disturbed him while he was entertaining guests last night, had awakened him this morning, and whom he had found in front of his office this morning. “What in the name of David Nelligan will it take to have you call off your hound?” Nelligan had been the most hated policeman in the modern history of the country.

  “The names of the principals in Cobh Condominia Limited.”

  “William and Megan Martin.”

  That knocked McGarr back. He sat up and sipped from the cup of tea. The similarity of names could be a mere coincidence, but he doubted that. “Could you put Slattery on?”

  “If you’ll promise to call him off now.”

  “It’s as good as done.”

  “Chief?” Slattery sounded tired.

  O’Shaughnessy was dozing off. He had evidently gotten a fresh man to pick up his assignment of tailing Horrigan, who was at work by now.

  “The oak tag.”

  “Your wife Noreen bought it. Three sheets. I called her just now to check. She made a poster for your niece’s birthday, remember?”

  McGarr remembered all too well.

  “One sheet is left. One is missing. Noreen says there’s no sign of a forced entry at your place.”

  McGarr forgot even to thank Slattery. He hung up. The situation looked very bad indeed. If Horrigan had gone to such lengths to plant the chart, certainly he had somewhere concealed the necessary evidence that would conclusively implicate McGarr. He again picked up the phone, this time to call John Gallagher.

  O’Shaughnessy was nursing his tea, taking successive, quick sips to keep from falling asleep.

  “Can you remember another detail about Leona Horrigan for me, John?”

  “Any cute curve, every luscious line.”

  “Her maiden name.”

  “O’Brugha—a lovely Gaelic name.”

  “Oh.” McGarr was dejected. “Thanks, John.”

  “What—did I say something wrong?”

  “No. Thanks again.” McGarr hung up. He said to O’Shaughnessy. “Leona Horrigan’s maiden name is O’Brugha. I was hoping for a break in this case, you know, that maybe her maiden name might be Martin or something like that.” He sank into the chair. The tea was little help. He was punchy.

  O’Shaughnessy said, “Now that’s a very rare name, that is. I know of many Brughas. Off hand, there’s Cathal, Caitlin, and Noinan, but the only O’Brugha I ever ran up against was from Cork. You know who he was—the schoolteacher whom the bishop sacked for spreading all the ‘Bolshie’ ideas way back in the thirties, who was the ‘dean’ of the ‘University of the Curragh’ all through the forties?” O’Shaughnessy’s euphemism referred to perhaps the most barbaric prison in all of Western Europe. There the Irish Free State under De Valera had tried to break the spirit of the IRA stalwarts. “He was a hard man—the hardest, they say, but, you know, something of an artist all the same.”

  “In what way?”

  “Hell—Mairtín O’Brugha spent ten years as an Abbey player. You probably saw him many times yourself.”

  “Mairtín?” It was the name that had been inscribed on the handles of the tools Billy Martin had lent Ovens, it could well be the Gaelic equivalent of Martin’s name, William and Megan Martin were probably husband and wife, and Mairtín might easily have been one of the many aliases O’Brugha had used when he had been on the run. McGarr stood. “Grab your hat. I don’t think Delaney has collared him yet. Maybe we can get to him first. His habits are regular and he’ll be at the club now. I’ll drive. You get hold of Delaney and call him off. I’d prefer to talk to the man away from the Castle.”

  They were in the courtyard. McGarr decided to take a police car rather than his own auto, at which a patrolman, according to his orders, now stood. He didn’t want anybody to think O’Shaughnessy had anything to do with Horrigan’s setup. Very shortly, McGarr would need every friend inside the Castle he could muster.

  Killiney Bay was socked in. The fog lay on the still water like tufts of cotton. Not a soul was in the clubhouse or on the docks. The boats rose lazily in the occasional swell. It was midmorning.

  The postman stopped his bicycle and told them Martin did not work on such days, that he walked up the beach as far as Bray and began his measured libations at the Harbour Bar. He speculated that Martin toured many of the older spots in Bray before taking up his usual pub route in Dalkey later in the day. “He’s the man for the odd sup, you know,” the postman added.

  McGarr and O’Shaughnessy beat Martin to the pub. The Harbour was the ideal place for an interrogation—a low, cozy barroom with a gas fire in the hearth and a barman whose morning duties made him scarce. Nets hung from the ceiling and nautical mementos—a harpoon, a lifebuoy from the Hibernia, ships in bottles, a capstan, wheels, even a bollard into which dart players had stuck their birds—decorated the walls and mantel. In deference to the setting, McGarr ordered rum, O’Shaughnessy his usual, malt.

  It was as though Martin had been expecting them. He doffed his cap and raincoat and sat with them. “Soft weather, what?”

  McGarr had finished his drink.

  Martin took the glass behind the bar, poured another, one for himself, and looked at O’Shaughnessy.

  “Powers.”

  The gas was hissing behind the grate, which warmed McGarr’s back and made him feel suddenly tired.

  When the old man, whose bald head had begun to wrinkle like that of a baby, sat, he said, “Who told you?”

  McGarr shook his head. “Nobody. Seventeen Percy Place.”

  “Did you talk to Megan? I haven�
��t seen her in years. How is she?”

  “She didn’t tell us a thing. It was Greaney.”

  “It was?” He was surprised. “And there I thought the name Cobh Condominia sufficiently grand to make anybody think some bloody cartel owned the place. Did you have to take Greaney to court to find out?”

  “Only a writ.”

  “Jasus—I’ve been paying him a small fortune these many years to keep that quiet. We’ll have to talk to him, we will.” The old man had paid for the drinks with a fifty-pound note, which he had tossed casually on top of the bar.

  “I believe you’ll be doing your conversing with the legal profession from behind bars, Billy. Doesn’t Horrigan call the shots?”

  “Christ, he tried to call this one and look at the mess we’re in! I advised him a year ago to dispose of the Yank in a safe manner, either to deport, shanghai, or put the bugger out of his misery. But no, David was jealous or something and wanted to learn what Leona and him had going. And don’t be so sure about putting me in the can, son. Do you know about the Bombing Report business?”

  McGarr nodded. “You’ll have to plant it on me first.”

  Martin closed his eyes and smirked. “Ah, lad. It’s already on you, I’m sure. We in the Army have been doing things like this for so long that you, one man with one wife and a small retinue of friends and associates, could never stymie us.” Martin took a sip from his half pint of porter and looked about the empty bar.

  Near the esplanade that ran the length of Bray beach, the number 45 bus, a blue-and-yellow hulk, lumbered to a stop and off-loaded a nanny with a small child.

  McGarr said, “I thought you told me Dev. was the man for you?”

  “He was, the poor old fool. But only for a time. His idealism was shallow, his thinking half-baked. Once in power he didn’t really know what to do but stay in power. He had no social program, no political altruism. Let’s face it, the man hadn’t much of a mind. He couldn’t lead the people out of poverty and international political oppression. He had a peasant’s point of view. He went hat-in-hand to Lloyd George, and what have we got today—partition.”