“Meanwhile, toss the room. Again you’re looking for keys that fit this lock and the lock of Power’s room. You’re also looking for phenobarbital in pill, tablet, or liquid form, and digitoxin or digitalis. Set aside any unmarked substance, and don’t spare anything—the linings of his cases, clothes”—he swung his hand at the machines—“cabinets.
“Then you’re to get yourself out of that monkey suit. Knowing the hotel as you now must, find out if Gladden or Nell Power were on the premises last night.”
Ward’s eyes slid off Bresnahan’s as he turned toward the door. There, he held out his hand. “You’re—?”
“Rory O’Suilleabhain.” O’Suilleabhain looked down at Ward’s hand, as though trying to decide if he should shake hands with a waiter.
“And how are all the little O’Suilleabhains?”
O’Suilleabhain’s smile crumpled. “I don’t understand.”
“Just as I thought. Good for you. Stick to your gun, and don’t let any little gurrier tell you otherwise.”
Ward left O’Suilleabhain with his hand in the air.
Bresnahan tried not to smile, but McGarr had not seemed to have heard the exchange and was still staring at the woman at the table. Power had written:
Like some fat, bald Theseus I have been sitting in the sun of this foreign isle, searching blindly for an Ariadne thread to lead me out of the dark labyrinth….
Which, but for the setting, was McGarr’s position exactly. He was missing the thread that would bind together the tangled pieces of the investigation and lead him from the maze of the murderer’s plot. If Gretta Osbourne had been sailing with Frost, she could not have been the person who had delivered the photocopies of the note cards to Nell Power. With the tip of his own pen, McGarr turned the pages of Osbourne’s diary back to Sunday, and there it was. “Sailing with Shane” occupied all of the Sunday morning entries.
Again he examined the acrylic strands of the blond wig. If Frost could be believed, a wig such as that had been used along with the red Audi to cast suspicion on Gretta Osbourne by whoever had delivered the photocopies to the Waterville Lake Hotel. But why dress up like Gladden unless to cast suspicion on him?
It had not been Gladden, however; that much was already established. And Frost had as much as eliminated Osbourne and himself, again if he could be believed. Why should he lie? It could easily be checked; somebody was certain to have seen them sailing.
Who else was tall—“A rough-looking fellow with hardly a word on him,” the desk clerk had said. He had handed her a note asking her to deliver the sack to Nell Power. Why a note? Afraid to speak because of some accent?
Who else would have had access to both Osbourne’s Audi, which Gladden had borrowed, and Gladden’s greatcoat with a wig inside the pocket?
McGarr turned to Bresnahan. “If you see Noreen in Sneem, ask her to return here and transcribe the tape on the recorder she placed by the baby monitor.
“And save a place for me.”
“In the church?”
McGarr nodded; maybe if he saw everybody together…
On the way to his room he was handed a note by a uniformed Guard. It was from Superintendent Butler of the Kenmare Barracks, saying that he had sent a squad to search Mossie Gladden’s mountain farm for the high-powered rifle that McGarr had seen on Tuesday, but they could not find it.
CHAPTER 21
On Bridges, Rivers, and No Turning Back
WITH AN OVERWHELMING sense of déjà vu, Ruth Bresnahan lowered herself into the front passenger seat of her rental Merc and watched Rory O’Suilleabhain close the door. The ease of how they were together and the…usualness of being a part of each other’s life was so winningly comfortable that it almost felt as if she had never actually been without him.
It was as though—after some dark passage in which, while with the Guards, she had taken the long way round through various cow towns and finally Dublin, she had arrived suddenly back on the main road of her life, crossed a bridge, and there was no turning back. Things were now hurtling forward with all the headlong inevitability of predestination. This was how it was meant to be, she kept thinking. Her life.
But for her St. Laurent dress, the car itself, and the weight of the Gluck automatic pistol in her purse, she could have believed it was a decade earlier, and she had never left Sneem and the South Kerry Mountains.
The three parents were sitting in back, and little was said at first, apart from Agnes O’Suilleabhain remarking on how “womanly” Bresnahan looked. “And beautiful,” her own mother added, on the principle that you should never allow a prospective buyer to derogate your calf.
“Not like a girl at all.”
“Well, she’s not one, is she?” Through no fault of her own, her mother meant.
Said O’Suilleabhain himself, “The little fella—he a cop too?”
Which little fella? Counting McKeon, there had been three of them. But she nodded, knowing he meant Ward. They were approaching the outskirts of Sneem, and the mounded sides of the narrow road were lined with parked cars.
“Junior man, I’d say. Looks hardly out of his teens.”
Bresnahan did not know why, but it irked her to hear O’Suilleabhain slag Ward so. “Actually, he’s not. He’s a full rank above me and currently in line for even higher position.” She let that sink in. “It’s the tux. Short notice. He had to take what they had.”
“The smallest size. Something tells me he fancies you.” There was a glint of derision in O’Suilleabhain’s thin, sidelong smile.
Bresnahan felt her nostrils flare. “Something comical in that?”
“No—nothing. Don’t get mad. It’s just there’s such a difference, you know, between you.”
Bresnahan knew well the differences, which, granted, were many, but she wanted O’Suilleabhain to tell her what he thought they were.
“—height and such.”
“Do you follow boxing, Rory?”
“You know I do.”
Vaguely Bresnahan seemed to remember he did, but the egotism of his assuming that she had treasured the least bit of information about him was galling. “Have you ever heard of ‘Whipper’ Ward?” which was her pint-sized pugilist’s ring moniker, and which she personally thought was ludicrous.
“Of course. He was one of the finest fighters Ireland ever produced.”
“Is,” Bresnahan corrected.
“Up until four, five years ago, I’d say.”
“Who?” her father asked from the backseat.
“‘Whipper’ Ward, Tom,” O’Suilleabhain explained. “D’ye remember him? Cute little dodger from Dublin in the seventy-kilo weight class. A boxer in the strict sense. Won the Euro games twice, I believe.”
“Three times,” Bresnahan corrected, but as she was a woman, her comments on a male subject were not being heard.
Said her father, “That Dutchman, now—remember how Ward came out in the third? He took your man’s measure for nearly the entire round. Everybody thought he’d lost it for sure. Then with a flurry at the bell he put the Kraut right through the ropes and out of the ring.”
O’Suilleabhain smiled and shook his head. “He was a great one, all right.”
Is. Is, Bresnahan thought without wasting her breath.
“So?” O’Suilleabhain finally demanded. His mouth then dropped open. “You don’t mean to say that was ‘Whipper’ Ward?”
Bresnahan had not meant to say anything whatsoever about ‘Whipper’ Ward, and she pointed toward the windscreen of the car. Standing in the middle of the road was a tall Guard in dark blue overcoat, marked out by a white garrison belt. He had raised one white glove, and O’Suilleabhain slowed, approaching him. “You’re not kidding, are you?”
Bresnahan’s smile was brittle, as she opened her purse and extracted her photo I.D.
“Hear that, Tom? ‘Whipper’ Ward is back at Parknasilla.” And to Bresnahan: “I wish you’d told me. I’d’ve gotten his autograph.”
Maybe tattooed across your
nose, she thought.
“He in training?”
Something like that, but not for a fight.
The car pulled up beside the Guard, who said, “Sorry, folks. I’m afraid the village has as many cars as it can hold today. There’s a funeral in progress with dignitaries and all. If you’re here for it yourselves, you’ll have to park—”
He handed Bresnahan’s I.D. to the Guard, who studied it, said, “Changed your hair, I see,” to O’Suilleabhain, and waved them through.
“Marvelous what a little pull will do,” her mother said proudly.
“Sure—Rory only had to tell him who he was, and we would have sailed through fine,” his mother countered lamely.
Ah, shit, Bresnahan thought, imagine two years of that, or ten, or twenty?
O’Suilleabhain handed the I.D. back, but Bresnahan did not put it away. In front of them were more blue uniforms than Sneem had seen in a decade.
Already several uniforms had broken from the blue line; one raised a hand. Other Guards were carefully checking the cars that were parked along the square. Out of the corner of her eye Bresnahan saw a silhouette blocked out against the winter sun on the other side of the square. It was a soldier—obviously part of the taosieach’s security force—actually walking the peaks of the buildings on the other side of the square, checking rooftop coverts and aeries.
“Park there.” She pointed to an empty slot in front of M.J.P. Frost’s chemist shop.
Even before O’Suilleabhain turned in, one of the Guards began shaking a hand at them.
“You can get out, people. I speak their language.”
“Apache?”
“No—it’s a tongue that originates in Phoenix Park,” which was headquarters of the Garda Siochana. “Pol-eash. The words are weighted by chain of command.” It was a Murder Squad in-joke that Bresnahan had not entirely appreciated until that moment. One thing she could never deny, no matter what else might happen in her life, was the fact that she had matured and become very much a confident, competent woman in “the Guards.”
“So—it’s you.”
Bresnahan glanced up at the sergeant who was studying her I.D. Did she know him? Scrupulously shaven, pink flesh lobbed over his black chin strap. Four other pair of judgmental eyes devolved on the line of her body.
“The Ban Gharda who put the questions to Mossie Gladden,” he explained. “Haven’t you seen the papers this morning? He’s demanding you be fired, along with your chief there. McGarr. Some say he’s muffed this one.”
Gladden or McGarr? Bresnahan wondered until another of the Guards began sniggering.
He returned the square of laminated plastic to Bresnahan, who slipped it in her purse. “Nice duty, the Murder Squad.”
“Umh-uh-uh,” said another, watching her walk toward the parents, Rory O’Suilleabhain, and Noreen McGarr, who was holding Madeleine by the hand.
By the time McGarr arrived a half hour later, Sneem looked as though it had been invaded by two rival armies—one blue, the other olive drab—who were preparing to contest the green. In Ireland terrorists were always a threat, and the security force, which accompanied the taosieach, had evidently completed their sweep of the village and were awaiting the end of the funeral mass to resume their places.
A third group of journalists and media personnel with their large, lumbering, and brightly painted remote vans had gathered in the laneway that led to the church.
McGarr had read that O’Duffy would eulogize Paddy Power not from the pulpit of the church but rather from the arch of the narrow bridge over the Sneem River from which Mossie Gladden had launched his accusations of the day before. He had promised he would answer Gladden and “all other questions relating to Paddy Power’s sudden, tragic death” at that time. McGarr wondered how, since nobody had consulted with him apart from Commissioner Farrell, who had only voiced his displeasure with McGarr’s conduct of the investigation and demanded he turn over “all evidence gathered in the case so far,” by which he meant the note cards. Before ringing off that morning.
McGarr lowered the visor with the chief superintendent’s shield on the back and slowly eased his Cooper through the respective authorities, who waved him on. The press was an agency that respected no authority, however; they surrounded the Cooper, and McGarr had to throw his weight against the door to climb out. There, questions were barked at him, flashguns popped, and microphones were shoved in his face.
Swirling his shoulders to clear a space in front of him, he sent one microphone sailing off into the crowd. He then snapped his head in the direction of the uniformed Guards, who were watching what amounted to his being mugged by the Fourth Estate. “You!” he shouted, pointing at the Guard with the bright sergeant’s chevrons on his arm. He then pointed to the press, jerked a thumb over his shoulder, and waited while the gaggle of Guards broke toward them, voices raised.
“Get out now! Get out! The chief is on official business.”
“Go to many state-sanctioned funerals, Chief?” one journalist asked.
“Sure he does. Great place for a cover-up. Appearance and reality are one.”
“Mossie Gladden says you stole the libretto for this opera, but Phoenix Park claims they know of no such evidence. Any chance of our getting a copy?”
“You’ll need friends. We could make it worth your while.”
McGarr tried to put a face with that voice, but he kept moving, now that he could, toward the church of gray stone that looked like a part of the crag on which it had been built.
So—Phoenix Park had begun to comment on the case, again without consulting him. It was a public warning from Farrell and O’Duffy that they would announce their own findings with or without him. Unless, of course, McGarr could come up with a murderer. And, more, proof of a murderer.
The people who had gathered in front of the open door of the church now turned to him; worse, they stepped back to let him pass, which was extraordinary for an Irish crowd. Feeling like a man condemned, he moved through the vestibule and down the aisle, picking up speed when he noticed a priest moving toward the pulpit. The sermon in eulogy was about to begin, and nowhere could he see the bright patch of Bresnahan’s orange hair until he had nearly reached the chancel rail.
By then, every eye was on him, including those of the priest on the pulpit. Even O’Duffy, Minister for Justice Harney, and Commissioner Farrell turned, regarding him without expression. But there was Bresnahan with her hand raised to signal him. McGarr entered the pew.
“All here but Gladden,” Bresnahan whispered, as the priest in the pulpit gathered himself and adjusted the microphone.
A line appeared in McGarr’s brow. Why? Gladden was missing the opportunity of a lifetime. Or had he allowed the presence of Sean Dermot O’Duffy to keep him from the funeral of his self-described best friend? No, McGarr decided—Gladden would make his appearance later, with the press in attendance, outside the church or at the bridge.
“Frost and Nell Power.” Bresnahan inclined her head to one side where in the first pew they sat together. “With Power’s children.” She meant the five younger people beside the woman. “Even Gladden’s solicitor, Kieran Coyne.” Bresnahan’s head moved in the other direction and turned her body to look behind her. “The tall fella with the rough-looking face.”
McGarr searched through the church of faces until he found the gaunt face, hollow cheeks, but bright red complexion of the man he had seen with Gladden yesterday. One of Coyne’s eyes was blackened and that cheekbone swollen. And McGarr had seen the look on Coyne’s face more than a few times before; without a doubt it was guilt, which made McGarr curious. Turning back to Bresnahan, he said, “I heard yesterday he was a blow-in from Dublin.”
“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” the priest said into a microphone.
“His new wife is from Sneem, Rory tells me.” She leaned her head toward O’Suilleabhain, who was sitting on the other side of her. “He’s trying to make a go of a law practice down here
for her sake.”
“We are gathered here today to mourn the passing of one of Sneem’s most illustrious sons and to celebrate his passage to a higher plane, which is his—and will be our own—ultimate reward.”
McGarr thought of how, three days earlier when Frost had confronted Gladden, Gladden had threatened to put him on the flat of his back. “I wonder how he got the shiner?” When McGarr turned to look back again, Coyne was gone.
McGarr spun out of the pew and was down the aisle at a jog in time to see the vent of Coyne’s overcoat disappearing into the crowd at the back of the church. McGarr raced forward, wanting to stop the man in the vestibule, before he could get outside among the press. But the crowd, having turned to Coyne, had closed, and McGarr had to shove people out of his way. “Police. Police business!” he shouted. “Make way!”
McGarr grabbed the cellar of Coyne’s overcoat, just as he reached the periphery of the assembled reporters. He spun the tall, lank man around and threw him toward the church. With a sickening, hollow sound Coyne’s head struck the gray stone gable of the church, which was brightened by the flash of cameras; Coyne’s soft hat fell off and was carried away by the breeze.
“See this?” From the pocket of his mac, McGarr pulled the blond acrylic wig and held it in front of Coyne’s face. “I want you to tell me about this. I have witnesses that place you with a photocopy of Paddy Power’s note cards, in Gretta Osbourne’s red Audi, at the Waterville Lake Hotel, and later at the Rathfield ruin. She’s dead, and at the very least there’s the charge of complicity in a double murder.”
Coyne’s bony hand had wrapped his forehead. The blackened eye had opened and was staring down into the blond wig, which a further burst of electronic light blanched. “Can’t we—”
The Death of Love Page 25
