The Death of an Irish Tinker
A Peter McGarr Mystery
Bartholomew Gill
Strike one Tinker, you strike the whole clan.
—AN IRISH COUNTRY SAYING
Contents
Epigraph
Prologue
Part I
1984
Chapter 1
Chains
Chapter 2
Bang!
Chapter 3
Crush!
Chapter 4
Caw
Chapter 5
Control
Chapter 6
Hot Shots
Chapter 7
Bang 2
Part II
1996
Chapter 8
Recover/Uncover
Chapter 9
Split!
Chapter 10
Whack!
Chapter 11
Victim
Chapter 12
Snake
Chapter 13
Hang
Chapter 14
Crush!
Chapter 15
The First Freedom!
Chapter 16
Smack
Chapter 17
Bang! Bang!
Chapter 18
Lock Out, Lock In
Chapter 19
Hit!
Chapter 20
Stake!
Chapter 21
Caw! Caw!
Epilogue
About the Author
Praise
Other Books by Bartholomew Gill
Copyright
About the Publisher
PROLOGUE
DES BACON HAD been a bully up until his fifteenth birthday, when he returned to Gibraltar after his summer holidays and found that the wankers and wallies he’d been thumping—steadily, daily, just for the laugh of it—had grown.
Suddenly many were bigger, if not stronger, than he, and they rounded on him in a group, shoving him around a circle, punching his face, his ribs and stomach, spitting and even pissing on him when he fell and couldn’t get up.
Finally, the biggest snatched him up by the neck and held him off the ground, like a stuffed doll, while the others took turns kicking him in the nuts. The yard master only looked away, later saying, “You had it coming, Paddy.”
“Buck up, son!” his father had roared in his heavy Ulster burr when Desmond was released from the med bay with his neck in a cast. “I’ve a remedy for a runt like you. Them bastards are to know, because you’ve got to show ’em, that you’re treble fierce.
“They truck with you again, you’re to pay ’em back in blood. Not all of ’em, mind. Not even some. Just the one as an example, but make it good.”
It was the only real advice his father ever gave him, but it was more than sufficient. It was an education in itself.
When in the buttery at school the one who had held him by the neck nicked his elevenses from his tray, Des Bacon did not hesitate. Taking three forks from the utensil bin, he went straight to the machine shop, where he sharpened the tines on a speed grinder. Back at the mess table, he tapped the oaf on a shoulder. “Good scoff?”
“The best. Know what makes it special, Paddy?”
Desmond waited.
“’Twas yours.”
The others laughed.
“In fact, it weren’t enough. I’m hungry still. Get me another, double chips.”
Suddenly everybody was quiet, eyes darting at each other, gleeful. They were together; Des was alone.
“But me money—I’ll have none for meself.” The Irishisms were on purpose to separate himself further, to make himself into the wild, unpredictable, and dangerous loner. “What’ll I do for me prog?”
The boy shook his head and tsked. “You know what they say in Ireland, Paddy: Do for yourself or do wi’out.”
It was then that young Desmond Bacon realized what a rush revenge was. The forks he was grasping in a fist behind his back were power, what would put him in control again. And control was everything.
“I want to get this straight, so I know. So we all know.” His free hand swept the table confidently, and he rejoiced in seeing their smiles crumble. Something was wrong; the fragging wasn’t going to form. “I’m to do for meself?”
“S’right, Paddy. Off wi’ you now. Chop, chop. Chips, chips.”
“Then I’ll do you.”
When the bugger placed his hands on the table to get up, Des plunged one fork as hard as he could through the git’s right hand, sticking it to the table. And before the bastard could even cry out, Des did the other. He waved the third at the crowd. “Anybody else?”
Kicked off the Rock, Des was given two years in a reformatory in England where his father’s advice proved even more valuable. First day he picked up a bench and nearly killed the wog bugger he found going through his kit. And would have too, had a guard not come running with a truncheon.
They tacked on another year with no chance of early release, but it was worth it. He’d proved he’d try to kill, if you messed with the Toddler. It was his name from the first day he walked down the reformatory hall.
Des Bacon didn’t care—the Toddler, the Tod, the T. A handle was useful. You could take charge all the easier if people thought you were a thing and not a person.
When the Toddler got out, he discovered that his parents did not want him back, which was good. Instead he was sent off to California to some of his mother’s relatives, where he enlisted in the U.S. Marines instead of being drafted.
Sent to Vietnam, Lance Corporal Desmond Bacon became a paid killer. All the more spectacularly when selected to become a scout/sniper—part of Captain E. J. “Jim” Land’s 1st Marine Division squad that assassinated Charlies, sometimes firing at ranges up to 1,125 yards. He became one of Land’s most competent killers.
Mustered out in 1971 with a chestful of decorations, the Toddler was given the choice of flying back to any destination in the world. He chose Dublin, where his other granny now lived and where customs inspections for “Yanks” during the tourist season were lax.
With two duffel bags stuffed with China White heroin but his dress blue uniform spangled with medals, the U.S. Marine war hero sailed through Dublin Airport. And was in business. The Tod had chosen well. The whole “drug thing” had not yet hit Ireland, and the police had no clue how to enforce the few laws on the books.
Also, other laws protecting personal rights, searches, and seizures were tailor-made for a careful operator who could afford the best legal representation that piles of drug money could buy.
But the Toddler knew what was key: control. Of himself, his product, and of what his Marine training had taught him were “the conditions of the kill.” With that edge, you were everything; without it, just buggered.
And should be.
PART I
1984
CHAPTER 1
Chains
Glencree, County Wicklow
August
PETER MCGARR HAD not always been afraid of heights. In fact, he had not known that he was. But this was different.
He was perched 175 feet up—Miss Eithne Carruthers had said—in a giant sequoia that without a doubt had been taller before lightning had struck, shearing off its top and creating what amounted to a nest in the remaining bowers.
It was she who had noticed the crows circling the top, she whose dog had found a human hand by the trunk, she who had rung up the Murder Squad a few hours earlier.
McGarr looked down into the nest.
At first glance it looked as if some immense prehistoric carrion bird had dined upon a sizable repast. Many of the bones were bleached, the skin dried out, the flesh well past the firs
t foul reek of decomposition.
But yet there lay what had been a human being.
Naked on its back with arms and legs stretched out, it had an iron—could it be?—cangue around its neck, like something from the ancient Orient. And stout shackles on its wrists and ankles. They too looked rather antique and were also made of iron, which was now rusting, like the chains that pulled the shackles tight to lower branches.
It was then that a blast of wind, bucking through the scree of the two tall mountains to the west, struck them. The top of the sequoia heaved and surged, and McGarr held tight, not daring to look down.
In dramatic descent to the east lay a wooded mountain valley, then Powerscourt—the vast demesne and garden of exotic plantings, like the sequoia itself, that had been laid out by Eithne Carruthers’s great-great-great-grandfather, she had told him—and the lush Glen of the Dargle River.
Farther still, McGarr could see the seaside town of Bray with its several tall church spires and massive headland. Toward the horizon was the deep blue water of the Irish Sea.
He could barely breathe, the wind was so strong.
“Chief, you okay?” Detective Inspector Hugh Ward had to shout, even though they were only feet apart. A dark, wiry, and athletic young man, Ward was riding one of the surging bows calmly, easily, with one hand no less. In the other was a camera.
“What I can’t figure out”—Ward had to shout, and still McGarr could barely hear him—“is why he struggled so violently if it was a suicide. And how could he have closed the final shackle if he bound his feet first, then one wrist, the neck, and finally the other hand? How could he have done that—locked the other hand?”
And who was he? There was nobody missing locally or in the village of Enniskerry, a few miles distant. McGarr had checked.
Now he forced himself to look more closely.
The corpse was nearly a skeleton at this point, picked clean easily because of its nakedness by carrion crows, seagulls, the passing hawk, he imagined. The neck hung loosely in the canguelike device, and the mouth had dropped open in a kind of tongueless, toothy leer.
Even the eyes had been pecked from the head. Yet the hair, which was long and flailing in the breeze, was glossy brown and had been sun-bleached streaky. A small man? A large woman?
Surely the pathologist would be able to tell with one glance at the pelvic bone, which was obscured by a dried flap of some internal organ that the birds had declined to consume and what looked like another collection of smaller bones. But all other appendages that might reveal its sex were gone. Only some viscera remained, and the skeleton, which was well made.
Climbing up on the other side of the body and farther out on narrow branches than McGarr would ever dare, Ward pointed down at the wristbone that was closest to McGarr.
The hand was missing. Ward had to shout as loud as he could, as they pitched and heaved in the wind.
“My guess is…whoever did it either tricked him up here on a dare or something, then managed to get those clamps on him. Or they hoisted him up here unconscious. When he came to, he struggled so mightily he fairly well wore away that wrist.”
So it looked. Even the bone had been abraded.
“Later, after the birds and decomposition and all,” Ward went on, “the weight of the manacle on the damaged wrist made the hand come away, and it fell to the ground. In fact, I’d bet with all his struggle he opened up the wrist and bled to death.”
Ward, who was new to the Murder Squad, was only testing his investigative wings. In matters of mortality, McGarr had ceased to bet. Here he doubted they’d ever determine the exact cause of the victim’s death. If he was that. Or she.
One thing was certain, however. At some point before the person died, he had understood or rethought his situation and tried everything he could to free himself from his bonds. His chains. Naked on the side of a mountain in Ireland in winter, perhaps with a wrist opened up and bleeding, he could not have lasted long.
McGarr’s second thought was how altogether romantic the whole scene appeared for a murder, if a murder.
There Ward was above him with the wind flattening his features, fanning back his dark hair, and his one hand gripping the lightning-charred stump of the tree trunk. In all, he looked like some big dark eagle ready to pounce. Or, worse, a vampire. When he spoke, his teeth looked like fangs.
It all smacked of some myth or other that McGarr could not recollect at the moment. The whole scene was bizarre. No, grotesquely bizarre. And if it was murder, the murderer or murderers had to work to get the victim—all twelve or thirteen stone of him, McGarr guessed—up into the perch. Using what?
“Block and tackle,” Ward said, as though having read McGarr’s thoughts. But then, McGarr had trained him.
A blast of wind now struck, and the top of the tree hurtled toward the valley and the ocean beyond. Ward had to avert his head and wait until it subsided.
McGarr felt vaguely nauseated. His brow was beaded with sweat in spite of the breeze.
“See the marks on the bark of the trunk. Just below you.”
A horizontal band of fresh scarring wrapped the tree just below the “nest.”
“With a come-along or a pulley they hauled him up here, no problem.”
Which was overstating the possibility, although the “they” was accurate. It would have taken at least two people, one to pull the rope, the other to guide the unconscious or semiconscious body up through the branches that made the tree so easy to climb.
And once they got him as high as they could by that means—to the line of scarring—there had remained the additional four or five feet into the nest, which would have taken no little strength and daring. Finally, the cangue and shackles had to be fixed and the chains fastened to the branches below.
In all, the murder—if murder—had required time, planning, more than one person, hard labor, and a detailed knowledge of the tree, the house, the estate, and the habits of Miss Eithne Carruthers. As well as some extraordinary animus to have taken such pains to kill in so dramatic a way.
Another possibility was that the murderers had gone to such lengths to make a point or send a message.
Unless, as Ward had mentioned, it had been part of some…rite or other, and the man had climbed the tree willingly, allowed himself to be yoked, only to have second thoughts when it was too late.
The band of scarring on the tree suggested otherwise.
“Well done, Chief,” the climb team leader of the Tech Squad said when McGarr reached the ground. “But don’t expect any combat pay in your packet this week. It’s all in a day’s work.” For them, he meant. Now the Techies would have to remove the shackles, then bag and lower the gruesome cargo to the ground.
“The places we’ve been,” said McGarr, “the things we’ve seen. Sure, it’s a wonderful life.”
The others laughed, and McGarr found it an actual pleasure to walk again—out of the copse and across the wide lawn toward the handsome Tudor-style house built of limestone block.
The short, square man with a long face and an aquiline nose slipped his hands into the pockets of a tan windcheater. A waterproof cloth cap to match was on his head.
Bald now in his early fifties, McGarr kept what hair remained rather long. It was a deep red color and curled on the nape of his neck. His eyes were gray. Glancing back at the tree, he felt rather proud and amazed that he had climbed it, now that he was back on the ground.
“Who would have known about the tree—the condition at the top, how easy it is to climb?” he asked the Carruthers woman in her large modern kitchen, where he found her speaking to her cook.
“Oh, everybody, I suspect. Don’t you watch television?”
When? McGarr thought. His wife sometimes put on the evening news, and he had watched the All-Ireland Final last year. Or was it the year before?
“That tree was in a drinks advert for Veuve Cliquot.” A tall woman well into her sixties, Eithne Carruthers was still lean and athletic. She was wearing
a riding costume—tight black jacket and jodhpurs—and her boots had tracked mud over the kitchen tiles.
“First you see a young man and woman on the top of that mountain, drinks in hand.” She pointed out the window. “Then they’re in the top of that tree. Voice-over says, ‘You don’t have to scale the highest mountain or climb the tallest tree to enjoy Veuve Cliquot. But when you do’—at that point you see them sailing a lovely yacht and then finally seated at dinner in the Westbury Hotel—‘celebrate the moment with Champagne Veuve Cliquot.’ They gave me a nice check and a case of their bubbly. It’s quite good. Would you care for a glass?”
McGarr smiled and checked his watch. “It’s rather early. Let me rephrase: Who would have known that they could climb your tree with impunity and be in it for hours without being seen?”
The woman hunched her shoulders. Her eyebrows were plucked, and the taut skin on her cheeks suggested a facelift. “Again, probably anybody. I spend January and most of February with my”—she smiled—“father in the Midi. Apart from the groundskeeper, the rest of the staff is on holiday.”
“Who would have known that?”
She shook her head. “The staff, of course, and their families, my near neighbors, and our local guards. I call into the barracks on my way to the airport. But otherwise I don’t make a practice of telling people—shopkeepers and the like down in the village, if that’s what you mean. We had a break-in two years ago.”
“Much stolen?”
She closed her eyes in mock horror. “Only everything of any value. Your colleague said they were professionals. They even closed and locked the gate on the way out”
Which was not unusual these days, thought McGarr. Several gangs of well-equipped, highly skilled thieves were operating in the Dublin area. But what they needed were touts—people who knew the habits of the rich, like Eithne Carruthers, and who were willing to say.
“What about the chains and shackles?”
She averted her head. “Enda, my groundskeeper, told me about them.” He had been the first to climb up and peer into the “nest.” “Like something out of the Inquisition. You expect to see that stuff in Spain and Portugal, but certainly not in this country.”
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