No cars. The narrow laneway was empty; crouched on the other side of the harbor wall, McGarr scanned the several decks of the large yacht, which was unlighted. Water was lapping against its hull.
He heard: “Jaysus—wouldn’t you know it, bitch? The motherless fucker’s run out on you. Unless he’s crouched on the other side of the wall. That’s where I’d be, were I brave and true, like Peter McGarr.”
Orla appeared first at the top of the high wall, but she did not hesitate when she saw McGarr. There—having to wait for Sweeney—they locked eyes.
With both hands, McGarr raised the Glock.
“You’re a cunt! A cowardly cunt, McGarr!” Sweeney roared, as his large head and bulky figure appeared at the top of the wall, silhouetted against the light from the town. “Fucked off on me. And Orla, poor Orla, who’ll die alone with her secrets.”
It was then, with the Glock aimed at Sweeney’s chest, that a chunk of the man’s skull burst from his head in a pink mist that sprayed out over the water. A split second later, the unmistakable report of a high-powered rifle echoed around the harbor. A second round caught Sweeney in the neck and nearly severed his head from his body.
Before Sweeney could topple over, McGarr dropped his weapon, lunged for the hand that held the tether, and wrenched Sweeney forward. Throwing himself on top of Sweeney, they skidded down the steep stairs toward Orla and slammed into the side of the yacht.
From his jacket pocket, McGarr pulled out his key ring and severed the line with a pen knife. Only then did he climb off Sweeney, whose body lolled to one side and plunged off the staircase. With a splintering crack, it landed on the rail of a lower deck before spilling into the water.
On the other side of the nearly circular harbor, Ray-Boy Sloane turned to replace the Steyr Aug Bullpup assault rifle in its case. While inconspicuous, the short barrel had produced loud reports, and two cars passing in the street behind him had slowed.
A third stopped. “Are you the police?” a woman asked.
“No, I am.” A hand, reaching up, grabbed hold of Ray-Boy’s nose ring and ripped it from his face.
As the rifle dropped from Sloane’s hands, a fist jacked into his groin, doubling him up into a flurry of punches thrown with such precision that—it would be found later—his nose, pharynx, and one eye socket were broken, and his front teeth removed. The fall from his shooting perch broke both elbows.
As Hugh Ward bent to secure the assault rifle, shiny black wingtips appeared on the cobblestone footpath before him. Glancing up, Ward caught only a glimpse of something shiny, a hand, three inches of cuff cinched by a gold-and-onyx link, and the arm of a dark pinstriped suit.
The gun roared, and Ray-Boy’s body shuddered as a bullet thwacked into his head.
Ward straightened up. “What was that, Jack—endgame?”
“Speak to McGarr.” Sheard opened his suit coat and slipped the handgun into its holster. “He’ll fill you in.” Turning, he walked toward a Volvo that was stopped in the middle of the street.
More than twelve hours later, McGarr awoke with a start, not knowing where he was. With heavy drapes across tall windows the room was dark, and there was a figure in the bed beside him.
On the telephone, which was positioned on his chest, a red light was blinking.
“I would have answered it, but I suspected it was your daughter, whom I’d like to meet in some other way.”
Orla Bannon rolled over to face him, a smooth thigh slipping between his legs. She had unbraided her long black hair, which was arrayed across her breasts. She pushed it away. “Like what you see? All yours, as promised. But maybe you should make that call first.”
When he hesitated, she picked up the receiver and dialed in a number. Then, “Nuala, it’s Orla. Orla Bannon. Yes, he’s right here. Like to speak with him?”
“How do you know my home number?” It was unlisted.
She cocked her head. “As I was saying, I’ve been interested in you for some time now, but just too shy to make a move.”
Which caused McGarr to chuckle. He brought the phone to his ear.
About the Author
A graduate of Trinity College, Dublin, BARTHOLOMEW GILL was the author of sixteen acclaimed Peter McGarr mysteries—among them The Death of an Irish Sinner, The Death of an Irish Lover, The Death of an Irish Tinker, and the Edgar Award nominee The Death of a Joyce Scholar—and a journalist who wrote as Mark McGarrity for the Newark Star-Ledger. He passed away in the summer of 2002.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.
High praise for
BARTHOLOMEW GILL
and
DEATH IN DUBLIN
“Grade: A…Gill has a knack for describing the people and places of Ireland.”
Denver Rocky Mountain News
“Heavily imbued with Irish wit and wonder…[Gill] has managed to combine erudition, humor, and intelligence.”
Dallas Morning News
“A masterpiece…This is a spectacularly suspenseful book…a wonderful exploration of Irish culture.”
Booklist (*Starred Review*)
“Echoes of Irish writers from Yeats to Joyce to O’Casey, Becket, and Behan sound on almost every page…If you’ve arrived late at the party, start here.”
Chicago Tribune
“Sure, ’thas been said that an Irishman can spin a yarn in a league with no other. Bartholomew Gill has been proving that adage for twenty years…The reader is lulled immediately by Gill’s storytelling voice—the tone, the rhythm and dialect, the tongue-in-cheek humor and the affectionate national pride…[McGarr] is interesting and entertaining, to be sure, and skillful and erudite enough to lead the reader along the trail.”
San Antonio Express-News
“Excellent…a fine storyteller.”
Arizona Republic
“McGarr is as complex and engaging a character as you can hope to meet in contemporary crime fiction…and Gill is a marvelous tour guide, showing us [this] troubled country’s charm and warts with style and wit.”
Denver Post
“Gill’s books are both earthy and elegant. The cadence of Dublin life sings in [his] pages, and the wit is ready and true.”
Chicago Sun-Times
“[The] plot proves more devious and its resolution much bloodier than anyone could have predicted…With Peter McGarr no longer on the force, Ireland stands in need of a new hero to monitor its misbehavior and absolve its collective guilt.”
New York Times Book Review
“Gill is a nimble plotter and fine writer.”
Orlando Sentinel
“It’s hard to decide what Bartholomew Gill does best. Certainly his Irish settings are unequaled, producing an almost irresistible urge to pull on an Aran sweater and drink strong tea in front of a raging peat fire. But even his evocative settings pale before his well-developed plots…Gill never fails to deliver.”
Kansas City Star
“Gill’s novels…are distinguished by the quirky integrity that makes McGarr a vivid individual, by Gill’s ability to render the everyday speech of Dublin as music, and by the passions so keenly felt by his characters on both sides of the law.”
Detroit News
“Splendid…Gill shapes wonderful sentences and zestfully evokes the scenery and the spirit of his former homeland. He is also an imaginative portrayer of character.”
Atlanta Journal-Constitution
“A superb exposition of Ireland’s religious development and a touching look into McGarr’s heart. The death of
Bartholomew Gill deprives the mystery world of one of its most sensitive and talented practitioners.”
Kirkus Reviews (*Starred Review*)
Also by Bartholomew Gill
THE DEATH OF AN IRISH SINNER
THE DEATH OF AN IRISH LOVER
THE DEATH OF AN IRISH TINKER
THE DEATH OF AN IRISH SEA WOLF
THE DEATH OF AN ARDENT BIBLIOPHILE
DEATH ON A COLD, WILD RIVER
THE DEATH OF LOVE
THE DEATH OF A JOYCE SCHOLAR
MCGARR AND THE LEGACY OF A WOMAN SCORNED
MCGARR AND THE METHOD OF DESCARTES
MCGARR AND THE P. M. BELGRAVE SQUARE
MCGARR AT THE DUBLIN HORSE SHOW (recently published as The Death of an Irish Tradition)
MCGARR ON THE CLIFFS OF MOHER (recently published as The Death of an Irish Lass)
MCGARR AND THE SIENESE CONSPIRACY (recently published as The Death of an Irish Consul)
MCGARR AND THE POLITICIAN’S WIFE (recently published as The Death of an Irish Politician)
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
DEATH IN DUBLIN. Copyright © 2003 by Mark McGarrity. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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