by Paula Martin
After about fifteen minutes, a slim nun, not much older than herself, came into reception. She wore a navy suit with a sleeveless jacket over a white blouse, and a matching navy silk headscarf, and beckoned to her. "Miss Stewart? I apologise for keeping you waiting, but if you'd like to follow me?"
She led the way down a cream-painted corridor into a large office with wide windows overlooking Galway Bay.
The nun, whose ID tag showed her name as Sister Mary Theresa, indicated the chair in front of her desk and gave her a friendly smile. "Now, how can I help you?"
"Oh, I thought your receptionist might have told you. I gave her the reason for my visit here."
"Yes, something to do with donations to our order, I understand."
Kara thought of Josie's indignant comments when she'd mentioned the donations: Fees, you mean, 'cept they weren't allowed to call them that, 'cause it was illegal to sell babies, but American couples paid hundreds, if not thousands, to adopt Irish babies.
For the moment, however, it was more tactful to keep to the official line.
"My grandfather made annual donations to the Sisters of Calvary for over fifty years until his death last year, and I believe this was because he and his wife adopted a baby from the mother and baby home in Ballykane in 1960."
"We are extremely grateful for all donations, Miss Stewart. We receive no government funding and rely on clients' payments and on donations to continue our commitment to providing high quality medical care here."
"I'm trying to find out more about the baby they adopted, Sister. That baby is my mother, and she knows nothing about her birth mother or the circumstances of her birth."
The nun nodded. "I see. Well, I'm afraid it's often very difficult to trace the details of all the babies born in the home at Ballykane."
"Surely the Sisters kept records of the mothers, and the adoptions, too?"
"Unfortunately, we're talking about a time when there were only paper records. No computers then, of course. I regret to say many of those records have been lost over the years."
"Aren't there any records from the Ballykane home?"
"Oh yes, several hundred boxes. Sister Augusta, our archivist, is trying to index them. However, I'm sure you understand that we are only permitted to give out non-identifying information."
"What does that mean?"
"We can't divulge the original name or surname of an adopted child, or the names of his or her birth parents. Such details have to remain confidential."
Kara frowned. "Why?"
"The mothers have a right to privacy about their past lives, Miss Stewart."
"What about the children? Don't they have the right to know about their birth parents?"
"Under current legislation, no, not unless the mother consents, and the father, too, if he is named on the birth certificate."
Kara blinked as she struggled to absorb this information. "I see." She thought for a couple of seconds. "Is there any way I can find out more about my mother's birth and adoption?"
The nun wrote something on a notepad and handed it to her. "Here's the address for Sister Augusta."
Kara looked down at the paper, and up again. "I wrote to this address about four months ago but didn't get any reply."
Sister Mary Theresa gave her an apologetic smile. "I'm so sorry about that. We receive a lot of enquiries, and Sister Augusta does her best to deal with them all, but it can take her a long time to search through all the old records."
When the nun stood, Kara realised the interview was over, despite the million and one questions she still wanted to ask. Recognising that this woman wasn't going to give her any answers, she stood too, and forced a smile. "Thank you for your time, Sister. I appreciate the information you've given me."
"Good luck with your search," the nun said.
As Kara trekked along the corridor toward the main door of the hospital, Josie's words came back to her: Don't be fobbed off. That was exactly what Sister Mary Theresa had been doing. Fobbing her off with vague excuses about missing records and confidentiality, so even if she wrote to Sister Augusta again, what were the chances of any reply?
She pushed open the swing door, and stood for a few moments, gazing out across the grey-blue water of the bay. No nearer to finding anything about her mother's birth than when she first arrived in Ireland, she had no idea what to do next.
With a discouraged sigh, she headed along the path between manicured lawns and neat flower beds already colourful with spring anemones. A quick check of her watch showed only one o'clock. She had plenty of time to find somewhere for lunch, and perhaps she'd do some shopping after all before she met Ryan in Eyre Square.
She reached the wide gateway of the hospital grounds and turned to take a photo with her phone. Moving a few steps to avoid getting the large signboard in the picture, she noticed a small wooden sign near the ground, half-hidden by one of the posts holding the main sign.
Clochar na Siúracha Calvary – Convent of the Sisters of Calvary.
The sign pointed away from the main entrance along a narrow path between neatly trimmed shrubs.
She gave a satisfied smile. Forget lunch and shopping, and forget Sister Mary Theresa and her bland excuses. If she could meet with Sister Augusta at the convent, maybe she wouldn't have to write off today's visit as a complete waste of time.
* * * * * *
Ryan reached the hotel near Wolfe Tone Bridge, handed his car key to the parking valet, and entered the lobby. Ignoring the people waiting for the elevator, he took the stairs two at a time, and knocked on the door of Room 116.
A key turned in the lock, and Chief Superintendent Enya Quinn opened the door. In her late forties, tall and auburn-haired, and immaculate as always in a mid-grey trouser suit, she crossed to the two leather bucket chairs near the window.
"Help yourself to a sandwich and a drink, and update me, Ryan. You said you had a possible lead."
Ryan picked up a chicken sandwich and bottle of water from a tray on the low table between the chairs, took a quick slurp, and flipped open his notebook. "Not before time, after doing this taxi job for a month and getting nowhere. Spent the first couple of weeks checking the computer records whenever no one was in the office, and made a note of all the regular bookings."
"How many?" Enya asked.
He counted up. "Ten, but most of them were local, mainly hotel staff going home at midnight or two a.m. Only two were going further afield, one to Oughterard every Thursday evening at seven, and one to Roscommon every Monday morning at eight."
"Have you discovered anything more about either of them?"
"Drove Mr. Gould to Oughterard a week last Thursday, and got his life story. He owns three gift shops, Clifden, Westport, and Oughterard. Spends two days at each every week, but lost his licence end of last year. Drunk driving. Wife and three kids live in Oughterard. Sounded genuine."
"And the other one?"
Ryan grinned. "This is where things get interesting. According to the computer, Tom Wild has done the Roscommon run with a Patrick Walsh since February. Last week, Tom was full of a cold, sneezing and coughing like a seal, so I offered to do the run, and nearly got my head bitten off. I do that run, he said, so keep your freakin' nose out. He apologised later, and said he didn't mean to be rude, but he was feeling rough."
Enya shrugged. "Sounds reasonable."
"Aye, except somehow he overdid the apology thing, and kept telling me to forget what he said that morning."
"Okay. What next?"
"Two things. Last Sunday night, I dropped a group of women off at Mist Na Mara Arts Centre about eleven o'clock, and I reached the gate just as Tom Wild's car passed, going down the lane to the Leary farm. Didn't think much about it until I got back to the office five minutes later, and the receptionist was on the radio to him, asking if he could do a pickup at eleven-thirty from Oliver's Bar in Cleggan. His reply was, It'll take me at least forty minutes to get to Cleggan. Ask someone else to go. Obviously a lie, as I'd just see
n him, and it would only take him about ten minutes, fifteen at the most, to get from the Leary farm to Cleggan."
Enya pursed her lips. "Could be any number of reasons for that. Maybe he didn't want to drive up to Cleggan, or he stopped for a cup of tea at the farm."
"I'd agree, except Eve, the receptionist, looked very puzzled, and said she thought his last fare was to Beckfield Lodge. That's a guest house on Westport Road, about a mile north of Clifden, and on the route to Cleggan."
"Interesting. Certainly seems like he may have been lying, for whatever reason. You said two things. What was the other?"
"I'd already seen Patrick Walsh's name on the list again for Monday morning, so I parked further along the street where I could see the office in my rear view mirror. Got there about seven-thirty, and bingo – eight o'clock, a white transit van pulls up outside the office, and a man gets out from the passenger side." He checked his notebook again. "About five foot seven or eight, stocky build, receding mid-brown hair, wearing light blue jeans and a denim jacket. He unloaded a large cardboard box from the van, put it on the back seat of Tom's car, got in the front with Tom, and off they went. I thought about following them, but decided not to, since Tom would recognise my car. The van had already driven off in the direction of Market Street, but by the time I got to the top of the street, there was no sign of it."
"Any name on the van, or did you get the number?"
"Plain white. Took a couple of photos with my phone, but I think I was too far away to get a clear image of the number plate. I sent the photos to Declan in the hope he can enlarge them."
"Do we have anything on Tom Wild?"
Enya clicked some keys on her laptop, but he shook his head. "I checked. We don't have anything on him, or anyone called Patrick Walsh either. Of course, those might not be their real names." He chuckled. "Which makes three of us working under false names."
"Tom Wild's the owner of the taxi firm, isn't he?"
"Yes, he bought the business when the previous owner retired at the end of last year. He's efficient and organised, and normally quite friendly."
"Any family?"
"Never talks about a wife or kids. He once mentioned he lived in a flat near the harbour, but I've never seen him in any of the pubs in Clifden."
"Perhaps he doesn't drink."
"Could be, but gut instinct is telling me this weekly trip to Roscommon with a large cardboard box is worth investigating. We know whoever is running the racket has used taxis before to take stolen goods up to Belfast, although I admit that doesn't necessarily mean Tom Wild is involved. The Belfast taxi driver who was picked up with a stash of stuff last December said he had no idea what was in the boxes."
Enya gave a cynical laugh. "Claimed his boss sent him to a taxi firm over the border in Monaghan to collect them from another driver. The Belfast and Monaghan police kept close surveillance on both taxi firms without being able to pin anything on either, especially when the one in Monaghan closed down less than a week later."
"Which suggests that whoever's running this racket switches the route once a taxi firm is compromised."
"And now they're going through Roscommon instead of Monaghan? It's possible. Do we need to haul this Tom Wild in for questioning?"
Ryan hesitated. "If he is involved, he's probably small fry. On the other hand, he might not even know what's in the boxes Patrick Walsh is taking up to Roscommon. I'm more interested in where Walsh picks up his load. That could be what leads us to Mister Big."
"You may be right, because it's not a small operation. They're going for the expensive stuff, and somehow they're getting it across to England or Scotland. The latest info we've had is that last week the Manchester police recovered five of the twenty laptops stolen from the school in Skelleen at a shop in one of the suburbs. The week before, the Glasgow police raided an industrial unit and found some of the silverware from the Ballinstone burglary."
Ryan nodded. "At least they found the stuff before it was sold, but it only represents about five percent of what's gone missing from shops, schools, hotels, cars, etcetera, etcetera, since January, when we saw the upsurge of thefts and burglaries in this area."
"I'll lay bets the other ninety-five percent has also found its way to the UK or even further afield, and we still don't know who the local fence or fences are, or where the goods are being stored, or how the hell the stuff is getting from here to there."
"I'll see what I can find out about Patrick Walsh, and about the white transit van that brought him to the taxi office."
"Okay, but go carefully. If we scare them off, chances are they'll switch taxi firms again, and we'll be back to square one." Enya finished her mug of coffee and stood up. "And I don't need to tell you to stay focused, do I?"
"No, Chief." For an instant, Ryan's mind flitted to Kara Stewart, but he smiled. "No distractions this time."
"Good." As Enya reached the door, she turned. "I'll leave by the back door, as usual. I doubt anyone's following you – or me, but with undercover ops, you can't be too careful." Her eyebrows lowered. "You're not still dating Sinead Ellis, are you?"
"Jaysus, no. I've not seen her for nearly a year."
"She lost us the chance to arrest Michael McGuffin when she blew your cover."
"You don't need to remind me." He grimaced but raised one hand in acquiescence. "Sinead knew my real name, but I'm Ryan Brady for the duration of this investigation."
"Good. Keep in contact."
Ryan finished his sandwich and let the usual twenty minutes elapse after Enya's departure before he left the hotel. It was only one-thirty, which meant he had over two hours to waste until he drove to Eyre Square to pick up Kara. There was no point collecting his car yet from the parking garage, and he hesitated outside the front door as he weighed up how to spend the rest of the afternoon. Since he'd be driving later, he couldn't go for a pint in one of the pubs, so should he amble along the path by the River Corrib? Or wander across the bridge and down past Claddagh Harbour to the shore?
With a small shrug, he turned up Quay Street instead. Maybe he'd spot Kara in one of the narrow streets between here and Eyre Square. If she'd finished her shopping, they could set off back to Clifden earlier than they'd arranged.
He strolled past the pubs and cafés where people sat at tables outside with beer or coffee, and stopped for a while to listen to two street musicians, one with a fiddle, the other with a flute, playing Danny Boy. Appealing to the tourist trade, obviously.
All the time, his glance flickered around the pedestrian street, crowded as usual with tourists studying their guide books, women clutching paper shopping bags from the knitwear and fancy goods stores, students with backpacks, and others, like himself, wandering aimlessly.
Not that he was completely aimless. He wanted to meet Kara, even though his mind told him he was doing what he'd promised Enya he wouldn't do. Allowing himself to be distracted by a woman.
His thoughts drifted to the first time he saw her, one evening during his first week in Clifden, when he picked up the four women from Mist Na Mara Arts Centre who were going into town for a meal.
"And a few drinks," said the blonde one with a laugh. "Will you be able to pick us up at Murphy's about ten-thirty?"
"For sure." He gave them his card. "Call me when you need me."
As they scrambled out of his car, Kara – except he didn't know her name then and only found out the second time he drove them into town – looked back at him. "Thanks so much," she said, and went on, "I love your accent."
"Are you American?"
Her wide smile sent a current of awareness along his veins. "I guess my accent gives me away, doesn't it? But I'm practising my Irish accent, don't you know?" she added, in a not very good imitation of Irish.
He laughed. "I think that might be more Cork than Connemara."
Her eyes lit up in amusement. "I'll keep practising!"
As he drove off, he tried to tell himself the spark of interest he'd experienced was a normal rea
ction to an attractive woman.
And she was attractive, with brown shoulder-length hair framing her face in casual waves, bright blue eyes, and alluring lips. Nice figure, too, with well-rounded breasts and a neat bum. In fact, everything that appealed to him.
He reached the bench on William Street that was flanked at each end by bronze statues of Oscar Wilde and another writer whose name he couldn't recall, and sat down. Resting his elbows on his thighs, he stared down at the grey pavement stones.
Stay focused, Enya had said.
No distractions this time, he'd told her.
He needed to knock this attraction to Kara on the head before he allowed her to get under his skin and divert his attention from the job he was being paid to do. After the fiasco with Sinead last June, he'd stayed well clear of women, and couldn't afford to succumb to temptation now.
He shifted his thoughts away from Kara to his suspicions. Of course, there could be an innocent explanation for Tom Wild's regular trips to Roscommon with Patrick Walsh, but all his instincts told him they were connected in some way with the thefts from the Connemara area. And his instincts were usually right.
After wandering back along the street, he glanced at his watch. Still too early to collect his car. Now he regretted his offer to pick Kara up at four. If he hadn't suggested it, he would be back home by now and forgetting all about her.
