Full Irish Murder (Fiona McCabe Mysteries Book 2)

by Kathy Cranston

Fiona looked around at the others as if beseeching them to talk some sense into her granny. It wasn’t that she didn’t have faith in Rose, she just wondered if she was persuasive enough to force a man to talk when he was at risk of incriminating himself.

  “Come on, Fiona,” Granny Coyle needled. “You said yourself that we don’t have any options. I, for one, think we should have spoken with him before now.”

  “But he’s not going to talk to us. You must know that. Remember what you said when you tried to draw him on whether he’d helped Mrs Stanley? You said he seemed like a nasty fella. He was dismissive. There’s also the fact that he’s been in her house. He may not have murdered her, but that doesn’t mean other sinister things haven’t gone on…” she shivered, remembering what Garda Conway had said about the sergeant. “And there is the possibility that he’s connected with Brennan. What do you think of that? Incompetent or corrupt?”

  They all shook their heads.

  “Incompetent,” Marty said.

  “Both.” Margaret pursed her lips and winced. “He treated me like a common criminal when it should have been obvious I had nothing to do with it.”

  “He’s certainly incompetent,” Granny Coyle said.

  “Lookit,” Francis drawled. “What does it matter? We’ll find out one way or the other later. There’s no point in dwelling on it.”

  “So your vote is to go speak to Alan Power then, Francis?”

  “It is, Rose. Conway wouldn’t have come here if he wasn’t convinced that the only way for us to clear Margaret’s name is to investigate this thing ourselves. And I can’t see any other way of getting to the truth, can you? Now, I’ll chat to Donnie tomorrow, but I think the first thing we should do is pay a little visit to Alan Power.”

  “Who do you mean we?” Ben asked, glancing longingly at the door to the sitting room that led off the kitchen.

  “I mean we as in all of us,” Francis said, glaring at his youngest son. “That means you too, Ben. I’m sure you can tear yourself away from that stupid console for an hour or two.”

  “But I was going to have a tournament with Barry,” he moaned, before glancing around the table and seeing the disapproving faces that were watching him. “Of course,” he muttered. “I’ll go up and get my jacket.”

  Fiona still wasn’t convinced about the plan. “Now? We’re all just going to march over there now and confront him?”

  Francis nodded. “Sure why not? He won’t be expecting us and isn’t there strength in numbers? Anyway, there’s no sense in waiting until tomorrow because he’ll be gone off to work in Dublin for the day. There’s no time like the present.”

  27

  FIONA CONSIDERED it a minor win that she’d convinced them to leave the hurleys at home. It hadn’t been easy: Marty and her father had been all for bringing them along just in case trouble broke out. She had had to spell it out for them several times that trouble was likely to break out if they marched across town with hurleys in hand. Finally, she’d persuaded them based on the last time they’d gone out as a family with their sticks: some busybody had called the guards and they’d had to convince a sceptical Sergeant Brennan that they were going training, not to take the legs off someone.

  “You’re right, Fi,” Marty said again. “Best not drawn Brennan’s attention before we know what’s going on with him.”

  “Though it does mean we’re leaving ourselves defenceless,” Francis said morosely. “That could be foolish.”

  “Dad, there’s six of us. Eight if Colm and Enda get my message and join us. There’s only one of him. And he’s not exactly a highly-trained assassin. He works in IT for God’s sake. The only things he’s ever smashed are milestones and goalposts in a Gant chart.”

  “And the window to Mrs Stanley’s house,” her father added reasonably. “We’re not sure yet what we’re dealing with.”

  “Okay, okay,” she said, holding up her hands and feeling foolish for being naïve. “Look, I’ll call Colm. I’ll ask him and Enda to wait a little bit down the road in the car. We’ll work out a signal so they can come and back us up if we need it.”

  “Back us up!” Margaret exclaimed. “It sounds so glamorous, like something out of a movie.”

  “Yeah, it’s not really,” Fiona muttered. “I still think you should stay home, Mam. We don’t want to be giving Brennan even more ammunition to use against you, do we?”

  Her mother folded her arms. “I’m coming with you. I’m stuck in the middle of this thing and there’s no way I’m hearing about it second-hand from the rest of you.”

  “Great, Ma,” Ben said with a smirk. “You can play good cop to Granny’s bad cop. Make him a nice cup of tea if he cooperates.”

  “Come on so,” Fiona said, clapping her hands and pointing towards the door. She sensed an argument brewing and thought it best to get out of the house before it kicked off again.

  “I’M NOT sure this is such a great idea,” Margaret McCabe muttered in a stage whisper as they opened the gate of Power’s terraced house and made their way onto his property one-by-one.

  “Sure you were mad to join us earlier. What changed?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose I thought it’d be more glamorous.”

  Fiona shook her head. “Well you can’t back out now. We don’t want you wandering around on your own while we’re all in there.”

  “I’m not a sheep,” Margaret countered. “I’m well able to go around town on my own.”

  “You’re supposed to be keeping a low profile, love,” Granny Coyle said patiently.

  “And I am! I’ve barely been out of the house all week.”

  “That’s because the last time you ventured out you got into a public screaming match with a woman who ended up dead. What? I’m just saying it how it is, there’s no need to look at me like that.”

  “It does sound pretty harsh, Granny,” Marty said reasonably.

  Francis, who was at the head of their little column, turned and made an exaggerated shushing sound. “Will you all please keep it down? We’re here.”

  It was half seven at night, but because it was September, it was still bright outside. That gave them a disadvantage: at least if it had been dark they’d have been able to tell if anyone was home or not by whether the lights were on in the house.

  Francis cleared his throat and rang the doorbell.

  And then they waited.

  “What if he’s in but he doesn’t answer the door?” Ben whispered.

  Granny baulked. “And who in their right mind would answer the door to six people all frothing at the mouth for answers?”

  “Good point,” Fiona whispered, flattening herself against the wall of the porch.

  The others followed suit, leaving Francis standing in the middle of the porch facing the peephole as if he’d come along by himself.

  That was another thing, Fiona thought, frowning at the door. It was rare to see peepholes in the doors of houses like this, which must have been built in the fifties or sixties. Fair enough, it was common in new developments or houses that had been renovated, but it was clear this place hadn’t even been painted in a long time, let alone renovated. Had Alan Power had it installed? Why would he need such a privacy measure in a place like Ballycashel?

  Fiona swallowed. As the seconds passed, it seemed less and less likely that he was going to open the door. “Buzz again, Dad,” she whispered as quietly as she could.

  Francis did.

  They waited for longer. Fiona held her breath and leant her head against the door, trying to hear any noise from inside the house. It seemed silent—there wasn’t even the faint buzz from the TV.

  “It doesn’t look like he’s here,” Francis said at last. “Or if he is, he’s not coming to the door.”

  The disappointment was visible on all of their faces. Fiona didn’t realise it, but she’d been convinced this was going to be the end of the whole mad affair. Now it looked like they were going to have to wait even longer to find out what was going on.

/>   “Come on so,” she said, disheartened. “I suppose we should go.”

  The door remained unopened and they had no choice but to turn around and march back up the path. They had only gotten a few paces when an agitated-looking figure in Lycra appeared at the gate. Fiona watched without passing much heed for a few moments, until it became clear that he was opening the gate and marching down the path towards them.

  “I’ve told you people before. I’m not interested in finding out the word of God.”

  “Nor am I, son,” Francis said.

  Alan Power stood there blinking. “What are you doing here then? What are you selling?”

  “The cheek of him,” Margaret whispered. “Do we look like a travelling band of salespeople?”

  “We’re not selling anything, young man. We need to speak to you.”

  Alan Power threw his hand up to his brow and groaned as if he was in agony. “I’ve just had the day from hell and now this? Look, whatever you’re selling I’m not interested, okay? Move on to the next house.”

  Francis tutted. “My mother-in-law just told you. We’re not here to sell anything. We’re your neighbours of sorts. We’re the McCabes. We live in town.”

  This time, Power looked them over warily. “Oh, yeah? I suppose you do seem familiar. Well then what do you want? I have a conference call at eight with the New York office. I’m afraid if it’s not important I’m going to have to—”

  “We know you broke into Mrs Stanley’s house and took her computer,” Fiona blurted. “So I think it’s in your interests to talk to us.”

  He stood there staring at her, his mouth open in astonishment. She half expected to make a run for it, so she stepped forward and off to the side as subtly as she could to block his path.

  “It was you,” Power muttered. “It was you lot who put the Gardaí onto me. What possible reason could you have for doing that? I don’t even know ye except to see.”

  Fiona shook her head, wondering how they were going to get him to speak. It was clear that he had no intention of helping them. She was going to have to wing it, she realised. It wasn’t like she’d ever had experience of dealing with a situation like this before.

  “We saw you. And we have you on camera.”

  This time his eyes widened. “Is that so?”

  She nodded. “Yeah.”

  He stared at her for a few moments before bursting into laughter. It was the most horrible sound Fiona had ever heard.

  “Of course you don’t. If you did, why the hell would the guards have let me go and not charged me with robbery? You’re making that up.”

  “Do you really want to test me?”

  “I’ll take my chances,” he sniffed, pushing past them towards the door.

  Fiona looked desperately at the others. He had his key out now. In a moment he’d have locked himself inside and their opportunity would be lost, but she couldn’t think of a way to make him talk to them.

  Granny Coyle strode forward after him. “The camera footage isn’t the only thing,” she said her voice full of mirth. “There’s other material too. You might have thought you got Mrs Stanley’s laptop but you didn’t know she’d started logging in to Facebook in the library, did you? Unfortunately for you, she left her account logged in.”

  Power froze.

  “I understand your reluctance now,” Granny Coyle said gently. “I imagine if this got out, your reputation would take quite the hammering.”

  He stared at her without saying anything. Butterflies danced around in Fiona’s stomach as she watched him, wondering what he was going to do. Would he call their bluff? Sure, Granny knew her way around a computer but this guy worked in IT for a living. Wasn’t it possible he’d already gotten into her emails and Facebook and scrubbed any reference to himself?

  “You would have told the guards,” he said. The hesitation in his voice was unmistakeable.

  “Would we? Do you know Mrs Stanley was a good friend of mine and I’ve been wondering how she managed to afford that lovely new computer and TV of hers? Now that I know, why on earth would I go throwing my meal ticket away but telling the guards what I know?”

  Alan Power seemed to crumple before them. “What do you mean, your meal ticket?”

  Rose smiled. “We need to talk. Aren’t you going to invite us in?”

  28

  FIONA FELT a brief moment of sympathy for Alan Power. He had sat at the head of his slick glass and oak table, and was staring them down as if he meant business. His hands gave the game away. He had them clasped together on the table in front of him, but that wasn’t enough to stop them from trembling.

  She supposed it was a double whammy: the threat of his deepest darkest secrets getting out as well as the intimidation factor of six people clustered around his table and baying for blood.

  But if it meant clearing her mother’s name for good? Fiona was willing to get in on the act and do anything to get the truth out of him.

  “What do you want? This is… this is so wrong. I told Mrs Stanley that. At least she had the decency to try and hide her name.”

  “But you found it.”

  “I did.” He sniffed. “It amazes me that she thought she could pull the wool over my eyes. I work in IT for God’s sake.”

  “So you’ve said.”

  His eyes narrowed. “That’s so typical of Ireland. Begrudgery left, right and centre. It’s a statement of fact.”

  “There’s no begrudgery here,” Granny Coyle said matter-of-factly. “I was just pointing out that you’ve mentioned that a number of times already. We know.” She leaned forward, fixing her with steely blue eyes. “Now, what we don’t know is where you put that computer. Why’d you steal it, Mr Power? You must have known they wouldn’t take it.”

  “Of course I didn’t,” he spluttered. “If anything, I went over there with the sinking feeling that it was sitting in a Garda lab somewhere.”

  “But it was broken.”

  “I didn’t know that until I got there.”

  “Why’d you bother even going over if you think the Gardaí had it? Why didn’t you just sit at home all tucked up on your fancy leather sofa and watch your giant flat-screen telly?”

  Hurt darted through his eyes. “If that’s not begrudgery I don’t know what is. I work hard for my money.”

  “I’m sure you do,” Granny muttered. “Working hard on reports nobody’ll ever read and getting paid six figures to do it. Meanwhile, nurses and teachers are fighting hard to make anything over a pittance. It’s extraordinary really. It beggars belief. There used to be a time where important professions like that could rely on being well-paid and—”

  “Granny,” Fiona whispered knowing her grandmother could talk at length about that topic without coming up for air. “You can tell him what a so-and-so he is later. Isn’t there something else you want to say?”

  Rose rolled her eyes. “Excuse me for caring about the fabric of this country. Yes, there is as it happens.”

  “Oh for God’s sake,” Power groaned. “I told you I had a conference call at eight.”

  “There’ll be no more conference calls for you if I tell your bosses what I know,” Granny Coyle whispered, her eyes glinting dangerously.

  “Just tell me what you want then! I already paid her off. That should have been an end to it.”

  Granny Coyle pretended to consider this, tapping at her chin and glancing up at the glittering light fitting above them.

  “You want that? You can take it,” Power said, following her gaze.

  Granny Coyle looked back at him as if he was something that had arrived in the bottom of her shoe. “That? You think I want that? It’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. And I’ve seen a lot of ugly things: I was around in the fifties when the equivalent of a six-pack was a hairy gut and a few yards of road frontage.”

  Power blinked at her uncomprehending. Fiona snorted and quickly turned away to disguise the laughter she simply couldn’t hold back.

  “I don�
��t understand.”

  “Of course you don’t,” Granny sighed. “You lot never do. I’ll spell it out for you so. You give me Mrs Stanley’s computer and we’ll consider the matter over. You’ll never hear a word from us again.”

  “How can I get comfort that that’s true? I need reassurances—”

  “Look here, sunshine,” Francis said with a scowl. “This isn’t the time and place for your jargon. Your comfort is the least of our worries. Now. Granny Coyle here has your office’s main line number on speed dial. Hand over that computer and let us get back to the comfort of our own home before I go mad.”

  Power closed his eyes and shook his head, solemn as a priest. “I’m afraid it’s not that simple.”

  “It’s pretty simple,” Granny Coyle said. “Give us the computer or I’ll have a nice chat to your boss.”

  “There are over two hundred employees at my firm,” Power replied, regaining some of his former cockiness. “And you’re telling me you know who I work for?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Of course not. But I’m capable of asking for Alan Power’s line manager now, am I not?”

  “They’ll never put you through. He’s too important.”

  “Do you want to run that risk?”

  They stared each other down for a few minute before Power threw his head back with an almighty sigh.

  “I don’t have it,” he groaned. “I destroyed it the minute I got back here.”

  “Why would you take an already-broken computer just to destroy it?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? I couldn’t risk leaving it out there. I had to see if the guards had taken it.”

  “Why’d you destroy it even more then?”

  He pursed his lips. “I had to.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Granny Coyle said simply.

  “Go ahead and search the place if you want,” he wailed. “I don’t see why you want the damn thing anyway. It’s not like she had any real dirt on you. And only an expert like me would have been capable of getting into the files anyway the way it was left.”

  He was looking straight at Margaret as he said this, but it took a while for them to realise the significance of this. When they did, there was an almost palpable effort from them not to show their reactions in case Power noted their surprise. Everyone stayed silent as if they’d agreed to let Granny Coyle do the talking.