‘But this Historical Society fellow didn’t know what happened to them?’
‘He had no idea they were all shot dead and buried under the floorboards, no.’
‘You didn’t tell him that?’
‘Oh, no, of course not. But if he had known, he would have told me, for sure. He knows everything about Blarney right down to who drowned whose dog in 1937 for barking and keeping them awake all night, and who won the best barmbrack competition in 1951. He wasn’t backward about telling me, either. I thought I was going to be stuck on the blower all afternoon. But—’
Detective Ó Doibhilin held up his notebook. ‘I think I have a result. He told me that some of the Langtry family still live in Dripsey, in the Model Village. I’ve traced two people of that name there, and I’ve tried ringing them, but neither of them answered, so I’ll go out there this morning and see if I can locate them. Tyrone from the Technical Bureau will be coming along with me, to take DNA swabs.’
‘Good work, Michael,’ said Katie. ‘If we can positively confirm who they are, then it might help us find out who killed them. Grand. Thank you.’
She turned her attention back to her paperwork, but then she was aware that Detective Ó Doibhilin was still standing there. She looked up again and said, ‘Yes, Michael? Was there something else?’
‘No, not really, ma’am. It’s just that I’ve never worked on a case like this before – you know, when the crime was committed such a long time ago. It’s almost ninety-five years, like.’
‘Well, I haven’t either,’ said Katie. ‘Not unless you count that bog woman who was dug up in Mayfield.’
‘I was only wondering why we’re carrying on this inquiry at all. Like, whoever the offenders were, they must have passed away years ago. And, you know, I would have thought that we’d more than enough on our plates just at the moment.’
Katie said, ‘You’re right of course, Michael, and believe me, I’m not giving it a very high priority. But justice has to be done, even if it’s long overdue, do you know what I mean? You might manage to hide whatever crime it is that you’ve committed, and nobody might discover what you’ve done until you’re dead and buried, but you still ought to know that one day you could be found out and your name shamed for it.’
‘Well, I suppose,’ said Detective Ó Doibhilin.
‘Look at Sonny O’Neill, for instance. He was the fellow who shot Michael Collins at Béal na Bláth in 1922, but that wasn’t known for certain until they opened the files in the 1980s. O’Neill was long gone, but it was still important for us to know that he actually fired the fatal shot, do you know what I mean, whether you think he was a hero or a villain? What happened in the 1920s, it’s still resonating, isn’t it, even today?’
Detective Ó Doibhilin nodded, and nodded again, and said, ‘All right. Yes, I deck that,’ and left Katie’s office. After he had gone she sat at her desk for a few minutes, thinking about what she had just said to him and hoping it hadn’t made her sound too much like her old history mistress, Miss Mulvaney, whose grandfather had been shot dead at Croke Park on Bloody Sunday in 1920, and never let anybody forget it.
She felt frayed and exhausted. She hadn’t been able to sleep all night, worrying about John and how she could rescue him from Bobby Quilty. She had also been trying to work out what she was going to say at this morning’s operational meeting about cigarette smuggling, and how they were going to change their strategy after the murder of Detective Barry. Up until now – in open and sometimes angry disagreement with Assistant Commissioner Jimmy O’Reilly – Katie had repeatedly argued that they should go after Bobby Quilty in person and not spend valuable time and budget chasing after his small-time dealers and mules. This morning’s meeting wasn’t going to be easy. Now that John was being held hostage, under threat of his life, she would have to find a way of backtracking without losing authority or credibility or, most of all, face.
*
The meeting started fifteen minutes late and everybody in the conference room was growing restless and checking their watches even though there was a large clock on the wall. Superintendent Pearse was having a furious finger-jabbing argument with somebody on his tablet, and Chief Superintendent MacCostagáin was looking deeply disgruntled. In the hoarsely whispered words of Detective Markey, who was sitting close enough for Katie to be able to hear him, he had the face of a bulldog sucking piss from a stinging nettle.
At last, Assistant Commissioner Jimmy O’Reilly walked into the conference room, skull-like and ill-tempered, his thinning silver hair greased back, his eyes as dead as ever. He was still wearing his blue full-dress uniform and Katie remembered that he had attended a formal reception earlier that morning for the new minister for justice and equality, Mary Brennan. Jimmy O’Reilly never enjoyed being reminded that there was somebody up the ladder higher than him, especially when that somebody was a woman.
Behind Jimmy O’Reilly, holding a bulging folder of notes under his arm, came his senior personal assistant, James Elvin. He was a very good-looking young man, with fashionably brushed-up blonde hair and a smart grey suit, and despite Jimmy O’Reilly’s permanent scowl James always seemed to be having a secret smirk to himself. Katie had found herself wishing when she first met him that she was ten years younger.
Chief Superintendent MacCostagáin stood up, cleared his throat, and said, ‘Before we start, I’d appreciate it if you’d all stand for two minutes in silence to pay our respects to Detective Garda Gerald Barry, who gave his life in the line of duty.’
They all stood. Some crossed themselves and almost all of them closed their eyes or stared down at the floor. Katie kept her eyes open because she knew that if she closed them she would see Detective Barry’s smile again and wonder what he had been dreaming as he died.
When they had all sat down, Jimmy O’Reilly rose stiffly to his feet. He was addressing more than sixty detectives and gardaí and technical specialists, but he fixed his eyes on the clock at the very back of the conference room and spoke in a barely audible monotone, as if he were reluctantly reading out a restaurant menu to somebody who had forgotten their glasses.
‘Good morning. Tobacco smuggling. Point number one. Strategy. I think we have to accept that it was the way in which we conceptualized our role in dealing with tobacco smuggling that led partly if not almost entirely to the tragic loss of Detective Barry.’
He paused for so long that Katie began to think that he had forgotten what he was going to say next, or that he had even forgotten where he was and that he was supposed to be talking to them. The lengthy silence was punctuated by coughing and shuffling, and one distinctive sneeze.
Eventually, though, he carried on in the same indistinct monotone. ‘Point number two. Of course we acknowledge that the smuggling and selling of NIDP tobacco is organized by criminal gangs and our intelligence has clearly shown that some of those criminal gangs are channelling their profits into illegal political activities – such as, for instance, the Authentic IRA. However, the offence of evading duty on tobacco is not of itself a direct threat to public order.’
He paused again, licking his lips with the tip of his tongue, like a lizard that had just swallowed a fly. ‘Point number three. Detective Barry is the first and so far the only fatal casualty of tobacco smuggling in Cork, but that is one fatality too many. I, for one, want to see no more lives lost, either gardaí or civilians, not for an offence that is essentially financial. I’m not pretending for a moment that smoking is harmless, or that health care for smokers isn’t a serious drain on government resources, but smoking in designated areas is not in itself a crime. I accept that evading duty on tobacco deprives the government of much-needed revenue, but I think we have to ask ourselves how much responsibility the government itself has to bear for bowing to pressure from the cancer lobby and setting the retail price of cigarettes so high, the highest in Europe.
‘In my view, An Garda Síochána should be leaving the investigation into tobacco smuggling and the enforcement of
duty entirely to Revenue, except when violence or threats of violence are involved, or when illegal cigarette factories are set up in this country for the purposes of avoiding duty. Furthermore, we should leave the tracing and confiscation of any profits made from contraband tobacco to the Criminal Assets Bureau.’
Again he paused and licked his lips, and then he said, ‘I’ve had detailed consultations with the deputy commissioner and with Chief Superintendent MacCostagáin, and we’re broadly in agreement. Since the recent budget cuts, this division has burdened with an increasingly onerous caseload but has fewer officers and less money to cope with that caseload. It’s patently clear that our efforts to break up cigarette-smuggling gangs by the piecemeal arrest of their dealers is not proving at all effective. Almost as soon as we arrest one dealer, another one appears on the same spot within minutes, and if we confiscate their stock, the gang simply resupplies them with a whole load more. It’s like trying to cut the head off a hydrant.’
‘Hydra,’ Katie quietly corrected him, though she wasn’t sure that he heard her.
Jimmy O’Reilly at last looked down at the faces of his audience, although his emotionless expression showed that he had made up his mind and that he wasn’t expecting anyone there to challenge him. ‘To sum up, I’m proposing that we curtail our strategy of arresting dealers and in future act only in support of Revenue and the CAB when called upon to do so. Does anybody have any views on that? Detective Superintendent Maguire, you’ve always been very vociferous when it comes to cigarette smuggling.’
Katie hardly knew what to say, although she was feeling a deep sense of relief. Thank you, St Raphael, she thought. St Raphael was the patron saint of lovers and she had said a prayer to him in the darkness of the night, pleading with him to keep John safe.
She hadn’t expected for a moment that Jimmy O’Reilly intended to cut back Garda operations against cigarette smugglers. He had given an interview to the Irish Times only three weeks ago claiming that his pursuit of tobacco gangs would continue to be ‘relentless’. But now she wouldn’t have to come up with some fictitious justification for releasing Denny Quinn and suspending her inquiry into Bobby Quilty.
Even though she was relieved, she knew that it would arouse suspicion if she welcomed Jimmy O’Reilly’s change of strategy with too much enthusiasm. It was common knowledge in Anglesea Street that there was no love lost between the two of them, either personally or operationally.
‘Well, sir, I can’t say that I totally go along with what you’re suggesting,’ she told him. ‘In particular, I’m concerned that young people are being tempted by the smugglers to take part in organized crime and that that’s going to lead them into much more serious offending as they grow older.’
Jimmy O’Reilly didn’t look at her but kept his eyes on the audience, to see what their reaction was. ‘Fair play to you, detective superintendent, I can see where you’re coming from. But on the whole I think that we can rely on our social services to manage that particular problem – as we mostly do already, to be fair. If the courts won’t convict fifteen-year-olds for selling illegal cigarettes, why are we bothering with arresting them and going through all the committal procedure? It needlessly ties up officers who could be going after car thieves and pimps and drug-dealers, and worse.’
Katie lifted both of her hands, as if she couldn’t argue with what he was saying. ‘All right, then. My team are up the walls at the moment with some very serious inquiries, no question about it, and it would certainly free up some of their time. So, yes, let’s break off our surveillance of the dealers for a few weeks and see how things work out.’
‘You agree with me, then?’ Jimmy O’Reilly’s lips twisted themselves into something that was almost a smile. ‘That’s a first. What about Detective Barry? You’ll still be pursuing that investigation, I imagine?’
‘Of course, although it’s not going as well as I’d hoped. There’s no forensic or CCTV evidence to identify the driver who knocked him down, and no witnesses have come forward yet, although that doesn’t surprise me.’
She saw Detective Sergeant Begley shift around in his seat and frown at her. Only yesterday afternoon she had vehemently told him that she would find out who had killed Gerry Barry if it took the rest of her life. But Bobby Quilty or one of his gang were by far the most likely suspects and she wanted to give the impression that she didn’t hold out much hope of arresting any of them.
Maybe I’m being more than a little paranoid, she thought. Maybe there’s nobody in this room who’s going to contact Bobby Quilty as soon as this conference is over and tell him what I’ve just said. But how had Bobby Quilty managed to react so quickly to their attempted arrest of Denny Quinn at Mother Jones Flea Market, unless he had known in advance that Denny was under surveillance?
Katie had little doubt that it would reach his ears somehow, and the less threatened Bobby Quilty felt, the better John’s chances of survival.
*
She was buttoning up her jacket ready to go out when Detective Ó Doibhilin knocked at her door. He was carrying an old green Governey’s shoebox.
‘Oh, you’re back,’ she said. ‘How did you get on? I’m in a bit of a rush, I’m afraid. I’m meeting somebody and I’m ten minutes late already.’
‘To be honest with you, ma’am, I’m not too sure what I got.’
‘What do you mean? Did you manage to find any of the Langtry family?’
Detective Ó Doibhilin put down the shoebox on the corner of Katie’s desk and took out his notebook. ‘I did, yes. Two in fact. The most direct descendant was Dermot Langtry, thirty-nine years old, lives with his wife and three children at O’Mahoney Terrace in the Model Village. He has his own painting and decorating business.’
‘All right,’ said Katie, trying not to sound impatient. ‘So what’s his connection to Stephen Langtry?’
‘His great-grandfather, Colm Langtry, was Stephen Langtry’s younger brother. That, er, that would make him Stephen Langtry’s great-grand-nephew.’
‘That’s correct. Who was the other one?’
‘Dermot Langtry’s second cousin, Ronan Fitzgerald. Forty-two years old, married with no children. He’s an accountant for Crowley and McCarthy in Macroom. Lives only round the corner in Radharc Na Chroisigin.’
‘So, did either of them know anything about the Langtrys’ sudden disappearance?’
‘Not Ronan Fitzgerald. All he was good for was triangulating our DNA sample. But Dermot Langtry did, yes, and that’s why I’m so puggalized.’
‘Go on.’
‘Well, it seems like the Langtrys took off one day without informing a soul that they were going – the same as that auld wan told us. They didn’t tell their family, they didn’t tell any of their friends. Stephen Langtry didn’t even tell his boss at the mill that he was leaving. The house was cleared, too, all of the furniture gone. After about four months, though, Dermot’s great-grandfather received a postcard from Stephen from America. Stephen wrote that the family had settled in New York State and he was working for a company called Glenside Woollen Mills there and that everything was grand.’
‘Did he explain why they upped sticks like that, without telling anybody?’
‘The postcard’s right here in the box, ma’am. There’s some letters, too, but I haven’t had the time to read them yet. There’s five letters and eleven postcards altogether. The last of them is dated Christmas 1923. After that, the Langtrys in Dripsey never heard from Stephen again. They couldn’t write back to him and ask him where he was because he never them gave his full address. The letters just say “New York”, with the date.’
‘But they were definitely sent from America?’
‘Take a sconce at them yourself, ma’am,’ said Detective Ó Doibhilin. He snapped on a black latex glove, lifted the lid of the shoebox and picked out an envelope. Its address was scrawled in faded purple ink and a cluster of pale green 10 cent stamps were stuck on to it, each with a portrait of President Hayes, as well as two brown
4 cent stamps with a smiling Martha Washington.
Katie could also see a few of the postcards inside the box. Some of them were hand-coloured but most were sepia photographs of tall buildings and streets crowded with men in straw skimmers and women in ankle-length skirts.
‘You’re right, Michael, this is confusing, isn’t it? If the Langtrys were shot dead and lying under the floorboards in Blarney, how could they be sending mail from America? These letters and postcards – they certainly look genuine, don’t they?’
‘I’ll be taking them down to the lab now to have them tested,’ said Detective Ó Doibhilin. ‘Unfortunately we don’t have any authenticated samples of Stephen Langtry’s handwriting to compare them with. Still and all, Tyrone took a DNA sample from Dermot Langtry and he should be able to give us the result of that later today or tomorrow.’
‘Good. Dr Kelley will be arriving here about three and she’ll be going directly up to Blarney, so we may be able to move the bodies sometime tomorrow. She didn’t want them touched until she’d had the chance to examine them in situ, in case they fell to pieces. Now, I’m sorry to cut this short, but I really must go.’
As she hurried along the corridor, zipping up her jacket as she went, Detective Ó Doibhilin followed close behind her, carrying the shoebox under his arm.
‘I’ll tell you the truth, ma’am,’ he said, as she pressed the button for the lift. ‘You know what I was asking you earlier, why are we are trying to identify this family and find out who killed them even though it happened so long ago? I understand now what you were talking about. Like, I really understand. We do need to know, don’t we? Like, I want to know myself. Whoever he is, there’s a feller lying in a cemetery somewhere who shot them, the father, the mother, the two little kiddies and their dogs. I want to stand over his grave and tell him that he hasn’t got away with it, even if he’s dead.’
Buried Page 8
