Nothing But Trouble

by Michael McGarrity

  Fitzmaurice found a car park within easy walking distance of Quinn’s storefront office and they passed along a street of two- and three-story stone buildings with brightly painted trim work that housed retail shops featuring Irish crystal, linens and woolens, posters and prints, Celtic jewelry and trinkets, and souvenir T-shirts and hats, all geared to the tourist trade.

  Although the architecture and landscape were different, the area reminded Sara of the shops on the Santa Fe Plaza, where the store clerks assumed all their customers were from out of town. Kerney and Fitzmaurice, strangers living two continents apart, were right to complain about theme-park mentality and crass consumerism. It was everywhere and it sucked.

  Liam Quinn greeted them with a smile and a hearty handshake when they entered his office. In his mid-thirties, he had a ruddy complexion, red hair cut short and brushed forward, and a narrow nose that ended abruptly above thin lips. He wore a white shirt and striped tie, a light wool tweed sport coat, and dress slacks. The office was nicely furnished with an antique desk and an old-fashioned wooden chair on casters, a credenza with a desktop computer, printer, and fax machine on top, several comfortable easy chairs, and a round conference table with four matching straight-backed chairs. One wall featured flyers with photographs and descriptions of available properties. Hung on the opposite wall were several framed posters of area attractions.

  They sat at the conference table, and Fitzmaurice, who had introduced Sara as his wife, took the lead.

  “We’ve fallen in love with those Italian-style villas on Coast Road,” he said. “Surely someone might be tempted to sell.”

  Quinn shook his head. “They rarely become available. I had a gentleman stop by earlier in the summer asking for the same inquiry to be made on his behalf, and it all came to naught.”

  “Yet a resident we spoke to said one had sold recently.”

  “Yes, to a client of mine,” Quinn replied, looking quite pleased with himself.

  “To the gentleman you mentioned?” Fitzmaurice queried.

  “No, to a woman. She’s hired a builder to refurbish it completely, once the planning council approves the architect’s plans. It’s a protected property, and nothing can be done until then. But I have other properties equally as charming you might wish to consider.”

  “But nothing on Coast Road?” Fitzmaurice asked.

  “Sadly, no,” Quinn said, with a shake of his head.

  “That’s too bad,” Fitzmaurice said. “I suppose it’s all a question of timing, isn’t it?”

  Quinn nodded in agreement. “The villa came on the market unexpectedly and I had a ready buyer.”

  “A woman, you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell us about the gentleman who inquired about the villa earlier in the summer.”

  Quinn cocked his head and gave Fitzmaurice a sharp look. “What is this about?”

  Fitzmaurice took out his Garda credentials, laid them on the table, and passed a photograph of George Spalding to Quinn. “Is this the gentleman in question?”

  Quinn shifted his gaze from the photograph to Fitzmaurice and then to Sara.

  “Please answer the question,” Sara said.

  “Yes.”

  “What name did he use?” Sara prodded.

  “George McGuire.”

  Fitzmaurice plucked the photograph from Quinn’s hand. “We know he purchased the property in Joséphine Paquette’s name, yet you said his inquiries came to naught.”

  Quinn’s ruddy complexion deepened. “There is nothing improper about purchasing property to benefit another person.”

  Fitzmaurice smiled as he slipped his Garda credentials into his pocket. “It’s just as you say, indeed. You’ve a keen sense of right and wrong, Liam. A very fine quality in an estate agent. But why did you lie to us?”

  “I merely maintained a confidence. Mr. McGuire wished to preserve his anonymity by having the deed registered in Ms. Paquette’s name. He wishes to move to Dún Laoghaire without drawing attention to himself. That is not so uncommon as you might think. Some of the wealthy have an obsession with privacy.”

  “Why didn’t you tell the police about McGuire?” Sara asked.

  Quinn tugged at the collar of his shirt. “It didn’t seem to be of any consequence.”

  Fitzmaurice glanced at the framed photograph on Quinn’s desk of a woman holding a chubby-cheeked infant. “Is that your family, Liam?”

  Quinn nodded.

  “It must be difficult to make your way as an auctioneer and estate agent and a family man running a business all on your own in such a competitive market. As I understand it, independents such as yourself constantly risk being either driven out of business or absorbed into the big national estate companies.”

  “It’s been a very good spring and summer for sales,” Quinn replied stiffly.

  Fitzmaurice leaned forward across the table. “Made even more profitable for you by a sum of money in your pocket not reported to the taxman?”

  Quinn stood up. “I resent that.”

  “Sit down, Mr. Quinn.” Fitzmaurice waited a beat for Quinn to comply. “What if I were to tell you that McGuire is an international fugitive who used ill-gotten gains to buy the villa?”

  “I know nothing about that.”

  “Of course not,” Fitzmaurice said, staring hard at Quinn. “The thought never entered your mind that McGuire might be attempting to hide criminal assets.”

  “It is not my responsibility to determine the source of a client’s wealth,” Quinn replied sharply.

  “I’m sure we can clear this up easily to everyone’s satisfaction,” Sara intervened with a smile. “Tell us about your dealings with Mr. McGuire.”

  Quinn’s stormy expression cleared slightly. “He came to me three months ago asking about the villas. I’d just begun negotiations with an elderly gentleman who wished to sell his property by private treaty at the end of the summer rather than at auction. McGuire paid me a ten-thousand-euro commission in advance to secure the property.”

  “How did the money come to you?” Sara asked.

  “He gave me a bank draft the very next day, along with written authorization to make an offer above the fixed price if necessary.”

  “Go on,” Sara said.

  “When the contracts were drawn up by the solicitor, Mr. McGuire returned, signed them, and paid the ten-percent deposit after renegotiating the closing date, which he asked to have put off because Ms. Paquette would be unavailable until a later time. Since it was a cash purchase without the need for a secured mortgage, the seller agreed.”

  “How did you keep in contact with McGuire?” Sara asked.

  “I have his mobile number.” Quinn stood, took an address book from a desk drawer, and read off the number, which didn’t match with the one Sara had discovered in Paquette’s hotel room.

  “Where did he stay while he was here?” Sara asked.

  “He stayed on his motor yacht at the marina,” Quinn replied as he watched Fitzmaurice dial his mobile phone. “Who are you calling?”

  “A detective to come and take your written statement,” Fitzmaurice replied, “which will then be carefully checked for truthfulness.”

  Outside Quinn’s office Sara turned to Fitzmaurice. “Do you think he knew Spalding’s money was dirty?”

  “He probably suspected it, at the very least,” Fitzmaurice replied, “as we have every reason to believe that Spalding bribed him to remain silent about certain particulars.”

  “Well, the one thing we know for certain is that Paquette agreed to Spalding’s scheme long before she rendezvoused with him in Paris. What do you know about boating and motor yachts?”

  “Except for a few nautical terms not a blessed thing,” Fitzmaurice answered.

  “Nor do I,” Sara said as they walked toward the car park.

  The Dún Laoghaire Marina, situated yards away from the ferry terminal to Wales and the rapid-transit rail station to Dublin, was a modern facility catering to all types of lei
sure boats, from small sailing dinghies to large yachts.

  Sailboats and motorboats filled the marina, masts rising from the decks, sails furled, hulls gently knocking against the crisscross pattern of walkways where the boats were moored. In the bay a small regatta of boats in full sail cut through the waves past an old stone pier with a red-domed lighthouse and headed out to sea. In the distance the Holyhead ferry steamed toward Wales, smoke billowing from the stack.

  The ferry terminal adjacent to the marina was a stark contemporary structure with a circular upper story that seemed to have been deliberately designed to look like an airport conning tower. It matched perfectly with the steel-and-glass architecture of the nearby rail-station ticket office that spanned the tracks below.

  At the marina office a young man named Bobby Doherty, who had the wind-burned face of a sailor and an anchor tattooed on a forearm, searched through recent berthing records.

  “I remember him,” Doherty said, as he flipped through papers. “He has a new Spanish-built Rodman Fifty-six, with twin Volvo engines and three cabins. He berthed here two or three times.”

  “A very expensive boat that is, then?” Fitzmaurice asked.

  “It cost him half a million euros, if it cost him a penny,” Doherty said.

  “And you’re sure this is the man,” Fitzmaurice said, poking his finger at the photograph of George Spalding that he’d placed on the counter.

  “Yes, Mr. McGuire,” Doherty said, glancing at the photo. “He tied up on the Q berth, where we put the larger visiting boats.”

  “Did he sleep onboard his boat while he stayed here?” Sara asked.

  “Of that I can’t be sure,” Doherty said as he handed the records to Fitzmaurice. “One of the night-watch crew could better answer that question.”

  Fitzmaurice scanned the papers and passed them to Sara. Spalding had berthed his boat, Sapphire, three times at the marina on dates that corresponded nicely with his recent travels to Ireland, and had paid in cash. They’d missed him by five days.

  “Do you know for certain that Mr. McGuire owns the boat?” Sara asked.

  Doherty shrugged. “He could have hired it. Many people do that when they come here on holiday.”

  “Who could tell us if it was a hired boat?” Fitzmaurice asked.

  “Either the Registrars of Shipping or the Irish Sailing Association,” Doherty said. “Both keep excellent records of ownership, and you may want to ask after Mr. McGuire at the National Yacht Club. On his first visit he asked me to direct him there.”

  “What time does the night watch start?” Fitzmaurice asked.

  “Johnny Scanlan comes on duty at eighteen hundred hours,” Doherty replied.

  Fitzmaurice handed Doherty a business card. “Have him stand by for us at that time.”

  Doherty nodded. “Have we had a criminal in our midst?”

  “It’s a family emergency,” Sara said. “How do we get to the yacht club from here?”

  “Easily done,” Doherty said, and he rattled off directions that took them directly toward the lighthouse with the red dome.

  Fitzmaurice parked in front of the National Yacht Club. The entrance consisted of a six-panel double door with a semicircular pediment window above. It was enclosed by a wrought-iron fence and a gate bracketed by two tall, ornate light stanchions. In spite of the Georgian touches the building had the look of a low-slung French château. Two polished brass plaques on either side of the door announced that it was indeed the National Yacht Club and that the building had historical significance.

  After Fitzmaurice showed his credentials at the reception desk, they explored the public rooms while waiting for a club official to come talk to them. In a large gallery comfortable chairs and couches were arranged to give a view of the bay through a series of tall windows. Oil paintings of sailing ships in hand-carved gilded frames adorned the walls. In the separate dining room the tables were set with crystal stemware and silver flatware. The adjacent bar was an inviting, intimate cove of dark paneling and polished mahogany. There were few people about, but as they returned to the front room, a smiling older man with a neatly trimmed gray beard and mustache, and wide-spaced brown eyes below a bald, round head approached, introduced himself as Diarmuid O’Gorman, the commodore of the club, and asked if he could be of assistance.

  Fitzmaurice displayed his Garda credentials and showed O’Gorman Spalding’s photograph. “We’re trying to locate a Mr. George McGuire and we understand he may have visited the club early in the summer.”

  O’Gorman nodded. “Yes, I spoke with him myself. He was keenly interested in becoming a member. A very pleasant gentleman. Is he in some sort of difficulty?”

  “Not at all,” Fitzmaurice said. “A family matter requires his attention.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you. He left with a membership application and a promise to return after he settled into a house in Dún Laoghaire. He said it might be some time before he would be ready to put himself forward for admission, and that he would be traveling until then.”

  “On his motor yacht?” Sara asked.

  “Yes, but he’s planning to purchase a racing dinghy, a sport we’re particularly active in. We’ve hosted two world championships in recent years.”

  “Did he say where he might be going after he left Dún Laoghaire?” Sara asked.

  “He mentioned wanting to complete the yachtmaster ocean training scheme.”

  “What is that, exactly?” Fitzmaurice asked.

  “It certifies a skipper to operate a boat beyond coastal and offshore waters,” O’Gorman replied. “The training must be offered by an approved ISA organization.”

  “The Irish Sailing Association?” Sara asked.

  “Exactly,” O’Gorman said. “They would be able to tell you where and when he completed the course, if indeed he has done so.”

  With directions from O’Gorman in hand they left the yacht club and found their way to the headquarters of the Irish Sailing Association. Housed in a mansion along a quiet street, the two-story brick building was surrounded by lush grounds, a wrought-iron fence, and a low ornamental hedge. Set back from the road and partially hidden by large shade trees, the mansion’s entrance was topped by a neoclassical entablature supported by two Greek Revival columns.

  Inside they spoke with Mary Kehoe, who managed the daily operations of the association. A pleasant-looking woman in her forties, Kehoe had a small, pointed chin, bluish-green eyes, hair that was as raven black as Fitzmaurice’s, and a gangly figure.

  “We’re trying to locate a Mr. George McGuire to inform him of a family emergency,” Fitzmaurice said as he settled into a chair in Kehoe’s office. “He owns or has hired a motor yacht named Sapphire and may have had some recent dealing with your organization.”

  “Yes, of course, Mr. McGuire,” Kehoe said, rising from her desk. “We’ve assisted him in a number of ways. Let me get his records.”

  When Kehoe left the office, Fitzmaurice flashed a big grin at Sara. “Are you starting to get the scent of our prey?”

  “What if he’s on the high seas and staying far away from land?” Sara asked.

  Fitzmaurice grimaced. “Well, at least we won’t have to waste our time canvassing every bloody hotel and inn from Dún Laoghaire to Wicklow.”

  Kehoe returned with a folder, sat at her desk, put on a pair of reading glasses, and slowly began to page through it. Fitzmaurice’s eyes lit up as though he were a cat about to pounce, and for a moment Sara thought he was getting ready to rip the documents out of the woman’s hands. Instead, he settled back and tried hard not to look impatient.

  “We have his completed ISA membership application,” Kehoe said, placing it carefully to one side and studying the next batch of forms. “Also his coastal and offshore certificates of yachtmaster training, both the shore-based and sea-based courses, his international pleasure-boat operator certificate, and his application for a certificate of identity and origin.”

  One by one Kehoe neatly arranged t
he papers to keep everything in order.

  “Mr. McGuire owns the Sapphire, then?” Fitzmaurice asked.

  “Indeed he does.”

  “What is a certificate of identity and origin?” Sara asked.

  “It’s used in conjunction with the ship’s registry,” Kehoe explained as she handed the paper to Sara, “to ensure yacht owners have free movement throughout the European Union. It may be helpful, especially if Mr. McGuire is at sea, as it contains his ship’s radio call sign and his registered sail number.”

  Aside from what Kehoe had noted, the one-page form contained a trove of new information. It required Spalding, aka McGuire, to list his nationality, place and date of birth, passport number with the date and place of issue, and home address, along with specific details about his boat, right down to the builder, the model, the engine number, tonnage, the date and place of sale, and where the boat had been built.

  According to the document McGuire was an Irish national born in Boston who’d been issued his passport in Dublin over a year ago. He’d bought Sapphire from a dealer in Northern Ireland soon after that.

  Sara gave the form to Fitzmaurice, who scanned it eagerly. “When did McGuire take his yachtmaster courses?” she asked.

  Kehoe paged back through the documents. “He finished his coastal courses eleven months ago and his offshore training this past July.”

  “He lists a home address in Galway,” Sara said.

  “Yes,” Kehoe replied, “but the information is outdated.”

  “How do you know that?” Fitzmaurice asked.

  “Mr. McGuire came by several weeks ago to let me know he would be moving to Dún Laoghaire in the next few months and until then would be living on his motor yacht.”

  “Do you recall anything else he said to you?” Sara asked.

  Kehoe nodded. “He was planning a voyage around Ireland after he completed his shore-based yachtmaster ocean-training scheme.”

  “Where would he take such training?” Fitzmaurice asked.

  “There are any number of certified training centres,” Kehoe said, looking at Fitzmaurice over her reading glasses. “Of the commercial centres the closest course offering is in Bray.”