Murder on Clare Island: A Garda West Novel (A Garda West Crime Novel Book 3)

by Valerie Keogh

‘You researched them?’ West asked.

  Finbarr shook his head. ‘No internet access here, I’m afraid. I had to do it the old-fashioned way. So much more fun, really. I waited until they were in the middle of dinner and made my excuses. Their room wasn’t locked, of course, so it didn’t take a lot of ingenuity to look around and find what I was looking for.’

  ‘And what exactly was that?’

  Finbarr’s smile faded. ‘Plans. Detailed plans to turn the house into one of those boutique-type hotels. Mum’s studio, with its stunning views was going to be the central lounge. It would have broken her heart.’

  ‘She’s adamant it would never have happened,’ West said.

  ‘We wouldn’t have let it happen,’ Finbarr said, careless of the consequence of his words. ‘Painting is her life. That studio is her sanctuary, her inspiration and her solace.’

  ‘But it won’t happen now, will it?’

  ‘Have I just provided myself with a motive to kill my father?’ Finbarr said, amused. ‘How silly of me.’

  West wasn’t the slightest bit amused. Nor did he think the young man was silly; he did, however, think he was a clever bastard. ‘Did you tell anyone about what you found?’

  Finbarr looked at him, the amused grin still playing about his lips. ‘Well, actually, yes. I told Julius. He was horrified.’ The amused grin grew. ‘Oh dear, is that someone else I’ve provided with a motive. How careless of me and how difficult I’m making it for you.’

  ‘You certainly have a knack for muddying the waters, Mr Breathnach. The question is, of course, why you would want to do that?’

  The only answer was a lazy shrug of one shoulder and a raised eyebrow.

  West, tired of the man’s game, brought the interview to a halt. ‘I’ve no more questions at the moment, thank you. You can return to whatever it was you were doing. Perhaps you could tell me where I might find Mr Blacque?’

  ‘He’s in the library,’ Finbarr said, getting to his feet. ‘I’ll tell him you’re looking for him.’ At the door, he stopped and turned back with a wicked smirk on his face. ‘Perhaps he’ll make a run for it, now wouldn’t that be fun?’

  ‘I don’t know what to make of him.’ Kelly said. ‘Do you think he did it?’

  West let out a heavy breath. ‘I don’t know. He seems fond of his mother. He might have killed Breathnach to stop the hotel business going ahead but she seemed quite sure it wasn’t going to go ahead anyway.’

  ‘They all seemed pretty sure about that,’ Kelly said.

  West rubbed a hand over his face. ‘Finbarr’s we wouldn’t have let it happen was a careless throw-away comment with no weight behind it. But Sylvia was very adamant the hotel wasn’t going to go ahead. She refused to tell us why so we have to question why she was so sure.’

  ‘Because she planned to get rid of him?’

  West smiled. ‘Get rid of him? That’s rather sanitising what happened to the poor man.’

  Kelly shrugged. ‘He didn’t sound like a particularly nice man.’

  He had to admit she was right. He didn’t. But that wasn’t a motive to kill him.

  ‘Do you think that’s the motive? Stopping the hotel business?’ Kelly asked him, just as West was thinking the same thing.

  He tilted his head, side to side. ‘People kill for a variety of reasons. The motive can be something as stupid as he looked at me funny. People kill because they can. Often the motive doesn’t make sense. But,’ his brow furrowed, ‘it was the way he was killed here that puzzles me. It was cold-blooded and determined. Whoever did it would have had to hit his fingers hard enough to crush them to prevent him climbing out. That strikes me as needing a lot of hate. The hotel business just doesn’t seem like something that would generate that level of emotion.’

  Just then the door opened and Julius Blacque stood there, looking none too happy at being summoned once again. ‘What more can I possibly tell you?’ he said from the doorway.

  West took a deep breath. ‘Please come in and sit down, Mr Blacque.’ He waited until, with a huff of irritation, the man moved from the doorway and perched on the side of the chair, as if to say he didn’t intend to stay long.

  ‘Did Finbarr tell you about Roger Tilsdale’s plans to convert Toormore into a hotel?’

  Blacque looked from one to the other, his eyes narrowed. ‘He might have done.’

  ‘Did he or didn’t he, Mr Blacque?’

  The man shrugged and nodded. ‘Yes, he told me. What of it?’

  ‘Were you surprised?’

  Blacque laughed uneasily. ‘Nothing that man did surprised me. But, if you pardon me saying, I know Sylvia better than you, she’d never have permitted it to go ahead.’

  ‘Even though the house was in his name?’ Kelly asked.

  Blacque shrugged. ‘Whatever Sylvia wanted, Breathnach did. That’s all I know.’

  ‘Did she mention it to you?’ West asked, wondering if Sylvia had told them the truth.

  Blacque frowned in concentration and then shook his head. ‘No, I don’t remember her doing so. Finbarr only did so in a sneering comment about Tilsdale. I don’t think he thought it would go ahead either.’

  West frowned as Blacque left the room. He had hoped Eoin Breathnach’s idea of converting the house into a hotel would prove to be a motive for his murder but it was proving more and more unlikely. He had a feeling that a chat with Roger Tilsdale would finish the idea off.

  The Tilsdales were found in another lounge reading the papers and enjoying a coffee. They looked up with a welcoming smile when West and Kelly appeared. ‘We heard you were here,’ Roger said with the enthusiasm of one for whom three-day-old newspapers held little allure. ‘Bringing us some news from the outside world, are you? I don’t know how they survive here. No television, barely a radio signal and newspapers that are past their sell-by date by the time we get them. Unbelievable.’

  The room was larger, cosier that the one they’d been in. The well-worn furniture hinted that it was the room usually used by the family. Turning toward the window, West could understand why. It overlooked the sea, the view dramatic. He guessed it was the same view Sylvia had from her studio; suddenly he could fully understand why she needed it.

  They took a seat opposite the Tilsdales, sinking into a comfortable two-seater over-loaded with cushions.

  ‘A few things have turned up during our investigation that we need to clear up,’ West said.

  The Tilsdales were united in presenting a blank appearance.

  ‘Your accommodation business,’ West said pointedly. ‘It appears it is more to do with buying stately homes and converting them into boutique hotels, is that correct?’

  ‘Stately home, old schools, old churches. A wide cross-section of buildings convert nicely into upmarket small hotels,’ Roger explained without hesitation.

  ‘So is that why you were here? To convert Toormore House?’

  Tilsdale laughed, his belly wobbling. He took out a folded handkerchief and dabbed his eyes before answering. ‘Oh dear, Sergeant West, wherever did you get that idea? I told you why we were here. Eoin invited us. We were friends. I will admit,’ he said, ‘Eoin did mention the idea but my response was the same. I laughed. I think he quickly gave up the notion, if he’d ever seriously entertained it, when I explained why.’

  ‘And why is that actually?’ Kelly asked. ‘Clare Island Lighthouse does extremely well, why wouldn’t a hotel here?’

  ‘Internet access,’ Tilsdale replied. ‘There isn’t any this side of the island and bringing it would be prohibitively costly, and even then would probably be unreliable. People who visit upmarket boutique hotels want to get away from it all but not that far. Plus, this area is more exposed than where the Lighthouse is; there’s a problem with erosion. They should have built the house much further back than they did. It seems that’s what the architect advised but Sylvia insisted it be built where it is. I would be more than reluctant to invest money in a hotel that may not be here in twenty or thirty years.’

/>   So that was it. West’s idea for a motive was finally and most definitely shot down.

  ‘Are you disappointed?’ Kelly asked when they returned to the other lounge.

  West smiled. ‘Only in the hope that I could settle this quickly. It often happens this way, you know. We follow crumb trails for days or weeks only to find they lead nowhere. Sometimes one trail will intersect with another and we follow both for a while. It’s all part of the job.’

  Kelly nodded. ‘So what now?’

  West was wondering the same himself. One trail had dead-ended. Problem was, there didn’t appear to be another. Just a few scattered crumbs. Standing, he took her hand, let’s get a lift back to the hotel and see if Andrews has come up with anything. I’m sure Higgins wouldn’t mind dropping us back.’

  22

  Jim Higgins was found out in his workshop. He looked up when West and Kelly blocked his light, putting down the secateurs he’d been sharpening. ‘You want me?’

  ‘We were wondering if you could drop us back,’ West asked. ‘We could wait until Garda Hall arrives but that could be hours yet.’

  Higgins wiped the oil from his hands with a rag that hung from a nail. ‘Happy to,’ he said, ‘to be honest, you put the missus in bad form when you’re here, and when she’s in bad form it makes my life hell. So I’d be happy to drive you away.’

  Taken aback, West asked. ‘Why doesn’t she like the gardai?’

  Jim Higgins reached for his car keys that hung on another nail, and indicated with a nod that they precede him down the narrow path to the garage. It wasn’t until they were sitting in the car that he answered West’s question. ‘It’s not the gardai she dislikes; she likes young Eamonn right enough. No, she just dislikes you Dubs.’ Whether he shared his wife’s sentiments, he didn’t say. There was no further conversation, he hummed as he drove and pulled up outside the hotel.

  ‘Thanks,’ West said, getting out.

  The car pulled away immediately. ‘She dislikes us because we’re from Dublin,’ Kelly said, staring after it. ‘Honestly, how ridiculous. I was right; she’s just a grumpy old bat.’

  West smiled. ‘We can’t arrest her for that, unfortunately.’

  They walked into the guest-housel. Looking into the lounge, they saw the fire had been lit. ‘I’ll go and get some tea while you’re ringing Peter,’ Kelly said. ‘Would you like something to eat?’

  ‘A sandwich would be great,’ West said and sitting down in front of the crackling fire he took out his mobile. He noticed a few missed calls, all from Andrews. Hoping he had some encouraging news, West pressed the speed-dial button.

  Garda Peter Andrews answered immediately. ‘Where’ve you been?’ he complained.

  ‘Sorry, Peter, I decided to go back to Toormore this morning, follow up something.’

  ‘And?’ Andrews asked, ‘any luck?’

  West grunted and explained his morning’s pursuits. ‘So a dead end,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ Andrews agreed, ‘I had a word with the powers-that-be in town planning. No application was made for a change of use. So that fits with what you’ve said.’

  West stretched his legs out, feeling the heat of the fire and wishing he could just sit there with Kelly, maybe drink some more of that Lagavulin and forget about the outside world. But that wasn’t going to happen. ‘Tell me you learned something useful,’ he said. ‘I’ve run out of ideas.’

  The phone crackled loudly. ‘Hello?’

  ‘I can hear you, Peter, go ahead.’

  ‘Sorry, the line went funny for a moment. Anyway, I did some digging on the names you gave. Some interesting facts came out. Eoin Breathnach was worth, by the least computation, ten million euro. Most of that is in property, with an apartment in London, one in New York and a villa in Portugal being the most valuable of what he owns. He also has shares in hotels in a few countries, all of whom are doing well and adding to his coffers on a weekly basis. There’s no record of any criminal activity, but you know better than I do that doesn’t mean there wasn’t any. But that’s all – so far. Seamus is working on it; he has a few leads yet to follow.

  ‘The info on the young lad, Finbarr is more interesting. You asked me to check his record. There was one. A sealed, juvenile record. I did some digging, rang a mate who works in Galway who contacted a friend who works in Westport who...’

  West interrupted him. ‘Jesus, Peter, I’m already lost. Just tell me what you found out.’

  ‘Fine,’ Andrews said unperturbed, ‘it seems your Finbarr was caught selling cannabis in the playground of his primary school. He was kicked out. He was home schooled for a few months before he started in the secondary school in Westport, and then only a few months later, he started in Kylemore Abbey.

  ‘He stayed in school and then came to Dublin, to UCD, but dropped out after a year. I spoke to someone there who remembers him well, mainly because of who his mother was, of course. Anyway, he didn’t drop out really, he was pushed.’

  ‘Drugs,’ West guessed.

  ‘Yep,’ Andrews confirmed. ‘Just using though, no hint that he was dealing so it never led to a conviction. And the same thing in the College of Art and Design. He was told to leave after several warnings.’

  ‘No convictions?’

  ‘Not one.’

  ‘I did think he was on something yesterday when we were leaving. He was all giggly and his pupils were pin-pointed.’

  ‘Maybe Eoin Breathnach found out, threatened him,’ Andrews suggested.

  West chewed his lower lip. It was possible, he supposed. ‘I don’t know, Peter, from all accounts he and Finbarr weren’t close. Why would he care if the lad was using?’

  ‘Maybe the mother cared. You said they were close. Maybe she asked Breathnach to have a word with the boy, and things went wrong.’

  West shook his head. ‘This wasn’t spur of the moment, Pete, this took some planning. And a lot of hate. I got the impression Finbarr didn’t care for the man, but not that he hated him. There didn’t appear to be any reason for him to. Breathnach didn’t spend that long there, just a few weeks now and then.’

  ‘On that note, I did as you asked, or to be correct, Sam Jarvis did. Breathnach spent approximately three months in Ireland in the last year. The rest of his time was divided between his London apartment and the villa in Portugal with one trip to New York and several weeks in Thailand.’

  ‘Three months. And they were all spent on Clare Island?’

  ‘Impossible to say.’

  West remembered something Sylvia had said. ‘The wife said he didn’t spend long here, so possibly not.’

  ‘You’re thinking that rules out someone from outside your cast of characters?’

  West smiled. Andrews could read his mind even at a distance. ‘I wish you were here for this Peter. Yes, I think it is closer to home. You had to have seen it, Peter, it was pretty horrific. Someone really hated the poor bastard. By all accounts, he wasn’t a very likeable man, but this was something more.’

  ‘Well, we’ll keep digging our end, Mike. Maybe we’ll turn up something more pertinent.’

  With a final general chat, Andrews rang off. West drummed his fingers on the table. He didn’t think Finbarr’s drug habit fit into the equation anywhere. Nor could he imagine Sylvia requesting her husband’s help in sorting him out. Maybe she hoped being on Clare Island would isolate him; keep him away from his source. It didn’t seem to be working. West wondered where he was getting it. There was a time when it was only the cities where drugs were freely available, unfortunately, as he knew only too well, that time had long gone. There were no doubt drugs available in Westport, especially if you had money. He’d have to ask Garda Hall when he arrived.

  It was Kelly who arrived first, followed by Daisy holding a large tray. She set it down on a table beside the window and off-loaded a pot of tea and plate of sandwiches. Setting out cups and saucers, she added a jug of milk and a sugar bowl before leaving with a final request that they tell her if they needed more of a
nything. Kelly put down the plate of cake she’d carried in and they looked across the table at each other and grinned.

  ‘This is almost normal,’ Kelly said with a laugh.

  West agreed. ‘Definitely more along the lines of what I had planned.’

  ‘You get through to Peter?’ she asked, pouring the tea.

  West took the cup and saucer she held out to him, and nodded. ‘Yes, he says hello, by the way. He’s envious, would you believe it, says it will go down in the records as being the weirdest murder ever. They’ve been looking Lamprey eels up on the net, him and the lads. So they’ve seen the photos of them.’

  Kelly smiled. ‘He’s a nice man. It’s a shame he’s not here. You two make a good team.’

  West, who’d been thinking the same thing, said nothing. Instead he reached for a sandwich. They were good, fresh crusty bread and roast chicken. ‘We’ll never eat all these,’ he said, finishing one and reaching for another. He was wrong and soon the plate was empty. Neither was tempted by the cake, so they sat back, relaxed and finished their tea.

  ‘I’d like to come back here again someday,’ Kelly said.

  ‘Despite everything?’

  She smiled. ‘There isn’t going to be dead bodies everywhere we go, is there?’

  West reached across the table and caught her hand. ‘No dead bodies, drug barons, blackmailers, or anything else will spoil our next holiday, I promise.’

  Kelly gripped his hand. ‘This holiday hasn’t been spoilt, Mike. It’s not what I expected, true, but we’re together and I’d be lying if I didn’t say I’m finding it a little fascinating.’

  They were still holding hands a few minutes later when Garda Eamonn Hall walked into the room. He stopped in the doorway, looking a little embarrassed at interrupting what had all the marks of a romantic moment.

  He went to back away but was stopped by West’s wave. ‘I can come back when you’ve finished lunch,’ he said apologetically.

  West shook his head. ‘That’s ok, we’re done. Sit down. Have a cup of tea if you want, I think there’s still some in the pot, and I’ll fill you in on the morning we’ve had.’