The Revenge of Liam McGrew: A Dermot Sparhawk Mystery

by Tom MacDonald

  So I acted as if it were true. And if it were true, there had to be more to it. Why would Webb go the extra mile for Liam, more precisely, the extra three thousand miles? Why would he go to Boston to kill me? He wouldn’t do it to avenge Alroy, no way. What was I missing?

  I closed my eyes and let my mind drift, which was a more typical state for me than brainstorming. I had nearly drifted off to sleep when it hit me, the motive I was looking for. The heisted money. Cash conjoined Liam and Webb like Siamese twins. The robbery of the World’s Fair of Money, the missing sheet of $100,000 bills––that was the bond that yoked them.

  Thirty-two $100,000 bills, a total of $3.2 million, $1.6 million apiece if they split it. That was a lot of cash, an amount worth killing for. Duty to cause? Loyalty to country? Those ideals had nothing to do with Liam and Webb. If I was right, Liam betrayed Catholic Belfast and Webb betrayed England, in a slimy partnership built on greed.

  IV.

  I was asleep atop the covers when Kenny called back. I picked up the phone and he jumped right in.

  “I just got off the phone with Scotland Yard,” he said. “Phillip Webb was a double agent. Liam McGrew was his informant.”

  “It makes sense, doesn’t it?”

  “You’re not surprised by this information?” Kenny sounded disappointed.

  “I did a little speculating on my own while I was lying here, and the agent-rat alliance occurred to me.”

  “But why did Phillip Webb go to Boston to kill you? The grudge was between you and Liam, so why did Webb get involved in a petty squabble like that?”

  “It’s not petty if you’re the one getting shot at, Kenny,” I said.

  “Come on, you know what I’m saying.”

  Something about Kenny’s story didn’t jibe.

  “Why did Scotland Yard tell you about Webb and Liam?” I asked. “That’s top-secret stuff, so why the loose lips in London?”

  “One of the deputy commissioners is a close friend of mine,” Kenny answered. “We were roommates at Oxford. He trusts me, so he told me about Webb and Liam.”

  Something else didn’t jibe. “How is it that a Scotland Yard man in London knew about a British Army Intelligence officer in Belfast?”

  “You have a curious mind, Dermot.” Kenny paused. “My friend serves as liaison between London and Belfast. Thus, he is linked to the British Army in Northern Ireland, a dotted-line connection as they say.”

  “Back to loose lips, your friend took a pretty big risk telling you about Webb and Liam. I know he trusts you, but information like that leaks out, it could jeopardize their cover.” Dummy me. “I get it. Scotland Yard cared only about Phillip Webb, and now he’s dead. They don’t give a damn about Liam McGrew.”

  “They didn’t really give a damn about Webb, either. My friend was ambivalent about Webb. On one hand, he thought Webb was fairly productive, an agent who delivered on IRA movements. On the other hand, he thought Webb was an opportunist, a climber out for personal gain. My friend also thought that Webb was a thief, and that Webb and Liam had worked together on robberies abroad.”

  “And yet Webb was highly decorated.”

  “Which gave him the perfect cover, a man beyond reproach. My friend theorized that Liam fed Webb small-time stuff to make their partnership look legitimate. Liam would throw Webb a few crumbs, so to speak. In return, Webb would give Liam early warning when something was coming down in Belfast.”

  “And then they’d pulled off robberies on their own,” I said. “They were in cahoots.”

  “But why would Webb go to Boston to kill you?” Kenny asked.

  “To get himself a big payday,” I said. “Liam probably offered Webb a share of the $100,000 bills. Webb gets a piece of the $100,000 bills for killing me. That was the deal.” I gave it more thought. “Liam also needed Webb to launder the money, which gave Webb a bit of leverage.”

  “It sounds like three-dimensional chess.”

  “Webb is dead,” I said, thinking as I was speaking. “Liam still needs to sell the fourth sheet of bills, unless he already unloaded it.”

  “Unless he unloaded it? You think he still has it?”

  “Maybe.”

  There was a long pause on the line, and it lingered longer than it should have. Dummy me again.

  “You don’t owe me anything, Kenny.”

  “What are you taking about?”

  “The $100,000 bills,” I said.

  “I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “It’s okay with me if you go straight to Liam McGrew,” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I understand the situation. You were hired to recover the stolen money. It’s your job to get it back, and I don’t want to get in the way of your job.”

  “Dermot, we’re working on this together.”

  “Buy the sheet directly from Liam, with no middleman to muddle things up. It’s easier that way.”

  “And leave you hanging in Belfast?” He sounded ticked off. “I don’t do business that way.”

  “I understand the circumstances.” I paused for a beat. “It’s okay with me.”

  “But it’s not okay with me,” he said. “We’re going to see this through to the end, the two of us, side by side, that was the agreement. I don’t take shortcuts, and I won’t backdoor you. I thought we had an understanding. What kind of a man do you think I am?”

  “I’m trying to get you the money.”

  “The hell with the money,” he said.

  “I’m in Belfast to stop Liam from killing me. That’s my priority, staying alive. Retrieving the money is secondary. From my side of it, even if I got my hands on the money, Liam still wants me dead. From your side of it, I could get killed and you still don’t have the money. It’s simple logic. It’s okay with me if you go straight to the moneyman, Liam McGrew.”

  “I won’t do that, Dermot.”

  “It’s all right if you do. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “That’s all you’re saying? Well, there’s another saying, and an Irishman named Oscar Wilde said it. ‘A true friend stabs you in the front, never the back.’ If I were going to make a deal with Liam, which I’m not, I’d tell you upfront.”

  “I never said you wouldn’t.”

  “Don’t you get it? This is all of one, getting the money, saving your ass, the two are inseparable. Got it?”

  “Yeah, I got it.”

  “Are we okay?”

  “We’re okay.” If not for Kenny I’d be dead. Webb would have killed me on the Northern Avenue Bridge if Kenny hadn’t hired Rat T. Kennedy to save my life. “Sometimes my mind goes–”

  “Yeah, mine, too.”

  V.

  O’Byrne was sipping tea in the kitchen when he heard a soft knock on the door. He opened it and saw Dermot Sparhawk standing in front of him. O’Byrne hustled Sparhawk inside and closed the door behind him.

  “What are you doing, trying to get me killed?”

  “We need to talk,” Sparhawk said, pulling out a chair and sitting at the kitchen table. “It’s important.”

  “Make yourself at home, why don’t you,” O’Byrne said with a flippant tone. “The nerve of you coming here.”

  “A cup of tea would be nice,” Sparhawk countered.

  “A cup of tea, you say?” O’Byrne stared at Sparhawk’s face. “I suppose a touch of hospitality wouldn’t hurt anybody.”

  O’Byrne made a cup of tea for Sparhawk and placed it in front of him. Sparhawk bowed his head and let the steam warm his face.

  “I just got off the phone with a friend in Boston.” Sparhawk raised his head from the cup and looked straight ahead, no expression on his face. “He’s connected in high places, and he knows how to use those connections.”

  “You’re lucky to be having friends in high places,” O’
Byrne said. “And I suppose your friend told you some things.”

  “He told me about a man named Phillip Webb.” Sparhawk turned the cup halfway around in the saucer, one hundred and eighty degrees. “Do you know him?”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Webb was a British Army Intelligence officer,” Sparhawk said, sniffing the dying steam. “Webb is the man who tried to kill me in Boston last week.”

  “Is that so?”

  “This friend I was telling you about, the connected guy, he hired a man to watch over me. The man watching over me shot Webb before Webb shot me. He’s dead.”

  “British Army Intelligence, you say?”

  “That’s what I said, British Army Intelligence.”

  “They’re a nasty lot.” O’Byrne thought about Kathleen’s murder, killed by the Brits decades ago. In a perverse way, Kathleen’s death could be attributed to collateral damage. The hit squad meant to kill O’Byrne, thus her killing could be deemed an act of war. It had taken O’Byrne decades to come to this conviction, Kathleen’s death as an act of war. “Bless the saints you’re alive, Dermot. Now why would a British Amy Intelligence officer go after an American like you in Boston, Massachusetts?”

  “I asked myself that very question,” Sparhawk said.

  “And did you come up with an answer?”

  “My friend told me that Phillip Webb was a rogue agent. He also told me that Scotland Yard suspected Webb of double dealings. They’d been tracking him for some time now. Webb infiltrated the IRA as a double agent.”

  “Is that so?”

  Sparhawk leaned his elbows on the pine table and said, “Webb worked with Liam. Liam was Webb’s informer.”

  “Ah, your head’s in the sand, up to your neck in it.” Liam, a tout? It couldn’t be true. But if it were true, everything O’Byrne stood for was a pile of shite. “You’re wrong about Liam.”

  “I’m not wrong. Webb was working with Liam. Liam fed Webb details on IRA operations, and Webb would then undercut you guys.”

  “Never!”

  “Liam and Webb also plotted crimes abroad.” Sparhawk kept going. “That’s why Webb went to Boston to kill me. Liam promised Webb a piece of the money-fair heist for the hit. Your boss is a traitor and a thief, O’Byrne.”

  “Liam might be many things, but he is not a traitor.” O’Byrne walked to the kitchen counter and poured whiskey into a cup. “He is a true son of Ireland, a rebel soldier to his core. He would never betray the cause.”

  “He betrayed the cause,” Sparhawk said. “And he profiteered on the side, using the cause for his own financial gain.”

  “Bullshit!”

  “Think about the stolen paintings from two decades ago. Think about the $100,000 bills from last month. Did Liam turn in the money to the so-called Irish cause, or did he keep it for himself?”

  O’Byrne then remembered his talk at the Teagueland Inn with Salty McBrine. It seemed that Salty knew nothing of the robberies in Boston. Maybe Sparhawk was telling the truth. No, it couldn’t be true. O’Byrne slammed his cup on the table.

  “Liam is no traitor.”

  “Let’s pretend that Liam turned in the money,” Sparhawk said.

  “He did, I tell you.”

  Why was O’Byrne insisting on something that he knew wasn’t true? Was he so committed to Liam that the truth didn’t matter?

  “If he turned it in, why did Webb go to Boston to kill me?” Sparhawk asked. “If Liam turned in the money, Webb gets nothing for killing me, because there’d be nothing to get. So why did Webb go to Boston? Can you answer that question?”

  “I don’t know why he went.”

  “Phillip Webb was in the middle of a profiteering scheme with Liam McGrew.” Sparhawk took the last of his tea. “I got dragged into it when I killed Alroy. That’s when it got personal for Liam.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “If I’m wrong, why did McAfee come after me?”

  “Ach, you’re wrong!”

  “That’s what happens when a family member gets killed, things get personal,” Sparhawk said. “Alroy was Liam’s only kin, I’m told.”

  “That much is true.” O’Byrne allowed. “Alroy was the last of the Belfast McGrews.”

  “And I was the guy that crushed his skull with a rock,” Sparhawk said. “Liam wanted me dead, even if it meant using a British soldier to kill me.”

  “I don’t believe that for a bloody second, not for a bloody feckin’ second,” O’Byrne was now yelling. “No way possible.”

  “Who else could it be but Liam?” Sparhawk asked. “Who else wanted me dead?”

  “How am I supposed to know these things?” O’Byrne pointed his finger at Sparhawk. “Get out, Dermot. Go on now. Leave before something bad happens to you.”

  At the door Sparhawk turned and said, “I’m on your side, O’Byrne.”

  §

  O’Byrne thought about the conversation with Sparhawk and a question came to him. Why did he get so defensive when Sparhawk accused Liam of wrongdoings that O’Byrne himself had suspected of Liam? It didn’t make sense. Why was he fighting Sparhawk’s thrust? He thought back to Sailortown. O’Byrne had grown suspicious of Liam after his talk with Salty at the Teagueland Inn. Sparhawk’s charges reinforced what O’Byrne feared, that Liam was a thief who was out for himself, that the Irish cause was nothing but a secondary matter to him. O’Byrne had some serious thinking to do.

  Chapter Twelve

  I.

  O’Byrne walked into Slattery’s back room with a pint of beer in his hand and saw Liam McGrew sitting in his chair, waiting for him. O’Byrne had asked Liam for a meeting, and Liam, tired of being housebound, agreed to meet him at Slattery’s Pub. Liam stared at an open jug of whiskey as he spoke.

  “Well, you called me here, O’Byrne.” He gurgled. “What do you want?”

  “We need to talk,” O’Byrne said, with a deferential tone in his voice.

  “I’m all ears, O’Byrne, big feckin’ rabbit ears.” He belched. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

  O’Byrne studied Liam’s darkening face, his flushed complexion and watery eyes. Liam had been drinking and a foul mood had hold of him.

  Liam said, “Go on, I’m listening.”

  “The subject is a bit delicate.”

  “What am I dealing with here, a feckin’ girl? Look at the puss on ya.” Liam poured whiskey into his glass, spilling some on the table. “Spit it out, man!”

  “I’ve heard some things, not that I believe them for a second.”

  “You’ve heard some things, boohoo.” He mocked O’Byrne. “As if I feckin’ care what you heard or what you believe.”

  “Liam–”

  “And obviously you believed them or we wouldn’t be here talking now, would we?” He whacked the table with his blackthorn walking stick. “Okay big ears, tell me what you heard? What do you want to ask me about? I’m listening.”

  O’Byrne finished his pint and filled the bottom of his glass with whiskey from the jug. “These things I’ve heard, they, ah–”

  “Speak! Are you a man or a mouse?”

  O’Byrne drank the whiskey in a single gulp and slammed the glass on the table.

  “Who is Phillip Webb?” O’Byrne said, and then he repeated. “Who the feck is Phillip Webb?”

  “I never heard of him.” Liam’s blotch blazed. “Phillip who?”

  “Phillip Webb worked in British Army Intelligence in Belfast.” O’Byrne poured more whiskey from the jug. “Phillip Webb was the third man.”

  “What third man, what are you talking about?”

  “The third man in Boston,” O’Byrne said. “After Alroy and McAfee failed to kill Sparhawk, Webb gave it a try. He too failed and he too met his demise.”

  “I can’t say I’m sorry that a Brit met his demise.” />
  O’Byrne waited for Liam to look at him.

  “You’re lying, Liam. You knew Phillip Webb.”

  Liam didn’t get mad, didn’t explode as O’Byrne had expected him to do, he didn’t react at all. He simply sat back and nodded his head.

  “I paid Phillip Webb for the hit on Sparhawk,” Liam admitted. “I paid him out of my own pocket.”

  O’Byrne asked Liam how much he paid Webb, but Liam refused to answer, saying it was none of O’Byrne’s business. The two men went quiet for a time, and then Liam’s expression changed. His color returned to normal and he seemed to regroup. Liam thumped the table with authority and spoke in a low grumble.

  “Did you ever think you’re alive because of me?”

  “Alive because of you?” O’Byrne snorted. “You’ll have to explain that one to me, Liam.”

  “The raid at Tullyverry, do you remember it?”

  “Aye, I remember it.” O’Byrne was still seething. “How could I forget? I remember we lost four men that day.”

  “But you weren’t one of them, were you?” Liam gripped the stick so tightly his knuckles went white. “I warned you, didn’t I? I told you to keep clear of Tullyverry. Did that fact slip your mind? I warned you because the operation got compromised. Does any of this ring a bell inside that thick head of yours?”

  “Four men dead, forgive me if I’m not giddy.”

  “I tried to get word to the whole squad, but I couldn’t.” Liam insisted.

  “Right, you tried.”

  “Tullyverry was forty years ago, forty feckin’ years ago. There were no cell phones back then, so how could I get word to the others? I am haunted by Tullyverry, O’Byrne. It has haunted me every night of my life.” He tapped the stick on the floor. “I’ll tell you something else, something I couldn’t tell you before, because Webb was still alive. Phillip Webb tipped me off to Tullyverry. He got word to me at the eleventh hour, very late in the game. If I had found out earlier, I could have saved the whole crew, but as it turned out I could only save you and Mac.”