Death in Dublin - Peter McGarr 16

by Bartholomew Gill

  “Even more than four hundred years after the initial Viking attacks, Christian Ireland remained so weak that the country was easily overrun by their coreligionists, the Normans, beginning in A.D. 1169. It ushered in over eight hundred years of foreign domination that has not ceased to this day.

  “Question—what is the most divisive and destructive issue in this country today?”

  A pastiche of rioting crowds, bomb-related destruction, and corpses appeared, along with clips of grieving families at funeral processions and gravesides.

  “What might Ireland have become, had she cleaved to her culture? Had Christianity not displaced the older Celtic verities of life and Druidism?”

  Suddenly, the picture on the screen began rotating and diminishing in a spin-fade, as though being drawn down a drain.

  The drain—replete with circular drain holes—reappeared, glowing and reddish as though made from some fi?ery chrome. “Which makes this book what?” a deep, gravelly, and disembodied voice asked.

  As the camera panned back, it revealed that the drainlike covering was obscuring the mouth of a person dressed in black with a black balaclava over a hooded face and what looked like blue-tinted welder’s goggles wrapped around his eyes. Strapped to his forehead was a bright red light that cast a fi?lm of red glare over the lens of the camera, further obscuring the image of the fi?gure and book.

  “A Judas book.” The fi?gure was holding up a book with the pages turned to the camera. The voice was one of the voices from the Trinity security tape, one of Raymond Sloane’s killers. “And expendable.”

  The picture on the screen then broke to a shot of the same black-gloved hands in some other setting, holding the blue fl?ame of a gas torch to what appeared to be a page of the Kells book. After only a few seconds of smoldering, it burst into fl?ame, curling up into a roll as it was consumed.

  “Like your fookin’ Christ, you have three days to come up with fi?fty million Euros. On the fourth, we’ll contact you with the drop. If you balk, on the fi?fth we burn a page and another every day until you do. Publicly.” The screen went black.

  McGarr’s fi?rst thought: Was it genuine? Or a ruse by Sweeney to...what? To enrich himself by 50 million. Why had the thieves chosen to go through him? Because they knew Sweeney was certain to copy it and make the entire matter public if the government were to balk?

  And how could its authenticity be established? Mc-Garr thought of Kara Kennedy upstairs in the lounge— perhaps she could tell from the look of it on the screen. Or the way it burned. While the tape was rewinding, he climbed the stairs two at a time, but she seemed to be gone. “She still here?” he asked the barman who had served him. “The woman I was with.” He pointed toward the hearth.

  “Told me to tell you she was tired of waiting. And just tired. She gave me this to give you.”

  On the back of her card was written, “Knackered. Going home. Thanks for the drinks. If you need me, please call.” She had included a second phone number.

  Back down in Flood’s offi?ce, McGarr rang up Mc-Keon, Swords, and Ward and Bresnahan, asking them to assemble at his house.

  Out on the street, he met Orla Bannon, the Ath Cliath reporter, who was sitting on the bonnet of a car with her legs folded under her.

  “Ran out on you, did she? Never trusted academics much meself. It’s the whole tenure thing. What the fook is tenure but a way of saying you can breeze through the rest of your life and still be in the chips? With all the time in the world.

  “Drink?” From under a brightly colored cape that looked like a serape, she pulled a pint bottle and held it out. “It’s me pukka pose. Like it?

  “What did Sweeney hand you? Looked like a video. Buds now, are you? Into swapping naughty fi?lms?” She tsked. “Men are so inscrutable. How quickly things change for you. Or is there something I should know?”

  McGarr had stopped in front of her, again wondering at her appearance there just as Sweeney was handing him the tape. Could it have been felicitous, merely her having tailed either Sweeney or McGarr himself there to witness the exchange? Or did Sweeney and she have some other purpose that was, at least for the moment, inscrutable? And fi?nally, what was her work arrangement at Ath Cliath if, as Bresnahan had said, she and Sweeney were at odds? “Chazz didn’t tell you? You, his diva. His ace reporter.”

  Becoming more complete, her smile crinkled the corners of her eyes, making her seem rather feline, given her pose. “Done some legwork, I see. Which is good. But not complete enough by half, I’d hazard. Your man Sweeney? He’d sooner give me the sack than the time of day. What’s in the video?”

  “Why do you work for him?”

  “Beyond money? Space. Where else could I get pages and pages and no—I repeat, no—editorial interference? He touches me copy, I’m gone.”

  “Gone with what?”

  She only smiled and raised the bottle.

  “What about Opus Dei? Ever write about them?”

  She nodded. “But I wasn’t working for him then, and we all have our sacred cows. Could it be, McGarr—you and Sweeney share that particular bovine but from different ends?”

  Fair play, thought McGarr, all three of the potential murderers of Noreen and Fitz having been associated with the reactionary Catholic sect.

  “What about the New Druids? Ever write about them?”

  “There’s little I haven’t. They send you that via Sweeney?” She waved the bottle at the video that Mc-Garr now slipped inside his jacket.

  “A ransom demand on tape? It’s a nice touch. Eliminates the whole handwriting analysis thing.” The legs came out from under her, and she swung them off the fender. They were shapely legs encased in black stockings.

  As though pondering, she raised them and stared at her shoes, which were suede with heels that gave her some height. “But why Sweeney of all people, considering who they are—anti-Christian and all their other rot?”

  When she glanced back up at McGarr, her eyes narrowed. “Offi?cially—as written on the papers they had to fi?le when registering as a political party—Celtic United is unattached to any other organization and is run by a woman who calls herself Morrigan.” She pronounced the name “Mor-ee-GAN.” She cocked her head slightly.

  McGarr nodded, the name being known to every schoolchild. Morrigan was the unconquerable goddess of war who battled Cuchulainn in the Celtic legends that made up the books of the Ulster Cycle.

  “But, really, she’s just another big, blowsy, middle-aged woman full of herself along with mounds of shite and drivel that she unloads at the slightest provocation. But who controls things is a man who calls himself Mide.” Again she gave McGarr a look.

  It was another name from old legend, but beyond that ...He shook his head.

  Orla Bannon raised her head to pipe a short laugh at the dark sky. “Wouldn’t you know it—us from the North always being more up on things Irish than you who’ve secured your own country in part because of those myths.”

  “Mide,” he prompted, now remembering. “The chief Druid of the Nemedians.” Only a few years ago he wouldn’t have had to refl?ect.

  “Yes, and—”

  “And what?”

  “Go on. About Mide.”

  “Well, none of this is fair. Obviously you’ve researched this recently—for one of your articles.”

  “Not so recently.”

  “And me—I’ve not been to school recently.” Mc-Garr glanced at his watch.

  “And not too attentively when you did, I’m thinking.”

  She paused for his reaction, and he wondered if— beyond her obvious attempt to pump him for information—she was actually trying to fl?irt with him. Or was it just the drink?

  Her smile was full; she was enjoying herself. “Thought as much. After the Nemedians conquered Ireland, your man Mide came up with this scheme. To demonstrate his power, he built a big ritual fi?re that he kept burning for seven years, some say, without adding fuel. As a prize or reward, he was allowed to exact a tribute of one pig an
d a sack of grain from every Irish household.

  “Two questions: In what way can the dealing in Oxy-Contin, heroin, speed, and the two cocaines be considered the building of a fi?re, consubstantial or otherwise? And could seven years possibly have elapsed before Mide and his gang began their protection schemes?”

  McGarr smiled; it was the “back story” humor that cops and journalists shared, if only to keep sane.

  “Morrigan’s real name is Sheila Law. Don’t know much about her apart from gossip saying she’s into young men in numbers, which she has, of course—the recruits, addicted, down-and-out whom they take in. It’s the other side that’s not reported much—the hostels, soup kitchens, methadone clinics they’ve set up. Day to day, they’re run on the up-and-up but are really recruitment centers for culling prospects. The ones who’ll do their bidding competently with few fuckups.”

  “What about him? Mide.”

  “Fergus Mann. ‘The Fergie Man,’ he’s called. A codger now, but still a nasty piece of work. Former IRA stalwart in the old never-grass-on-nobody-nomatter-the-pain mold. Convicted for two murders, he did the Maze thing with Bobby Sands and the other hunger strikers, then nearly two dozen other years until he became by his own say-so a visionary.”

  “And his vision?”

  “Thick, it is. The whole anti-Christian, IRA thing wrapped in different language—that Ireland was better off with the bunch of bloodthirsty bastards who were our ancestors, the Celts. It appeals to anybody who’s ever had their ears boxed by a priest or a nun, which is everybody. But poor kids from worse backgrounds are targeted. He’s a fookin’ viper, and the New Druids with its CU facade a viper’s nest. Literally.” With her thumb and her fi?rst two fi?ngers, she imitated the action of pushing a hypodermic needle into her other arm.

  “You’ve written that.”

  “I have. You’ll have to start reading me. How much ransom do they want?”

  “Where does ‘The Fergie Man’ hang his hat when he’s at home?”

  She hunched her shoulders. “Elusive, he is. As you would suspect, given his present involvements and the years he spent in the drum. It’s said he tells people he’s ‘allergic’ to prison, but I bet he keeps in touch with Morrigan at all times. Being a power monger and control freak.”

  McGarr turned and began heading off.

  “Ah, just when I thought were getting to know each other. Ten million? Twenty? If you tell me, I’ll tell you something I’m only after learning, something you can’t possibly know.”

  Stopping, he turned his head and shoulders to her. So far she’d been forthcoming, and without question she had good sources. Maybe she had more for him.

  “Thirty?”

  He shook his head.

  “Forty?”

  Again.

  “Jaysus, Mary, and Joseph—fi?fty fookin’ million, which is, mind you, a nice round fi?gure. But Kehoe will never pay it. He can’t.” Pushing down with her hands, she virtually hopped off the bonnet of the car. “McGarr—you’re a gas. Haven’t we got a wee neat story brewing here?” She hugged her elbows and spun a circle, her long dark braid whipping behind her.

  “Well?”

  “The something you can’t possibly know?”

  He swirled a hand. “Think of it as a lane in the two-way street you mentioned when we fi?rst spoke.”

  “Okay. Remember, you asked for it.” On heel, then toe, she sauntered up to him, as though to whisper in his ear. She slipped her hand in his jacket pocket and pulled him closer. “Derek Greene?”

  McGarr nodded. It was the name of the Trinity security guard who was knocked down and killed two weeks earlier.

  “A witness told me the killing car was a BMW.” Their bodies were touching, and her breath was hot in his ear. “The big one.”

  “Midnight blue. Gold wheel covers,” McGarr guessed. “Now, for something I don’t know.” The point being to pump her as hard as she was pumping him.

  “Two things, darlin’ man—the car, or a car like it, is often parked round back of CU party headquarters.”

  “And where would that be?”

  “Off the Glasnevin Road near Ballymun. Big place, can’t miss it. Offi?ce is open twenty-four hours a day, methadone center upstairs, a ‘dormitory/hostel’ out back down a laneway for in-patient rehab, the brochure says. Most are New Druid recruits or CU operatives, with the whole health-care operation fi?nanced by the government. Mide, ‘The Fergie Man,’ being quick on his feet.

  “Need more?” she again breathed into his ear. “Your man, Derek Greene? He was interred in the Fairview Cemetery six days ago. But the family phoned me this after’. They’ve been told the grave has been disturbed.”

  “Disturbed how?”

  “Somebody took off his bloody head.”

  McGarr waited.

  “Grisly, no? Dug up the casket and chopped his block right off the body. And very much the New Druid thing. Rumor has it, they do it to rival gangs, other thugs horning in on their territory. Sends a message, one told me. Fook with the New Druids, you end up not only dead but headless. Your mammy pines.”

  Sending a message—it was the purpose of Raymond Sloane’s murder, according to the voices on the security tape.

  McGarr turned his shoulder to move away from her, but she pulled him back. “What are you doing later?”

  McGarr suspected there would be no later for him, only morning. “I imagine I’ll be busy.”

  Kissing his ear in a way that made him fl?inch and sent a shiver up his spine, she then shoved him away. “Imagine, then—it’s all you’ll get tonight. But remember—you have my card.”

  Walking quickly toward his house, McGarr couldn’t help speculate on what any involvement with somebody so—what was it about Orla Bannon?—seemingly self-possessed, so sure of herself and her talents, might be like.

  But then, of course, how to separate the Orla Ban-non of the byline from Orla Bannon herself, if there were in fact another person beyond the journalist.

  And why, with commerce being brisk along their two-way street. Now, if only all of it proved genuine...

  CHAPTER

  7

  AT HOME MCGARR WENT UP TO MADDIE’S ROOM, where the light was still on. “How go the sums, Madz— done yet?”

  “Nearly.”

  “Do something for me?”

  Her tousled red head came up from the book. “What?” She was dressed in her pajamas, and the covers of her bed were pulled back.

  “Copy this for me while I’m on the phone. Use the original for the fi?rst, then copy its copy on however many blank tapes that we have.”

  “Or tapes that I’ll make blank.”

  “There you have it, if they’re expendable. Five will do.” He placed the videotape on the desk, then moved back toward the door and the phone in his study.

  “Does it have to do with the Book of Kells?”

  “It does, indeed. And after you’re done, I’d like you to see a portion of it.” So you understand what else I do apart from brutalizing the press, was his intention.

  In his study, he called his offi?ce and asked for the exact address of Celtic United and if the whereabouts of one Fergus Mann, convicted felon, were known.

  “The Fergie Man? Mide himself?” Swords asked. “Finding him won’t be easy, Chief.”

  “Any way we can.” Which meant touts, illegal searches, wiretaps. “Pull out all the stops.”

  “He behind the book theft and murder?”

  “Possibility. I’ll also need the accident and police reports on the hit-and-run killing of Derek Greene.”

  “They’re sitting on your desk.”

  “Any witness statements?”

  “Two, both describing the car as big, dark blue, with gold wheel covers. One said she thought it was a BMW.”

  McGarr hoped Orla Bannon’s other tips were as accurate.

  Next, he phoned McKeon and Bresnahan and Ward, asking them to meet him on the Glasnevin Road near Celtic United headquarters.

  D
ownstairs in the den, where the television was located, Maddie was fi?nishing up the fi?nal tape. “We only had two blank tapes and one more that was ‘expendable.’ ”

  “That’s grand. Sit back there, now.” He pointed at a chair. “And I’ll give you some idea what we’re up against. It’s between you, me, and the lamppost, of course. No friends, nobody in school. But I don’t have to remind you of that at this late date.”

  “No, Peter, you don’t. I know what to say.” Which was, “My father never mentions his work at home. Not a word.”

  In the past, the parents of Maddie’s friends—to say nothing of the children themselves—had tried to extract any little bit of information they could about some ongoing investigation.

  “I came by this only a little while ago. It could be the ransom demand, if the page is genuine. You’ll see.” McGarr slipped the tape in the VCR. Stepping back, he found Nuala standing in the doorway, her arms folded across her chest.

  McGarr spooled through the fi?rst part of the video until the black, hooded fi?gure came on with the demand per se. In silence, the three watched.

  “Is it a real page from the Book of Kells he’s burning?” Maddie asked.

  “We don’t know yet.” McGarr switched off the tape and hit rewind.

  “How can anybody, the government even, pay that much money? And how will it get paid? I mean, that much must be a heap of money.”

  “Maddie—you should be in bed,” said Nuala. “I want you upstairs. Now.” She stepped away from the door.

  “But Peter let me...”

  “No ifs, ands, or buts—you’re past time as we speak.”

  “But Peter—”

  “Now!”

  Her eyes wide and fi?lling with tears, Maddie glared at McGarr, as though to ask why he had not come to her defense. She rushed toward the door. “Granny, sometimes you’re such a witch.”

  “And, Peter—I’d like a word with you before you leave.”

  Not happy with Nuala, he caught Maddie by the arm and swept her into his arms. “I’d carry you upstairs but you’re getting too big. Night, now.” He kissed and released her.