Full Irish Murder

by Kathy Cranston

  36

  TIME WAS on Garda Conway’s side that morning. The sergeant was delayed. By the time he arrived at the station, Gardas Conway and Fitzpatrick were in jubilant form. They’d managed to execute a search of Louise Graham’s home.

  Though laptops and phones were their main target in the search, a false panel in the wardrobe in the box room revealed a cache of images that were very sordid indeed. Garda Conway’s report noted that Ms Graham became quite hysterical when those were found and begged them not to put it on her record. She appeared not to suspect they were gunning for a more serious charge until later, when they found an incriminating series of messages with one Pete Smith. When her search history unearthed a search for fast-acting poisons, she finally broke and confessed everything.

  She had no idea how Mrs Stanley had come across those pictures. She’d done them for a men’s magazine in America on the strict understanding they wouldn’t be put online or published in Europe. She’d almost forgotten about them… until the messages started coming. She’d paid off ‘Pete Smith’ but that hadn’t stopped him from demanding more money from her, telling her that she’d never get a teaching job if those pictures were made public. At that point, she had panicked. She went to the drop-off point, but instead of putting the money in the bucket and leaving, she hid in the bushes.

  She only really wanted to find out who Pete Smith was; to reason with them. But that had all changed when she spotted Mrs Stanley—the last person she would have accused of trying to blackmail her. Her granny had been friends with May Stanley, and Louise had taken it upon herself to call in on her family friend from time-to-time to do odd jobs for the woman. She’d never received a word of thanks for it, of course, and now this!

  Before she knew it, Louise was spending her days plotting. She knew Mrs Stanley would never leave her alone but how could she get rid of her without anyone suspecting? A plan formed in her head when someone walked into the gym and asked if she’d heard about Mrs McCabe and Mrs Stanley fighting in the street. She hurried out and popped home to pick up some breakfast things. Then she went straight to Mrs Stanley.

  May Stanley didn’t suspect a thing: Louise had often brought her breakfast. Louise could barely contain her anger as she cooked up the food. Mrs Stanley sat there barking orders at her, ungrateful as usual and probably scheming up ways to get even more money out of her!

  After it was done, she smashed the old woman’s computer and set about finding her copies of the pictures. The messages had said there were copies everywhere. She’d had to tear the place apart! She knew Mrs Stanley didn’t get many other visitors so she was able to take her time. Sure enough, it took her hours but she found one set shoved up the chimney, one set in a bag of out-of-date porridge and another taped under a drawer. When she was satisfied she’d found all the pictures, she snuck out. When she was safely home, she went online and used an online message service to send a tip-off to the guards in Ballycashel about Mrs Stanley, suggesting Mrs McCabe might have harmed her. She felt no remorse: to her it was clear Mrs Stanley would have bled her dry if she hadn’t done something.

  Alan Power was charged with kidnapping, though the Gardaí noted his cooperation in the murder case and asked for that to be taken into consideration during sentencing. His accusations against the McCabe family were never spoken about again, much to the disgust of Sergeant Brennan.

  There was no mention of what Power had seen on Mrs Stanley’s computer. Garda Conway had a quiet word with him, setting the scene for him to be recalled as a witness in any other cases, should that be necessary. Alan Power seemed to understand this as some kind of get out of jail free card if he testified against the sergeant. Garda Conway was repulsed by such a notion, but he wisely allowed the rogue former IT professional to go on believing whatever he wanted to believe. Oh, he didn’t do it on account of the sergeant appearing in one of the photographs. If anything, Garda Conway wanted to bide his time and see what hard evidence came to light rather than let the sergeant know he was on to him.

  So there were a number of aspects of the case that were never made public to the wider public in Ballycashel. Not that anyone noticed. The whole town was abuzz with the news that Mrs Stanley was a blackmailer and thief. Well, that is, everyone except for the other blackmail victims.

  None of them knew that Mrs Stanley’s computer had been destroyed. Some of them even went so far as to flinch when Mrs Stanley’s name was mentioned. Granny Coyle had a quiet word with Mrs Roche and she seemed satisfied with her friend’s response, though she was reluctant to discuss the matter with anyone else. Fiona longed to put the others straight; to reassure them that the truth wasn’t likely to come out—at least not in public. She held off, though: she felt it might be even more harrowing if they knew that she knew. She spent a lot of time dwelling on that over the coming days.

  Not that she had much free time for thinking.

  As well as agreeing on a new stereo system for the pub, Fiona had agreed to install a panic alarm system. Her mother was insisting on it. As money was tight, she had a series of appointments lined up with different security companies to go through the pub and quote prices for this system. Other than that, she was occupied with running the pub, devising a number of specials to try and make up for the revenue she’d lost by opening so sporadically.

  “What about a quiz?” Mrs Davis piped up.

  She had become something of a regular in the bar ever since the break-in. It was astonishing really: she had gone from looking at Fiona with absolute disgust to being warm and chatty. It was strange at first, but Fiona was starting to enjoy her company and look out for the door opening shortly after half four after Mrs Davis had had her afternoon tea.

  “That sounds like a great idea,” Fiona said, grinning and jotting it down on her notepad. “I’m sure I could get one of the lads to be quizmaster and Dad has a load of trivia books at home.”

  “Not too risky, so,” Mrs Davis said.

  “Exactly.”

  The bell above the door rang and a moment later, Gerry Reynolds appeared in the bar. Fiona nodded hello. He was something of a regular. He came in at least once a week and he had been asking for pints of Guinness every time, even though she didn’t serve Guinness on draft.

  She smiled as he asked for just that.

  “Sorry,” she said, without even having to think about it. “We don’t have Guinness on draft.”

  “No Guinness?” He looked genuinely astonished even though he must have said the same thing fifty times. “Sure what kind of a bar are you?”

  She rolled her eyes. “A bar. We don’t have to serve Guinness, you know.”

  The bell went again and Granny Coyle came in and took a seat at the bar. Fiona shot her a grateful smile. It was a coincidence, of course, but it was still nice to have more people around for one of Gerry’s visits.

  He was the town hardman, and he made Fiona nervous even though he’d be affronted if he knew such a thing. He’d declared his intentions towards her, though thankfully he hadn’t repeated them after she told him she was taken.

  “Well it’s a horrid shame,” he went on. “We’re in Ireland, after all. It’s part of our culture.”

  Granny Coyle winked. “You know, young man, that’s a good point. I think I’ll have a pint of Guinness too.”

  Fiona shot her a look of disdain. So much for being relieved by her grandmother’s presence. “Are you sure that’s wise at your age?” she said sweetly. “It might be a bit too much.”

  “Listen to her! Is that any way to speak to a customer?”

  Gerry shook his head, a stupid smile plastered all over his face. “Ah, she’s grand. There’s something very attractive about a feisty woman.”

  Fiona very nearly lost her grip on the glass she’d just picked up.

  “How about a Moscow Mule. Can I have a Moscow Mule?” Granny Coyle continued.

  “What’s that now?” Gerry moved across the bar closer to Rose, looking genuinely interested in trying something new.


  “Oh they’re lovely. I tried them in Lourdes. Vodka and ginger with a bit of lime.”

  “Is that so? Lourdes you say.” He cleared his throat. “How are things going with that German boyfriend of yours, Fiona?”

  Fiona had to work to figure out what he meant for a moment. It had all been a ruse to get Gerry to stop hanging around the bar making puppy dog eyes at her. It had worked, too.

  Before she could answer and say that Felix was as darling as ever, though, Granny Coyle piped up.

  “German boyfriend? Not that I know of. Someone’s been having you on, young man.”

  “No, Granny, it’s—”

  “I’d surely know about it if she was courting someone.”

  Fiona shot her a significant look. “You do. You’ve met him. At our intimate family dinners, remember?”

  Granny Coyle shook her head. Her face was the picture of innocence. “No. That’s never happened.”

  “Sure it has. You were there. You made your famous apple tart and he compared it to his mother’s apfel strudel.”

  “Nope. You must have been dreaming.”

  Fiona sighed and turned to Gerry, dismayed to see the expectant look on his face. “She has a touch of the dementia you see. It’s an awful thing.”

  Granny Coyle let out a horrified gasp.

  “She doesn’t know it, of course.” Fiona patted her grandmother’s hand. “There, now. It’s okay. I’ll mind you.”

  “So he’s still on the scene.”

  She nodded. “Yeah. We’re planning a weekend break to Berlin sometime soon.”

  “Oh is that so?” Mrs Davis said, popping her head up even though Fiona hadn’t realised she was listening to the whole exchange. “In that case, you’ll be needing someone to look after the bar.”

  “Yeah, I suppose,” Fiona said slowly, looking from Mrs Davis to her grandmother. “Marty usually steps in.”

  “Well, I’d be happy to help. You just let me know. I’ve started opening the shop part-time now. Far less demand than there used to be.”

  “I will,” Fiona muttered. “Thanks.”

  LATER ON, when the others had left, Granny Coyle finally lifted her attention away from her Sudoku and spoke. “Dementia, hah? That’s lovely so it is.”

  Fiona shook her head. “It was an awful thing to say, but what could I do? You were denying my story about my German boyfriend left, right and centre. You know all about it, you were just being difficult.”

  “I suppose it was funny.”

  “You know why we told Gerry that. He was getting far too intense. It’s better than me coming straight out and saying I don’t want to go out with him. He scares me, you know that.”

  Rose rolled her eyes. “There’s no need to get all het up about it. I wasn’t thinking. I was just trying to amuse myself.” She narrowed her eyes. “You’re getting all pally with Mrs Davis.”

  Fiona shrugged. “She helped out after the break-in. She used to give me a hard time before, but she’s being really nice now. I like her.”

  Granny Coyle waggled her finger. “You better now be thinking of making her some form of surrogate granny, you hear? You’ve only got one granny and I’m her.”

  Fiona snorted. “I’ve two. Or are you forgetting about Granny McCabe?”

  “Ah that other one’s a boring aul biddy.”

  “I thought you hated that word.”

  “I do. When it’s used about me.”

  “I see. A bit of a double standard there so…?”

  Granny Coyle smiled, but Fiona could tell there was something on her mind; something that weighed heavily. “Okay, you’re my favourite granny. Just don’t tell Granny Mc.”

  This had no impact on Rose’s mood.

  Fiona frowned. “What’s wrong? You’ve a face on you like a wet weekend.”

  “Ah, I’m being silly.”

  “No you’re not. Sure tell me if you want. I won’t tell a soul.”

  “Ah, it’s just… I’ve been bored. Retirement’s not all it’s cracked up to be. I don’t want to be some aul wan sitting around staring up at a TV screen.”

  “But you’re nearly eighty!”

  “I’m in my mid-seventies, love. And I’m fed up with all this talk of ICA meetings and knitting patterns.”

  “Well,” Fiona said, leaning on the bar and feeling overwhelmingly underqualified to offer any advice. She was, after all, failing in the career department herself. “What would you like to do? Do you have something in mind? Nobody’s forcing you to knit, you know.”

  “They’re not, indeed. And if you’ve ever seen the things I’ve knitted you’d understand.”

  Fiona stayed quiet, remembering the scarf Granny Coyle had knitted for her. There had been something strangely terrifying about the riot of reds, pinks and purples.

  “Sure didn’t you have a great time in Lourdes? The lads told me you managed to get yourself into mischief. I swear Colm aged five years from worrying about you.”

  “Yeah, it was good craic I suppose. But…” she sighed. “There’s only so much fun you can have with a crowd of old fuddy duddies.”

  “So what, they’re too old for you? You don’t have to hang around with older people—there’s no law that says you have to.”

  “It’s not that.” Granny Coyle’s eyes grew thoughtful—wistful, even. “I had a great time these last few weeks. It was a real challenge trying to make sense of what was going on and running around the place with you trying to find answers.”

  Fiona smiled. She could say the same thing herself now that everything was getting back to normal. It had felt good to put an end to the case that had been hanging over her mother’s head.

  “It was good, yeah. But I suppose it’s the novelty of it more than anything. It’s not your everyday occurrence here in Ballycashel.”

  Granny Coyle blushed. “What if it was?”

  Fiona shivered and then burst into an involuntary fit of nervous laughter. “What, you’re proposing to make murder a regular thing in Ballycashel? Are you out of your mind?”

  “Of course I’m not!” Rose cried, but there was a strange grin on her face, replacing the sombre look she’d had not a few minutes beforehand. “No, I’m thinking the investigating side of things suited me. What do you think?”

  “You want to become a guard?”

  “Good God almighty I want no such thing! I’d be an ancient yoke by the time I finished the training. And can you imagine me working for a little pup like Brennan? No, I’m talking about…” she shook her head and laughed. “About becoming a private detective. What do you say?”

  Fiona stared at her in astonishment. For once, she was lost for words.

  “Look at that corruption thing, as one example. Garda Conway has no real appetite to investigate it. I, on the other hand, can’t think of anything I’d like more than to get to the bottom of whatever’s going on with Sergeant Brennan and Bernard Boyle. What do you think?”

  Fiona shrugged. “I think you should go for it if it’s what you want to do.”

  “No, I mean what do you think about joining me?”

  “Joining you?”

  Granny Coyle glared at her. “Obviously I can’t just go off half-cocked and set up by myself. I’ll need you to be my partner.”

  If Fiona had been speechless before, she was utterly stupefied now. “Your partner? In what, a detective agency? I don’t have the first clue about that sort of thing.”

  “Ah, lookit. There’s no need to be modest. You’re talking to me. I know you well enough to know that—”

  “I’m not being modest!” Fiona cried, laughing more at the absurdity of the conversation than from any sense of amusement. “I literally know nothing about that world. And I’ve got a pub to run.”

  Granny Coyle planted her elbows on the bar and pushed her long-forgotten puzzle book to one side. She looked earnestly at Fiona, and Fi had to admit that her grandmother looked livelier and more enthusiastic than she’d seen her look for a long time. And
that was quite something: Granny Coyle had been on top form when they were investigating Mrs Stanley’s murder.

  “We’ve already established that it’s a fool’s game for you to open during the day. You can still run the pub in the evenings. I’ll help you out, or we can hire someone. I’ll have you know that I was the mastermind behind this place when your parents first married. Sure they didn’t know the first thing about running a pub!”

  “Neither did you,” Fiona said mildly. “You worked in the civil service before you got married.”

  “Lookit, I’d been frequenting pubs since before—”

  “The emergency?” Fiona offered, eyebrows raised.

  “Less of your cheek! Anyway, I know a thing or two about getting the most out of this place. Think about it—we could set up a little office in the back room. It’s perfect with the separate entrance back there. Although there is something old school and clichéd about someone coming and meeting their PI in the back of a dark pub.”

  Fiona shook her head in disbelief. “You have it all planned out! How do you even propose to start? Don’t you need a licence?”

  Granny Coyle shrugged. “That’s detail we can sort out when we’re getting ourselves up and running.”

  “It’s kind of a key point…”

  “There!” Granny Coyle said triumphantly. “You see? I’m a big picture kind of woman. You obviously have an eye for detail. We’ll go far, I tell you.”

  Fiona shook her head. “I haven’t even agreed to this yet! You’ve sort of sprung it on me.”

  The truth was, she was still reeling from the surprise of it, but a small part of her relished the idea of doing something so outlandish—well, that was if it was even possible. Could she juggle the pub with a business that was so different from anything she’d ever done before in her life?

  “Well,” Granny Coyle said, taking a sip of her Moscow Mule. “Don’t leave me hanging for too long. I might just have to go find myself another business partner. Your sister for example.”

  Fiona baulked. “You’d never go into business with Kate. The two of you don’t get along; never have.”