The Death of an Irish Sea Wolf

by Bartholomew Gill

  “What about yourself?”

  “I’m going to wander over to the Ford cottage and look round.”

  “Again? There’s not a thing in that place you haven’t looked at twice.”

  “And, worse, I’ll be making you feel guilty.”

  “Don’t count on it. I’m only a short stagger from the bed.” He signed off.

  The wind had eased, the sky was bright, the day would be fair. Already, fearless O’Malleys were returning from whatever shelters they had found for the night to pitch tents again on the rolling, treeless greensward. To the south beyond the harbor, he could see more boats advancing upon the island from Roonagh Point.

  On the north side of the island—directly below the cliffs—there was none, not even the fishing boat that McKeon had reported as working the waters on the day before. McGarr asked himself why he had not put a watch on the few that had gathered there? Because of the height and the steepness of the cliffs. And in his own defense, he actually had. McKeon, who was his best.

  Granted, the weather, the darkness, and the sheer number of O’Malleys near Mirna Gottschalk’s house had conspired against him. But the long and short of it was—he had simply been outwitted. Stopping by the cataract near the Ford cottage, he dug out a cigarette.

  One thing, he should have been better informed about the practices of the “Rallyers” the whole scene had taken him by surprise. And two, he should have recruited some of the locals to act as spotters with binos and VHF radios. Like Paulie O’. But thinking of Fergal O’Grady, he wondered how possible that would have been, McGarr being a seoinin and all.

  McGarr took a puff or two. The roar of the tannin-rich bog water, surging into the dingle, was soothing to him, and he squatted down to rest, his eyes following the second trail leading away from the Ford cottage. It weaved back and forth, climbing the mountain, as though it had been used, say, by a donkey bearing a burden rather than a person who could save steps by climbing straight up.

  What possibly could Ford have been carrying down from the top of the mountain? Turf? It was a possibility, since peat existed in virtually every setting in the West of Ireland. Also, Fergal O’Grady—who had climbed that way—had been carrying a slane on his shoulder when he surprised McGarr on the night before. On his way, said he, to do McGarr’s job of work for him. McGarr bristled to think of how completely the man had got the drop on him. And lucky he didn’t get a bullet in return.

  McGarr now wondered if the old man could have stayed up there. If so, he might have seen the direction that the dive boat was headed when it left the island from its anchorage below the cliffs. Jumping across the sluice, McGarr began climbing the mountain straight up. The sun was warm on his back, the air crisp and storm-scoured clean; at the very least he’d get some exercise.

  Dugald Rehm could not believe his luck. First, there had been the easy way that he had dispensed with the opposition. True, they had been a yuppie, a drunk, and an old man, but there might not even be an inquiry, if and when the bodies were found.

  Second was the plunder, and it certainly was. Rings, brooches, diamonds, emeralds; there was a tourmaline that scarcely fit in his palm, and great round slices of solid gold with six-inch-diameter holes in the middle, looking like glittering cangues. Ford had either tired of melting them down or had decided that he already had enough in Dublin. Why bother.

  Bottom line: His father had not lied. It was a magnificent treasure in every way, and he only wished Malcolm were there to share it with him. Dugald would carry it away, backpack load by precious backpack load, which, of course, would take some time. He’d buy a house somewhere on the mainland where he could hide the booty. He’d tell the islanders he was studying gannets or puffins or choughs, so none of them would question his frequent visits to Croaghmore. They were used to their island being studied.

  Dugald found his third piece of luck in the chimney that the woman had mentioned; he knew then that he had been destined to take control of the fortune. Not only were there bolts and pitons fixed into the wide barrel of the stack, there were also runners, carabiners, and sturdy Enduro climbing ropes that were in excellent condition, here where the elements were not a problem. The line rose at least as high as Dugald’s excellent light could shine. When he struck a match, the flame flickered slightly. There was a draft, which meant there was a hole at the top—the second entrance.

  After loading up his pack with a few of the choicest pieces that included an actual crown, Dugald began his ascent of the chimney. He would return to the harbor and mingle with the O’Malleys until he could catch a boat back to Roonagh Point. If he moved fast, he might even meet up with his father and sister in Dublin and relieve them of their obligation to join him in partnership.

  Strapping his light onto his backpack so he would have some illumination climbing the dark aven, Dugald started up the chute slowly, carefully, methodically. Now was not the time for derring-do; now was the time for careful steps that would remove the treasure from the cave and provide him the life that his father had wanted for himself. And for which Malcolm had paid the ultimate price. Now Dugald would have to live it for both of them.

  The chimney narrowed but then opened into another gallery where—Dugald suspected—the ancient stream that had worn away the limestone fissure in the mountain and had created the cave had once collected and pooled. There he rested where, it was obvious, Ford had taken a breather in the past. In a corner was a large bottle of what looked like water; also there were burned matches and small piles of tobacco ashes, where the man had knocked out his pipe.

  But Dugald could now smell fresh air laced with the tang of brine from the sea, and he began climbing again, Five minutes later he could hear wind wailing past whatever opening the aven led to, which had to be near the very top of Croaghmore, given the length of the climb. Dugald rejoiced; he’d been right. The entire setup was perfect, which was why it had taken his father so long to discover Ford.

  Now seeing light, he switched off the torch on his backpack and pulled himself up toward the dim glow.

  From perhaps a quarter of a mile away, McGarr saw the figure near the apex of Croaghmore, hunkered down with his brat wrapped around him and his white mane flying, looking himself like another rock or a white-capped dolmen. The slane was on his shoulder, and he was so still that McGarr wondered if something might be wrong with him.

  But then suddenly Fergal O’Grady got to his feet, and with his head still lowered toward the rocks in front of him, he took a cautious step backward. Slowly the slane rose off his shoulder, gripped tightly in both hands.

  McGarr himself stopped, wanting to see what the man would do if uninterrupted. But O’Grady just stood there for another long time, until McGarr decided he should use his binoculars to see what he was looking at.

  As McGarr glanced down to find the tab of his jacket zipper, however, he saw something flash. Like a thunderbolt, the bright silver head of the slane had swung around, and an object shaped like a rock—no, two rocks—rolled away from O’Grady’s feet.

  Looking round, he now saw McGarr, and, quick for his age, he scuttled over and picked up one of the rocks. Then, with his back to McGarr, he moved to the edge of the cliff and tossed it over, down into the waves below.

  The breeze caught the second object, which appeared to be blue and purple, and it skidded away from the cliff, only to bounce and tumble and sail down the flank of the mountain where it found its own place in the sea.

  Picking up the hem of his brat, O’Grady appeared to wipe the blade of his slane on an interior fold, before turning and walking triumphantly, defiantly even, directly at McGarr. The tool was back on his shoulder.

  “What did you just toss off the cliff?”

  “Garbage. It’s how we disposed of it, before the likes of you.”

  CHAPTER 27

  WHEN THE THREE people walked into the office of Monck & Neary on Merrion Square in Dublin the next morning, they found a man dressed in a swallowtail coat, morning trousers and
spats. He scarcely looked up from the newspaper he was reading.

  Beside him on the desk, a television was monitoring price quotations from the Dublin and several international financial exchanges. To his other side, a computer was also scrolling through lists of figures. It was torrid there with an array of caged birds raising a din. Otherwise the Georgian room was light and airy.

  “May I help you?” the man asked. He was young and handsome with black hair, a good tan, and dark eyes.

  “We’re here to see Monck or Neary.”

  “In what regard?”

  “In regard to a trust.”

  The man smiled and turned from the paper. “Trusts is us. But you want to speak to Neary, who’s in charge of such matters. Top of the stairs, second door on the right. Knock first, please. I’m Monck. I handle the markets”—he swung a hand at the monitors—“and the birds.” His smile became more complete, as he unabashedly surveyed the feminine particulars of the two women, each in her turn. “Perhaps you require a guide.”

  “No, I think we’ll find the way,” said the larger of the women. She was tall, broad, and fetching. A blonde, she was dressed in a smart but conservative summer suit of brushed linen with a broad-brimmed sun hat to match. Like her shoes, her large purse was brown patent leather and gleamed.

  The other woman, however, was smaller, older, and dark with white braided hair; she was wearing some out-of-doors costume. Her shoes were wrapped with wide bands of rubber for climbing rocks.

  The man, who left the room last, was a match for the younger woman. Although elderly, he looked fit. His pale blue eyes were clear, his skin deeply tanned, and he possessed a full shock of silver hair that he wore swept back. Looking jaunty in a blue seersucker suit, he kept his right hand in his trouser pocket.

  “Yes?” Neary asked, when they knocked.

  “May we come in? We were told we could speak to you about a trust.”

  “Please do.”

  They entered the room to find a large but shapely auburn-haired woman sitting at a desk surrounded by papers and computer printouts, and what looked like a stack of fax transmissions was in her lap. “Pardon me if I don’t get up? I’m rather…involved. How can I help you?”

  Heather Rehm rather liked what she saw—the shape and cut of the black-bordered, chrome yellow suit, to say nothing of the strong face and smoky gray eyes of Neary. She immediately checked her hands—no rings, which was encouraging. Yes, she could do business with this woman. At the same time, there was something disturbingly familiar about her. “What’s your first name?” Heather asked.

  “Astrid—and yours?”

  “Heather.” There was no point in using an alias, if they were going to take control of the Trust. They would move the money directly to South Africa at the earliest possible opportunity.

  “And you are?”

  “Louise,” said Mirna, having been instructed not to give her own name.

  Bresnahan turned to Rehm.

  “Call me Gus. My friends do.” He smiled.

  “Good, so, what can I do for you this morning?”

  “We’re here about the matter of a trust,” said Rehm. It was without a doubt the most exalting moment of his life, the apotheosis of having persevered and bent every effort to right the wrong of what was now the distant past. He had found Klimt Dorfmann and supervened. And yet, somehow, he felt cheated that it was not Dorfmann who had brought him here to witness the transference. “Dorfmann sent me.”

  There was a knock on the door. It opened. The head of Monck appeared. “Excuse me. A thousand pardons, Astrid. Is there a Missus or Miss or Ms. Gottschalk here? I hardly know what to say these days. She has a phone call.”

  “Me?” Mirna asked. “How does anybody—”

  “I think it’s your son. He said to tell you it’s Karl.”

  “Of course, he would know,” said Mirna, glancing at both of the Rehms as she stood.

  “I’ll go with you. Father, you can handle the—”

  “He says it’s personal,” Ward put in. “And urgent.”

  “Can’t she take it here?” asked Rehm.

  “He rang on the public line. I handle public calls in order to free Ms. Neary for—” Ward pointed to the impedimenta on the desk.

  Mirna Gottschalk broke for the door. “I’ll be right back.”

  “See that you do,” Heather barked. “Remember me to Dugald.”

  Ward swung the door a bit wider, and she squeezed out, only to stop in the shadowed hallway, shocked by what she saw in Ward’s right hand.

  It was a gun. He closed the door and pointed to the stairs, whispering. “There’s a Garda car outside. It will take you to him. He’s had a nasty fall, and he’s in hospital. But don’t worry, they say he’s out of danger.”

  Inside the room, as Heather sat back down, it occurred to her where she had seen the woman at the desk before.

  “Dorfmann sent me,” Rehm said again to Bresnahan.

  Snapping open the top of her patent leather purse, Heather plunged her hand in.

  “Mr. Monck!” Bresnahan barked at the door, pushing the stack of faxes to the floor and snatching up the Glock in her lap.

  The door burst open, and Heather swung some sort of machine pistol at Ward, who fell away as the weapon spat a burst of silenced fire at him that was punctuated by four loud blasts from the Glock. The first punched Heather back in the chair, the second spun her round. As she began to slide to the floor, the third and fourth removed her linen sun hat, bursting as wide plugs from the back of her head.

  Ward picked himself up.

  With the gloved right hand gripping the arm of the cushioned chair like an old black claw, Rehm stared down at his daughter dead at his feet, then slipped his other hand into the jacket of his seersucker suit.

  “Don’t!” Ward warned.

  “Take your hand away!” Bresnahan stood up from the desk, the Glock locked in both hands and pointing down at him.

  When the hand—tanned and rumpled with veins, like an old claw—came out from under the lapel with something shiny, a stunning fusillade riddled the man, knocking over the armchair so that he lay there, feet raised, the thin bones of his old legs exposed.

  Ward straightened up from his firing crouch. “You okay?”

  Bresnahan lowered the gun. “I think so.” It was the first time she had ever shot anybody, to say nothing of having killed two people.

  The air in the room was filled with the sweet stink of gun smoke that was sifting slowly through the morning sunlight.

  They heard footsteps on the stairs, as other guards rushed up to the room.

  “It’s all right,” Ward called out. “We’re in here. No problems.”

  Bresnahan was not so sure. On quaking legs she lowered herself back down into the seat and tried not to look at the face of Heather Rehm with the two large cratered holes in her forehead. It was a sight that—Ruth knew, even then—she would never scrub from her memory. Something had changed for her, but she did not know what.

  Dressed in flak jackets, helmets, boots, and carrying automatic carbines, the other guards stepped cautiously into the room. Their eyes fell to the bodies. Said Ward, “Yehr woman there pulled that gun and sprayed the place. We had no choice. Then yehr man followed suit. We warned him, but it was like he was committing hara-kiri.”

  Ward had been in this position before, and he knew it mattered very much what story was bruited about in police circles. Sooner or later it would become public, indiscretion being gauged by the pint. The truth without any imaginative flourishes was always best.

  He jacked the clip from his Beretta. “I’m out, Ruthie. What about you?”

  Bresnahan nodded. She did not have to check. At some point in the execution of the old man, her Glock just would not fire anymore. “Has anybody got a cigarette?”

  Ward glanced over at her, concerned; she did not smoke.

  But one uniformed guard smiled at another and produced a cigarette. “Certainly, Inspector. D’ye’ need a ligh
t?”

  Smiling up at him, she accepted both cigarette and light, then crossed her long, well-formed legs—clad as they were in black lace. Exhaling the smoke, she looked out the window there by the desk, into Merrion Square.

  It would be the better part of the “inside” story, Ward knew. “Didn’t she whack the both of them right where they sat, then took a vacant chair and had a quiet smoke with the stiffs dead at her feet.” Her stock would soar in cop circles, more decidedly with the Rehms having been cop killers.

  PART V

  Dispossession

  CHAPTER 28

  TWO DAYS LATER, while lying on the beach at the harbor on Clare Island, watching Maddie gambol in the surf with some other children, McGarr opened a photocopy of Clem Ford’s (or Klimt Dorfmann’s) memoir.

  It had been found in a pocket of Karl Gottschalk’s belly pack that was still wrapped around his waist when, injured, he had been plucked out of the sea by a fishing boat and taken to Westport Quay. From there he had been flown by medevac helicopter to a hospital in Dublin.

  The tall old man with the great snowy beard who had radioed Westport and arranged for the helicopter did not give his name. The moment the chopper was airborne, he shoved off in his boat.

  Having taken the boat’s numbers, however, Gardai in Westport determined that it was owned by one Colm Canning, also of Clare Island. Canning did not answer his telephone, nor was he home when McGarr tried to call there.

  McGarr now looked down at Ford’s backward-slanting script.

  11 November 1947

  Clare Island, Mayo

  Eire

  I write this while the details are still fresh in mind and so you who succeed us will know the source of the cargo that I brought to this island. I write also for posterity and my God, who shall judge me; it was war, but it was also a struggle between forces. I knew that back in the mid-1930s. The pity is, not well enough.