Death in Dublin

by Bartholomew Gill

“Should be. Sweeney? They’re saying he’s recovered the Book of Kells and the other two, but lost an eye into the bargain, to say nothing of fifty-five million. And he’ll be damned, says he, if the books ever get returned to godless—he actually said the word on national television—Trinity College, gobshite that he is.” Like Noreen, Nuala was a graduate of Trinity.

  “Fifty-five million?”

  “Aye, you heard right. I think he’s drunk. He then went on to say he had to spend another five million, in addition to the fifty that was already splashed out. To get the real books back, don’t you know. But he did it without the bungling and life loss of the Garda Siochana.

  “Would you like to speak to Maddie?”

  No, he thought. He did not want to speak to his daughter in his present mood. “Yes. Of course.” He had to wait for her to come on, as he walked toward the pub.

  “Peter?”

  “Mad’.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I am, yah.”

  “What about Bernie, my…godfather.”

  “He’ll be fine, don’t worry. It’s wrong, what’s being said. It’s all a bit more complicated than people know at the moment.”

  McGarr stepped into the pub and moved toward the bar, which was unusually quiet, all eyes on the screen.

  “I’ve got to go.”

  And yet again they repeated the litany of “loveyous” that McGarr found difficult to endure but his daughter obviously required.

  Sweeney had chosen the venue, McGarr concluded—the steps of St. Mary’s. Pro-Cathedral Catholic Church on the North and working-class side of the city. And it was a live event with the cameras showing Sweeney with a bandage over his eye and his helpers—in white jumpers with Ath Cliath in green-and-orange lettering across the front—arranging the stolen books for the cameras, while a voice-over explained that Sweeney had called for the press conference only an hour earlier.

  Details of his checkered past were then reprised—as a businessman and convicted felon, his successful suits against the Garda and the government, the circumstances of his purchasing Ath Cliath from its founder, who was discovered murdered two days later.

  Finally, saying, “Enough. That’s enough for the blighters to see. Get out. Out,” Sweeney straightened up and and shambled toward the microphones.

  An announcer’s voice said, “And here is Charles Stewart Parnell—‘Chazz’—Sweeney.”

  Stewart—could it be a coincidence? McGarr wondered.

  Sweeney looked into the cameras, his one eye a moil of reddish color. As always, the immense man was wearing the rumpled mac with blue blazer and red tie beneath, and he appeared to be sweating; his rough, lumpy features were shiny and his collar damp. He passed a hand across his mouth and looked down, as for a drink.

  A hand passed him what looked like a coffee cup. He drank, then said, “I’m not big on press conferences and blowing me own horn, so I’ll cut to the chase.

  “I come before you today a sad man entirely. Not wanting the Garda to botch another exchange, kill some other innocent parties, and waste more bloody money on the New Druid scuts what stole the books, I met with them, paid another five million—money I had to beg and borrow—but, and this is the only good part, I got the bloody books back.

  “Into the bargain, I lost an eye, the surgeons tell me, seven million quid total, and but for the Garda Siochana—or, let me amend that—but for an already disgraced senior officer of the Garda Siochana—the intrepid Kara Kennedy, truly a keeper of old manuscripts, would still be alive. I suppose we can take solace in the knowledge that she died, God love her, retrieving the greatest single treasure of the Irish people and in that way she’s both a martyr and a patriot.”

  Sweeney again toked from the cup.

  “And speaking of patriots, none of this”—his large paw swept the table—“would have been possible without the Christians and patriots who stepped up to finance this great effort. Not for nothing was it done. Never, not if it takes years of toil and litigation, will we allow these icons of the Catholic Church to reside where they were lost.

  “And don’t think”—he finished the cup—“don’t think the cowboys and gunsels of the Garda Siochana won’t see me in court. I’ve a mighty big bone to pick with them.” He cast a hand to one side, where Jack Sheard had stepped beyond the reporters and was moving toward Sweeney with several other officers behind him.

  Questions were barked at Sweeney until one voice was allowed to continue. It was Orla Bannon. “Can you or won’t you tell us exactly where and how the exchange was made? And how you were injured?”

  “I don’t take questions from uncredentialed reporters.”

  “Here’s mine.” She reached for the lanyard and photo IDs hanging between her breasts.

  “They’re no longer valid. You’re sacked.”

  Shocked, the others turned to her.

  Although her smile seemed genuine, there was a flinty look in her dark eyes. “I think that would be unwise.”

  “That’s why you’re no longer employed—your judgment is impaired.”

  “At least for me, it’s only my judgment, as judged by you,” she shot back, and the crowd laughed.

  Sheard had reached the microphones. “This event is over. We’re confiscating the stolen property, and Mr. Sweeney will be accompanying us for the purpose of an interview and debriefing.”

  “I will not,” said Sweeney, swirling his heavy sloped shoulders.

  Turning to him, Sheard said something under his breath, and the others led him away.

  Sheard stepped to the mikes again. “After our interview, Mr. Sweeney will of course be at liberty to answer your questions, should he decide to do so.”

  “What do you know about…?” the others began shouting, but Sheard moved off after Sweeney. Other Gardai were taking possession of the books, which, McGarr supposed, would be held on the pretext of being evidence, until Trinity sued for their return.

  “Shouldn’t you be up there?” asked a voice behind him.

  It was Ward. “Got something for you.” He handed McGarr a sheaf of folded paper, explaining that he was on his way to spell Ruthie on the stakeout of 24 Spancel Court, Ranelagh. He’d spent most of the day in his office on the computers, researching Daniel Stewart, Kara Kennedy, and Jack Sheard.

  “Why Sheard?”

  Ward’s smile was more a baring of white, even teeth. “You mean, beyond his being a self-serving prick who’s as much as ruined four good careers? Well”—he glanced back up at the television—“haven’t you ever wondered where his suits, cars, houses, and so forth come from, when he was not making any more money than we were?”

  McGarr had, and more than once. “I heard talk that the wife has money. Didn’t they meet at Trinity?”

  Ward tapped the papers. “It was only talk. Her father, Kenneth Reynolds, is a retired Presbyterian minister in Larne with a modest house, an old car, and a small pension.

  “I’d expected to find reams of account information and mountains of debt.” Ward shook his head. “Every so often Sheard gets this wad of cash, or so it seems, and he pays off his debt—over forty thousand pounds’ worth in the last six months.”

  “Stocks, bonds?”

  Ward shook his head. “Unless he’s doing the Cayman Island thing. But if he owned any European or American shares, I would have found them, as I did for Sweeney and Stewart.”

  “What about the law? He’s a solicitor. Maybe he makes use of his contacts and moonlights that way.”

  “I thought of that and examined court records and filings. He hasn’t submitted a property or title transfer or filed a brief or will in a decade. Conclusion?”

  McGarr waited; he had his own idea about Sheard.

  “Either he’s into graft big-time in one of his supposed ‘corporate’ investigations that O’Rourke thinks he’s so skilled at, or somebody with a lot of money has more than a passing interest in Jack Sheard’s prospects in the Garda.”

  “What about Dublin Bay Pe
troleum?”

  “It’s a Panamanian entity, owned solely by Stewart. A brokerage that bought and sold on the spot market, but nothing that would have made him rich.”

  Not like 55 million quid and getting rid of an unwanted wife. Or was McGarr being naive about the part that Kara had played?

  But her story about her missing husband—traveling to Yemen and petitioning that government—had all rung true to McGarr. Also, there was the call to Stewart’s mother. “And Kara?”

  “She had a small amount in her savings account, a checkbook balance of under one thousand Euros, and about thirty-five thousand in a retirement program run by Trinity College. But not one debt that I could find.”

  “Any joint account with the husband?”

  Ward studied McGarr’s face before shaking his head. “You shouldn’t fault yourself. The husband obviously used her. Why else would he have killed her? They murdered Gillian Reston, tried to kill Ray-Boy Sloane, and were either responsible or complicit in the deaths of Derek Greene and Raymond Sloane. Their entire intent was to leave no potential touts, to pare the take down to themselves alone. And that’s Pape, who’s the only one left alive.”

  Perhaps only because he’d been taken into custody by Sheard. And named as a conspirator. “But Pape has a big problem.”

  Ward canted his head and followed McGarr’s gaze to the television screen, where, felicitously, Pape was shown debouching from the Trinity Library right after the theft had been discovered. With head raised, he was staring down his long patrician nose at the assembled photographers and cameras.

  “Even so, I don’t think we can doubt for a moment that his mentality was beyond hatching the scheme, and we both know addicts take chances. The drug problem aside, he’s not a stupid man.

  “Maybe he holds the Book of Kells in contempt, but he spent his life as a librarian, and he owns or owned a facsimile copy.”

  Like what was probably blown up on Iona, thought McGarr. Much of the confetti was brightly colored.

  “My bet? If those books”—Ward pointed at the television—“are genuine and undamaged, Pape was definitely behind the crime.”

  “Then who just made the exchange with Sweeney?”

  “Ray-Boy?”

  Not if, as Ward himself and Bresnahan thought, he was at 24 Spancel Court, Ranelagh, and had not come out. Also, it could not have been Ray-Boy with Dan Stewart on Iona.

  The business was a storefront in a minimall—nails, tanning, and perhaps sex, Bresnahan had decided after her first five minutes parked across the busy main street.

  Nearly all the customers were male and not of the sort who looked as though they required a manicure for fine dining or a big meeting with an important client. Most were working-class yokes, some of whom looked like they’d had a few jars. The two women who ventured inside took a quick look round and left.

  The only customer who looked like he belonged now stepped out holding a cell phone to his ear. Tall, maybe still in his twenties, he was wearing designer eyeglasses, an expensive gray pinstriped double-breasted suit with a pearl-gray tie, and a tall fedora—something a bit like a homburg. He moved stiffly toward a long silver BMW with gold wheel covers, rather like the car that had been destroyed outside New Druid headquarters on the Glasnevin Road.

  A lorry pulled past Bresnahan, obscuring her view for a moment. But when the BMW moved by, she could just see through the tinted windows that he had something like a bit of bandage plaster on the underside of his nose. Which, it occurred to her too late, might be concealing the hole for a ring.

  CHAPTER

  16

  SHEARD’S HOUSE WAS NESTLED IN A CROOK OF THE Dublin Mountains, part of a rather new housing estate of pricey homes on large lots with fine views of the city below. Dublin was fully lighted now at 7:30, as far as the eye could see.

  Neo-Georgian in style, the dwelling was a rambling red-brick affair all on one story with arched windows and a four-car garage. Parked on the drive was a rather new Volvo and a Maloney’s Catering van with two young men in white ties and tails carrying silver platters of food into the house.

  Knowing Sheard could not possibly be home after Sweeney’s press conference about the books, with reporters interviewing him and all, McGarr slipped the Garda-issue Glock he’d been carrying under the seat of his Cooper and got out.

  Every room was lit, and with the front door open, he simply walked in, noting the quality furnishings and the bar that had been set up in the largest room, which looked like the lounge in a select hotel. The portraits on a hall table were of Sheard and his wife, Maeve—McGarr thought her name might be—and their three children. Towheads all five of them, they looked like a happy family out of a soap opera.

  It took him a while to find the kitchen, where the catering team was obviously setting up for a party. And there too stood the blond wife wearing an apron over a form-fitting black dress, directing their efforts.

  “May I intrude?” McGarr asked, holding out a card. “You’re probably not aware that your husband just saved my life, he might tell you later. It all happened so fast. I’m here to thank him.”

  She looked down at the card. “Peter McGarr?”

  He nodded.

  “Well, Jack has always said you were his model, the very kind of policeman he wanted to be. And is.”

  She was a natural blond whose skin carried a buff sheen that seemed to glow. With pale blue eyes, regular features, and an angular body, Maeve Sheard was one of the better-looking people who McGarr had cast his eyes upon in some time.

  “Do you expect Jack soon?”

  “Oh, yes. Of course. Within the hour, guests are arriving.”

  “You’re having a party, I can see. Your birthday? His?”

  She smiled and shook a head bedizened in comely golden waves. “Jack just felt like having the neighbors over to celebrate, don’t you know?” Her brow furrowed, perhaps only now remembering what McGarr’s experience had been over the last few days. “Would you be having anything? Let me get you a drink.”

  McGarr smiled and followed her pleasant curves and good legs to the bar in the living room.

  “Gorgeous place you have here,” McGarr commented, as his drink was being readied. “With a view to die for. When did you have the house built?”

  “Oh, nearly seven years gone now, after the birth of my first son.”

  “I like the lines, the proportions. Was it architect-designed?”

  She nodded and rested an elbow on the tall bar in a way that flared the radical angle of her chest.

  “And the furnishings—I admire your taste. It all must have cost a packet.”

  “Oh.” She closed her eyes. “I see what you’re getting at. Jack inherited a fair amount of money upon the death of his father about a decade ago. And then, he’s so resourceful.” Her smile was utterly guileless. “He bought this house from a man who was in legal problems and required representation both in and out of tax court.

  “Jack’s first preference in regard to work is, like yours I should imagine, the police. But he’s also a solicitor.” Her hand came up to her pretty mouth. “Oh, dear, I shouldn’t have said that either. I hope you’re not offended. I only now remembered the difficulties you’re in.”

  McGarr looked down into the drink and shook his head.

  “Well, anyway, Jack just arrived.” She pointed to the bay windows. Car headlamps had appeared on the driveway, and a large Audi swung into the floodlights by the garage. They watched as Sheard, pulling his large frame out of the car, advanced on McGarr’s Cooper and looked down at the Garda shield that was displayed in the windscreen. Pivoting, he made for the house.

  “I’d better tell him you’re here.” She moved toward the hallway.

  McGarr waited, hearing, “Where is he?” from Sheard.

  She said something inaudible to him.

  “I don’t care. He has no place in my home.” He then appeared in the doorway. “You. What are you doing here?”

  McGarr shrugged. “Curi
osity. I wanted to see for myself how you live.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. I wanted to see how you live.” McGarr let that sit for a moment. “I’m also interested in why, when you learned where Stewart was, you didn’t bring him in immediately. And why you were alone when I got there. No support, no backup.”

  “Isn’t it enough I saved your bloody life?” The wife now appeared beside him, but Sheard raised an arm, as though to bar her from entering the room. “Go see if everything’s ready while I get rid of this yoke.” Sheard lumbered forward with his big-shouldered gait, the fist of his right hand actually clenched.

  He stopped within inches of McGarr, looming over him. “You have great bloody cheek coming here when, you should know, you’re now wanted for questioning. You’ll be charged, and you’re going to prison, count on it.”

  McGarr smiled and looked down into his drink. “Well, at least it won’t be for tax fraud.” He glanced up into Sheard’s pale blue eyes. “You never inherited any money to purchase this place, and your wife’s father is a poor parson in the North. Nor did the owner of this property ever need your legal help. In fact, there’s no record of your having functioned in any way as a solicitor in over a decade.

  “The more important record is your failure to pay a farthing of taxes on any of the money that floated all of this.

  “No.” McGarr raised the glass and drank from it. “Miraculously, you just seemed to surface with cash, whenever necessary.

  “The Stewart matter? I’ve got Bresnahan and Ward working on that—phone calls in particular.” McGarr watched Sheard’s ears pull back and his nostrils flare. “Swords? He tells me there’s no record of you or any of your staff reporting Stewart’s address or even hinting that he was a part of your inquiry.” He held the man’s searing gaze.

  “I should have let him kill you.”

  McGarr nodded. “I’d call it a tactical error. But you’d come there to kill him anyway, and street cop has never been your strong suit, Jack. You’re more the camera class of fella. And good at it, I’ll hand you that.”

  McGarr finished the drink, set the glass on the bar, and stepped around Sheard. “As those who actually practice the law say, ‘Be seeing you in court, Solicitor.’ Perhaps you have skills in that direction. For your family’s sake, you should hope so.”