by Zara Keane
The child regarded Seán through dark solemn eyes that reflected a stoic resignation more suited to a man of ninety than a boy of ten.
Indecision flickered over his features. After a brief pause, the boy inclined his head toward the lone brightly colored caravan among the drab mobile homes.
“Good lad,” said Seán. He tossed him a euro.
The boy let the coin fall to the ground. It splashed into a puddle of mud. Its intended owner made no move to retrieve it, radiating disdain.
Wrong move.
Brian cleared his throat and nudged Seán. They picked their way through debris and children and knocked on the front door of the colorful caravan.
At first, there was no response. Seán was on the verge of adding a second, heftier knock when a deep voice bade them enter.
Inside, the caravan was crammed with trinkets. Religious icons jostled for space with more exotic wares. The decor made John-Joe and Nora Fitzgerald’s house look Spartan.
The caravan’s lone occupant was seated at a small table, enjoying a glass of whiskey, a cigarette, and a game of solitaire. When she glanced up, the large crucifix around her neck clanked and swayed.
“Mrs. Murphy?” Seán blinked through the haze of smoke.
“Been a long time since anyone called me Missus.” Her deep, phlegmy guffaw sounded like she was in danger of hacking up both lungs. “Call me Ma. Or Peig, if that tickles your fancy.”
She was dressed in severe black and looked more like a nun than a gypsy. Her white hair was pulled back in a tight bun, emphasizing the grooves etched into her cheeks and forehead. Blue eyes, small and shrewd, were fixed on Seán.
He drew his ID from his pocket. “Sergeant Seán Mackey, Ballybeg Police. This is my partner, Garda Brian Glenn.”
Peig scrutinized the ID, then jerked a hand toward the spare chairs at the table. “Sit.”
They sat.
“We’ve come about Jimmy,” said Seán, shifting uneasily on the hard wooden seat.
A spasm of pain rippled over Peig’s coarse features, deepening the grooves. “Oh, aye,” she said, taking a drag on her cigarette. “Keeping up appearances, are ye? No one bothers about the Travellers excepting ourselves, least of all An Garda Síochána.” She leaned forward, exhaling a cloud of acrid smoke. “Lest, of course, there’s a burglary in the neighborhood.”
“That’s not true Mrs.…Peig. I’m a member of the police force, and I care about the welfare of everyone in my jurisdiction, regardless of heritage.”
“Fine words, boy. I’d like to see action to back them up.” Peig leaned back in her chair, stubbed out her cigarette, drew another from the pack. Sweet Afton, nonfilter. Noting his surprise, she said, “Got my own private stash.”
Must be some stash. Sweet Afton ceased production several years ago. “Mrs. Murphy,” he began again, but she cut him off with a curt gesture.
“We’ll have tea.”
Seán tapped the table with his knuckles. Rushing Peig was pointless. If she was determined to steer this interview, he’d best let her think she was in control.
Peig stood, and he could hear her creaking bones as she moved to her small kitchen. The whistle of the kettle soon followed. “I don’t take sugar,” she said, making it clear that Seán and Brian wouldn’t either. Seán didn’t care. He wasn’t fond of tea and intended to drink as little as he could get away with.
Impish glee danced across Peig’s face. She grabbed the whiskey bottle and poured generous dollops of amber liquid into their hot tea.
Seán held up a hand. “We can’t drink on duty.”
“Can’t or shouldn’t?” she asked, sitting her skinny frame back behind the table and shoving a mug and a challenge toward Seán. “Sure, let that young pup drive.”
Brian regarded his mug as if it contained deadly nightshade instead of a serving of Ireland’s finest.
Seán leaned back with his tea and took a cautious sip. Jaysus. It packed a punch. “So.” He kept his voice normal, easygoing. “About the attacks.”
Silence sliced the air sharp as a kunai knife.
“Do you know who attacked Jimmy?” asked Peig. Her glare could bore holes in cement.
“Not yet,” Seán said. “We were hoping you could help us.”
Her harrumph expressed her opinion of Seán, the settled community, and the Gardaí. Very little. “This is why we Travellers prefer to look after our own affairs. When the Guards can be bothered to investigate, they find nothing, and we’re as likely to find ourselves accused of all sorts of shenanigans.”
“With all due respect, Peig,” Seán said, “We can’t be allowing vigilante justice. If someone is trying to harm your people, let us help.”
Her snort was eloquent.
Seán flexed his jaw. “Over the past four months, we’ve received reports of tires shot out, smashed windows, and trashed caravans. If the attack on Jimmy is connected to the vendetta against the Travellers, the perpetrator is becoming more dangerous with each incident.”
Peig stubbed out her cigarette in an overflowing ashtray. “I’m not a fool, boy. You don’t know the half of it.”
“Enlighten me. How did this begin?”
Peig leaned back in her chair and crossed thin arms over her scrawny bosom. “It started with the dog.”
“There was nothing about a dog in the reports I received.”
Peig shrugged. “We hoped to sort it out on our own, but we’ve been no more successful than you lot.”
“Tell me about the dog.”
Her mouth formed a grimace. “Last May, one of my son’s racing dogs was beheaded. A greyhound. Beautiful creature, she was.”
“Beheaded?” The word fell from Brian’s mouth in a horrified gape.
“That’s what I said. They found her body the next morning, over by the woods.” Peig’s eyes narrowed. “The head was put into my son’s bed.”
“Jaysus,” said Brian, awestruck. “Just like The Godfather.”
Peig shot him a look of confusion. “The what?”
“You know, the film.”
A blank stare.
“Never mind.” Brian’s feigned resignation failed to conceal his contempt for Peig, her home, and her lifestyle. If the lad had any ambition to rise in the police force, he’d need to work on his body language.
“You have no idea who could be behind these attacks?” Seán scrutinized her as he spoke, hoping for a flicker of emotion or an involuntary twitch. “Anyone from Ballybeg been particularly nasty to your people?”
Peig’s right cheek spasmed, and she shifted her attention to her mug of fortified tea. When her eyes rose to meet his, her expression was impassive. “No one I can think of.”
No one she was prepared to name. Seán opened his mouth to press her further, but the caravan door hit him in the back. He jerked around.
A swarthy man stood in the doorway, dark eyes flashing, hands clenched in hairy-knuckled fists.
A silent nod passed between the newcomer and Peig.
If the swish of a blade through the air was any indication, their meeting was at an end.
Chapter Fifteen
THE KNIFE LANDED in the wall. It held a moment, suspended and vibrating, before falling to the ground with a clatter.
Seán’s hand flew to his utility belt. No SIG. Damn. Now that he was demoted to uniform, a baton was his only weapon.
The dark-haired man strode past them, retrieved the knife, and began peeling an apple. It should have been an awkward task with a blade so big, but he had no difficulties.
“Blackie,” Peig commanded. “Sit down and stop showing off.”
Blackie glowered at Seán and Brian but lumbered toward the last remaining seat at Peig’s small table. He lowered himself into it, large, threatening, and stinking of dog.
“My son,” Peig said by way of introduction.
“What are the Guards doing here?” Blackie bit into his apple, spraying flesh all over his thick beard.
“They’ve come to ask about young
Jimmy.”
“Oh, aye?” An irritating sneer stretched across Blackie’s face. “Found something out?”
Seán pinned the man in place with a hard stare. “Do you know who attacked him?”
Blackie shrugged. “No. Even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”
“Intending to take the law into your own hands?” Brian leaned closer. “If so, have a rethink. I don’t care for having knives thrown at me.” The words “especially not by a Tinker” hovered in the air—unspoken but implicit.
“All I did was show off my knife-throwing skills, officer.” Blackie’s tone was deceptively innocent. “I threw it at the wall, not you.”
“Garda Glenn.” Seán’s voice held a note of warning.
Brian sat back down, a belligerent tilt to his jaw.
Blackie’s grin grew wider, displaying tobacco-stained teeth. “Garda Glenn…the name is familiar. I do believe you arrested me once.”
“I do believe I arrested you more than once, Mr. Murphy.”
“Enough with the macho grandstanding,” Seán said. “Let’s focus on Jimmy’s attack. How can no one at the caravan park have seen anything? Someone must know something. You’re all adamant it was an outsider. You must have a reason for this suspicion.”
Blackie poured himself a shot of whiskey, knocked it back in one, and slammed the glass onto the table. “No one saw anything because it’s never wise to see anything, Garda Mackey.”
“Sergeant Mackey.” Murphy was winding him up deliberately. “It’s never wise to take matters into your own hands. Tell us what we need to know, and we’ll do our best to see justice is done.”
Blackie sneered. “Sure, you don’t believe that, man. Justice? What a bloody joke. You can’t even stamp out corruption in your own ranks. If you’re really interested in finding out who hurt a Traveller, you’re the first Guard I’ve met to pay more than lip service to justice.”
Seán rose to his feet. “We won’t take up more of your time.” He tossed his card on the table and looked from one to the other, ensuring he had their full attention. “If you think of anything relating to the attacks, anything at all, give me a call. Day or night.”
Blackie drew snot up his nostrils. Peig’s nose twitched. Neither made a move to pocket the card.
“That was a total waste of time,” Brian muttered while they were trudging back through the mud to the police car.
“Not entirely.” Seán’s paused to collect his thoughts. “We suspected the Travellers were hiding something about the attacks. Now we know they know more than they’re saying. The person behind the attacks has to be someone with clout.”
Brian slid him a curious look. “How do you work that out? There are a lot of people in Ballybeg who’d prefer the Travellers gone.”
Seán slid the car key from his pocket and rapped it against his knuckles thoughtfully. “If it was an eejit like my…like John-Joe Fitzgerald or Buck MacCarthy, the Travellers would take care of it themselves. Whoever’s doing this has got them scared shitless. It takes a lot to intimidate the Travellers.”
“Are you thinking a vigilante group?” Brian asked, opening the car door.
Their eyes met across the roof of the car. “That’s exactly what I’m thinking.”
Seán slid behind the wheel and started the ignition. He eased the vehicle off the halting site and down the bumpy track through the woods.
“If a vigilante group is responsible for the attacks,” Brian said, furrowing his brow in thought, “then who’s organizing it?”
Seán gave a wry laugh. “That, my friend, is the million-euro question.”
They’d reached the main road when his phone started to buzz. He hit speakerphone.
“Seán?” The sound of the super’s raspy voice echoed through the car speakers. “Where the hell are you?”
“We’re driving back from the halting site.”
His boss’s dismissive harrumph grated on Seán’s nerves. “I told you to escort Helen Havelin shopping this afternoon,” the super snapped. “Why aren’t you at Clonmore House?”
“Sir, after the attack last night, I judged questioning the Travellers to be the priority. I sent Reserve Garda Doyle round to Clonmore House.”
The older man gave a derisive snort. “That fool? He never showed. Ms. Havelin is understandably upset.”
“Understandably.” Seán’s voice dripped sarcasm.
“Get your arse over to Clonmore House right now.”
His hands tensed around the steering wheel. “What about Jimmy Murphy?”
“Who?”
“The Traveller boy who was attacked,” Seán said through gritted teeth.
“Oh, him. Never mind the Tinker. It was probably one of their own.”
“That’s not an attitude befitting a member of An Garda Síochána. Sir,” he added belatedly. This being-demoted business was a pain.
Superintendent O’Riordan was not impressed. “Are you telling me how to do my job?”
“No, sir, I—”
“Then get your arse over to Clonmore House right now, Mackey. I decide which cases take priority, and I judge the threat to Helen Havelin’s safety to be of paramount concern. Let young Garda Glenn deal with the Tinkers.”
“Yes, sir.” Seán exhaled through clenched teeth. “Flaming Helen Havelin,” he said to Brian after the super had disconnected. He threw his phone up on the dashboard with force.
“What do you make of Helen’s story?” Brian asked. “I’m inclined to think the deranged stalker is a load of bollocks.”
“I don’t know. She seems genuinely jumpy to me.” He scowled. “Whatever the truth of the matter is, Helen is used to having her diva demands met. I resent her showing up here and commandeering police time when she could hire bodyguards, especially when we’re stretched thin as it is.”
“The super is smitten. Seems to think Helen is the greatest thing ever to grace the town of Ballybeg,” his partner said with a grin. “What’s that saying? No fool like an old fool? Ah, well. Let him have his fun.”
“He should have his fun on his own time, and not at the expense of our meager police resources.” Seán slapped the steering wheel. “This is insane. We have a serious assault on a member of a minority group, yet we’re supposed to give precedence to the alleged stalker of an alleged celebrity? In what world is that fair?”
Brian sighed. “Look, I agree with you, but Helen is only in Ballybeg a couple of days a week. We have the rest of the time to concentrate on the Travellers case.”
“What about everything else that needs to be done?” The road forked before him, and Seán swerved right toward the coast and Clonmore House. “McGarry’s no slouch, but Reserve Garda Doyle is a disgrace. We can’t leave this case to them.”
Brian pinched the bridge of his nose. “I know you think I don’t have the experience, and you’re probably right, but you’re going to have to trust me. I’ll help you to track down whoever is responsible for the attack on Jimmy Murphy, even if it means working unofficial overtime. Deal?”
“I can’t ask you to do that. It’s against regulations, and you have your university coursework.”
“I’ve handed in all my assignments, and my thesis is almost finished. I can juggle the time.”
“How will Sharon feel about you spending extra time at work?”
The mention of his new girlfriend brought a wide smile to Brian’s lips. “Sharon’s cool. She’ll understand this case is important.”
“All right, then,” Seán said reluctantly, “but take no unnecessary risks. We’ll divide the unofficial investigation time between us and try to do as much together as possible.”
“Fair enough.”
Seán grimaced. “Now that we’ve sorted that out, I’d better go and play chauffeur to a diva.
Chapter Sixteen
“I’M OFFERING TO BUY you new clothes. What possible objection can you have to the idea of a new wardrobe free of charge?”
Clio tensed her fingers around the handle
of the duster. She placed a statuette of Venus back in its place on the display table. “Nothing’s free of charge, Mother. Not with you.”
Helen was reclining on the chaise longue, watching while Clio cleaned and adding what she referred to as “helpful criticism” at regular intervals. “Don’t be cynical. You’re my daughter. I simply want you to look your best.”
“In other words, you don’t want me to embarrass you.”
“That’s ridiculous. I don’t want you to embarrass yourself. Your clothes are a disaster.” Her mother gestured to Clio’s worn jeans and frayed pullover. “How can any woman wish to walk around looking like a homeless person? As for your makeup…” Helen shuddered. “How can any daughter of mine not know how to apply eye shadow?”
“I don’t wear eye shadow, therefore I don’t need to know how to apply it.” Besides, how hard can it be, right?
“If you knew how to apply eye shadow, you’d wear it.”
Clio sighed. There was no arguing with Helen’s logic, or lack thereof. She was determined to transform her daughter into her clone and seemed impervious to the fact that this was never going to happen.
“Don’t you want to look your best?” Helen opened her cosmetics bag, extracted a powder compact from its depths, and flipped open her portable makeup mirror. “I always feel better when I make an effort with my appearance.”
“Your idea of ‘making an effort’ and mine are a little different,” Clio said in a dry tone. “I feel good with a swipe of mascara and comfortable shoes.”
Her gaze dropped to her mother’s feet. Helen had on her signature towering heels. Clio’s toes were still recovering from those silly red stilettos. The idea of wearing shoes like that all day, every day, was horrifying.
Her mother slid the powder compact back into her makeup case, stretched, and stood. “You’ve done a good job with the unpacking,” she said, trailing a fingertip over the freshly dusted mantelpiece. “The house is almost perfect.”
Clio cupped her ear. “Is that praise I hear escaping your lips? Are you feeling unwell?”
“Don’t be cheeky.” A small frown threatened the smooth perfection of Helen’s forehead. “Have I been such an ogre?”
