The Death of an Irish Tinker

by Bartholomew Gill

  “Janie, you don’t say. The Toddler? And there we’d been hoping he’d dropped off the face o’ the airth.”

  Hannigan was from Cork. Or Mars, thought McGarr, although he’d long ceased speculating on who got promoted to senior Garda positions and why. Even he, who handled homicides, knew that the Toddler was still active in the more concealed aspects of the drug trade—as financier and importer, having sold off his holdings in Coolock and removed himself to an estate near Hacketstown. He worked seldom, it was said, and in volume only.

  “’Twas an informant, Peter, to tell you the truth. But keep that to yehrself.”

  Dead easy without a name. In his mind’s eye McGarr pictured Hannigan: a large, gruff middle-aged man with a shock of steely hair, a lantern jaw, and jowls the color of iron filings. It was said he’d been a hurling standout in his youth. Or was it Gaelic football?

  Now Hannigan had a great protrusive belly that he made a show of at CSA (Chief Superintendents’ Association) banquets, patting it, while saying, “Ann-y day now. Anny-y day.” Or, “Beep, beep, here come da fudge.” Or, “The missus won’t do the Lamaze with me. She’s afraid me water might break, and she don’t swim a stroke.”

  “Was it the same informer who put you on to the Mercedes on the Merrion Road?”

  “Well…now that you mention it, we’ve had the woman in our sights for quite a while now, and when I heard she was about to scoot, why, I gave the order to move in. You know, man, woman, and a young one all pilin’ into the car and lashin’ off just when we were about to lift her. Why, I thought she’d been tipped, and I had to do somethin’.”

  “Did you get her?”

  There was another pause. “Get who?”

  Christ, was he speaking Swahili, or was the man simply an eejit? “Beth Waters.”

  “Nah. Jaysis, I tell yeh, the lads they’re just not up to it at all these days. Not like when we come in. Lost her, the car, whatever packet she had on her somewhere around Greystones. Said, once on the dual carriageway, she put on a great burst of speed and was gone. Car like that bein’ as quick as a cat.”

  McGarr leafed through the activity sheets, noting that if the car left the Raglan Road house at 4:46 and was followed as far as Greystones, some twenty miles south of Dublin, Beth Waters (or Biddy Nevins) could not possibly have been seen in Raglan Lane sometime before 5:25, when the neighbor phoned in about the gun. Or she was not in the car.

  “What about the Biddy Nevins alias? Where’d you get that?”

  “Er, the others. The suspects. The ones we lifted from the house.”

  McGarr read the names. “Tag Barry and Cheri Cooke.”

  “That’s them exactly.”

  “In statement form? Signed?”

  It was as if there were a screening delay on the line with all Hannigan’s dead air. “Presently. We’re about it now.”

  “You’ll send me copies.”

  “I will, sir. As soon as we’ve got them transcribed.”

  “What do you make of the Toddler being there, just as you were raiding the house?”

  “Well…years ago now, when he was circulatin’, he was a scourge, so. But a capable scourge, if you know what I mean. Beat us at every turn. And clean as an effin’ whistle. There was nothin’ we could do to put him away. Nothin’.

  “Now…what gives between him and this Waters woman, I have no idea, and to be frank, I could not care less. Let the bloody scuts kill each other off, says I. The more, the merrier. I only wish her aim had been better. If it was her, and not some shower of…ambitious louts. Can I tell you something, Peter?”

  McGarr grunted; it was Hannigan he had heard all those years ago.

  “In the drug line there’s only one motive: greed. It rules one and all.”

  “Thank you, Paul.”

  “Ann-y time, Peter. I’m here for yeh, lad!”

  McGarr rang off, waited a moment, and dialed his wife’s picture gallery, which answered, as usual, after an eternity of ringing. “You were?”

  “Up the street.”

  “At Malachi Jordan’s gallery.”

  He heard a small cry of pique. “Are you having me followed?”

  “Haven’t you learned by now—I’m omniscient? You and Malachi were…discussing Beth Waters, for want of a more accurate term.”

  Like most born-and-bred Dubliners, Noreen could not resist the many stories that the Dublin gossip mill churned up daily, and she spent the early hours of most workdays engaged in “chat.” A kinder view, McGarr supposed, would be to contend that Dublin, a metropolis of some half million, enjoyed what few cities of size could claim—a strong sense of community—and such discussion was its glue, its running historical narrative.

  “What about Beth Waters?”

  “How she left his gallery, just walking out of the opening. Know why?”

  There was only silence on the other end.

  “Because Beth Waters is really Biddy Nevins, the former sidewalk artist who did the Book of Kells bit at the top of Grafton Street. And when Desmond Bacon, who is the Toddler, came in, she panicked.”

  Now the silence was stunned, he imagined.

  “Beth Waters/Biddy Nevins repaired to her house on Raglan Road, told her parents and maybe some others in the house that they were in danger, that the Toddler would soon be arriving, and they left in the Mercedes, heading south along the coast.

  “Beth/Biddy herself stayed behind, at least long enough to equip herself with a large-caliber handgun. The Toddler caught her coming out the back into Raglan Lane and tried to run her down. She pulled out the gun and managed in some way to put several shots up under his otherwise bulletproof Land Rover.

  “He’s in the Royal Dublin now with a thigh wound. Biddy’s missing. But Paul Hannigan, it seems, had been watching her house for drug activity, and when he saw the Mercedes leave, he moved in and raided the place, finding a large amount of drugs and taking two people into custody.”

  McGarr waited for a reply. “Are you there?”

  “I am—yah.”

  He imagined the multiple revelation was nearly too much to take in, all at one go. But it was definitely one of the “perks” of having a cop for a husband.

  But she managed, “If you’re so percipient, Superchief, why are you calling ignorant me?”

  “Two questions you’re to put to Malachi Jordan. Ask him if the Toddler asked him for Beth Waters’s address? Second, was alcohol served at the opening?”

  “Wine, I’m sure. You know Mal.”

  Who thought a cup an excellent catalyst for buiness, McGarr concluded. “Ask him if Beth or Biddy took any.”

  “Do I ring back?”

  “No, I’ll wait.”

  “Why? What’s the rest of it?”

  “Please, it’s urgent.”

  Some minutes later Noreen returned to say, “Desmond Bacon asked for the address the moment he saw she had left. As for the alcohol, Beth told Mal to pour her only a little since she did not drink and was only going to hold the glass for form’s sake. Mal fancied she was a Pioneer or in AA or something. And would be, if she’s Biddy, after Mickalou and all her own trouble with…substances earlier on. D’you know what I just saw in Mal’s gallery?”

  McGarr had no idea, but he was desperate now to make another call.

  “A photograph of footpath flags with chalk drawings of pages from the Book of Kells.”

  Then it was Biddy all right. But how had Paul Hannigan known that unless—“Thanks, you’ve been a great help.”

  “Oh, no, don’t even think of ringing off without telling me the rest.”

  “But I don’t know the rest yet. Tonight.”

  “Ah, Jesus, Peter—after sending me up the way to Mal and—”

  “Bye.” McGarr rang off and turned to Ward, who’d been listening. “What’s the name of our contact in Drugs, the bloke we had with us in Coolock that time?”

  “Lyons. Tom. He’s a desk sergeant now.”

  McGarr sighed. Ten years ago, maybe even f
ive, he would have remembered. Was it just his age, or was he losing his yen for the job? “Rut’ie!” he called out the door of the cubicle.

  He had her ring up the Drug Squad, ask for Lyons, and ask him to phone back. When he came on, McGarr took the receiver. “Tom—Peter McGarr here. I have a few questions that won’t compromise you there but could be helpful to us.”

  “If I can’t answer, I won’t. That’s all I can promise.”

  “That’s all I ask. Have the two you picked up in the Raglan Road house made statements?”

  “Not a word. He won’t let any of us go near them. Says he’ll take their statements himself, and so far he hasn’t.” There was a note of disgust in Lyons’s voice.

  “What about the raid itself? You’d been watching her—the woman Beth Waters—and the house for—”

  “Not at all. Not once. We never heard a word of the place until he shouted out the address, saying he’d lead the raid himself.”

  “And he made the discoveries once you were inside.” Of the drugs that were found, McGarr meant.

  Lyons paused. Then: “I think I know what you’re aiming at. Around here it’s known as the Hannigan factor.”

  “It’s happened before?”

  “Now and then. Once a year, maybe twice. Usually it’s known trade, to give him his due. Some people here think it’s what makes him chief. It’s got to be different where you are.”

  Murder not being as easy to manufacture, McGarr guessed he meant.

  “Come here,” Lyons said in a lower tone, sounding as if he’d wrapped a palm over the mouthpiece of the phone, “can you tell me something, Chief? Are yeh plannin’ to do somethin’ about this, or are yeh just checkin’ up like?”

  Which was the question, although there was only one way to know for certain. “You’ll know the answer to that one way or another. And soon.”

  “Then I’m glad I could help. It’s been a long time coming.”

  McGarr hung up and turned to Ward. “How’s our credit with the telephone monitor?”

  “The bunch that records incoming calls?” Ward shook his head. “They keep changing people there. Transfers. It’s boring and gets old fast. And you’d want to deal with somebody senior who could look at records without being questioned.”

  It was not what McGarr wanted to hear. “You mean Pauline.”

  Ward nodded. “She runs the show, and she’s helped us before.”

  But not without emotional cost to McGarr.

  “I could go over there myself. Maybe she’d check for me.”

  McGarr reached for the phone. “Nah, Jesus, it’s your day off. Get out of here now. And thanks. I appreciate your showing up this morning. Give my best to Lugh.” Who was Ward’s son, whom he visited on his day off.

  Passing through the office on his way out, Ward heard, “And to the missus. My very best to her. But remember, not yours.” It was Bresnahan, who remained jealous of his relations with his son’s mother, in spite of the fact that Ward had only just been made aware of his fatherhood. Up until a few months ago he hadn’t seen the woman in fourteen years.

  And the “missus” business—it was just plain low and off the mark in every way.

  CHAPTER 12

  Snake

  NO MORE THAN ten minutes later Hugh Ward arrived at the shop in back of which his son and his son’s mother lived in the Coombe. It was a narrow through street that followed the hollow created by the River Poddle and was now almost exclusively a commercial area in the Liberties, one of the oldest sections of the city. And certainly not a place to hang your hat.

  But looks could be deceiving, he thought, as he approached the two modest windows that said SIGAL & SON, ANTIQUE JEWELRY, OLD GOLD & SILVER and a battered oak door. It opened before Ward could knock, and he stepped into what he always thought of as a museum of the way Dublin used to be. Or at least a vast warren of low rooms with tin ceilings that were filled with things from the Dublin of old.

  Nearby were glass cases filled with pocket and brooch watches, antique jewelry of obvious value, gold-headed canes and umbrellas. But beyond—in fact, way beyond the cases—there was a light source that seemed leagues distant. There, Ward knew, was a spacious and well-lighted modern apartment with every convenience that even possessed an unusual view of the Poddle’s narrow valley.

  As Ward’s eyes adjusted to the light, he was amazed, as he always was, by the aisles upon aisles that were packed with old pianos, musical instruments, clocks, chandeliers, and candelabra, others with brass sconces, spittoons, vases, and an immense collection of newel-posts that had been in the collection of Leah Sigal’s father. Not having said a word, she was standing beside Ward now, in the near darkness. The door was closed.

  He could feel her there. More to the heady point, he could smell her—some arousing, exotic perfume that flared his nostrils and, he struggled to deny it, made his groin tighten. And he could only see her silhouette!

  Granted she was a diminutive woman, but she possessed both an ample hourglass figure and a way of carrying herself that suggested she was bearing a gift beyond compare. Which wasn’t far wrong, as he remembered. It had something to do with the movement of her arms and the grace of her walk. And her legs. Leah Sigal had excellent legs at once thin, shapely, but strong too. He remembered that.

  Unfortunately it was what Ward remembered of her most—the physical Leah—although he knew—and had acknowledged he knew all those years before—that there was much more. Too much; evidence their child. In matters intimate (or possibly intimate) Ward knew himself. Visual images ruled. Utterly.

  Which was more than enough to test him now. Why, when he was in love (or believed he was) with somebody else? Namely, Ruthie. He drew in a breath and let it out. It was a bitch being a man. Or, rather, a bastard, a word that he no longer used now that he had sired a son out of wedlock. By her. Leah.

  He could feel her move a bit closer to him. “Lugh is waiting for you in his room. He has something to show you. But I thought we might chat for a while.”

  Like that? They were buckle to buckle. And had her hand reached for his hip? Ward felt something there, but he dared not check.

  Ward had met Leah Sigal fifteen years prior, during the only year that he had spent in university. Always interested in history, Ward had sat a course at University College that focused on the origins of ancient Northern European societies. The lecturer was well regarded, but not nearly so much by Ward as one of his graduate student assistants, who was pursuing a Ph.D. at the time.

  She was older than he by five years, and her name was Lee Stone since she had been married at the time. Dark like Ward, she had raven hair, dimples, high cheekbones that looked like chiseled knobs, a classic retroussé nose, and starburst blue eyes, to say nothing of being well formed otherwise. She once said that when she met him, it was as if she had met her “literal other.” Apart from the eyes, they looked like perfect, complementarily sexed clones of each other. Ward’s eyes were brown.

  At the time Ward did not know what “other” meant, but it had led to an explanation and yet another session of passionate lovemaking. And the statement “All love is essentially egocentric. You are trying to find yourself in the other person. The closer, the better. Whether you know it or want it or not, we are the match of our lives.” Which she proved by leaving her husband.

  And still believed, he could tell, standing as they were in the deep shadows, their bodies nearly touching. It made Ward feel rather hopeless, as though he had suddenly been stripped of his free will and his life were determined and preordained. He had felt the same back then, as though they couldn’t help themselves, that it was all somehow out of their…hands was not the right word at all. For they had gone at each other wildly, destructively almost: in her office, his digs, an alleyway, her car. It didn’t matter if they might be discovered. They were all that mattered. Together.

  But six or so months after they had met, Ward’s father had died, leaving his mother and five younger children with no mean
s of support. As the eldest Ward left university to seach for a job, sitting the exam for the Garda Siochana and recording the highest marks of that year. He saw Lee Stone only once again, when they said good-bye.

  Fourteen years later during another investigation, Ward had come to the Sigals’ shop seeking some advice about a piece of old jewelry, never suspecting that Leah’s family—and now Leah—owned the business. A few weeks later she had revealed who she was and that her son, Lugh, was also Ward’s.

  Then she had seemed rather dowdy and plainly…well, old at thirty-eight. But now, looking down at her as his eyes accustomed themselves to the shadowed darkness, he could only agree with Ruthie, who had been along with Ward on that first visit to the shop. Bresnahan had said, “That woman’s a well-preserved thirty-eight and not a day older. With a little care and that haughty nose and those eyes, she’d look like a younger, thinner, and”—she had swirled her hands in front of her chest—“more attractive Liz Taylor than Liz Taylor was at that age. And that’s going some.”

  Now those eyes were looking up at him, and Leah looked anything but dowdy, wearing a bright red and fitted chenille cardigan with a scooped neck and pearl buttons down the front. Her slacks were black and tight, and the little bit of gray that had been left in her wavy black hair was becoming.

  But Ward only waited. He had not moved after stepping in the door. Farther into the shop he could hear clocks ticking off the moment, myriads of them, all over the vast interior. “Where’s Lugh?” he managed to say.

  She did not answer; the clocks ticked on. Traffic kept passing in the street. Ward kept smelling her perfume and whatever good shampoo she had used in her hair. Did she have hold of his hips?

  Yes, both hands. She pushed him back into the door, then lifted her face to his.