Stewart’s hand opened and the gun clattered to the fl?oor. There was a large red hole under his chin from which blood now began to pour.
Swinging his Glock toward the fl?at, McGarr found Jack Sheard standing beyond the grate, holding a handgun by his side, massive and stalwart. “Ah, McGarr— you make a balls of everything, don’t you?” He opened the grate. “You should get out of here before it’s made worse. Take the stairs.”
“How—?”
“Haven’t we been staking out this place from day one? We were hoping Stewart would lead us to the others, if there are any. The books and now the money. Go on.” He waved the gun at the door dismissively. “Get yourself gone.”
McGarr did not know what to think: Like Stewart, Sheard must have caught sight of him going through the back garden and entering the house. Why had he not waited for night? “I—”
“Don’t say anything, please. Just get the fuck out.”
There were faces in the doorways of the three landings. And whispers. Did he hear “. . . the disgraced one?” “Yeah, he’s suspended,” and “. . . up on charges”?
In the shadow of the alley, he paused to gather himself and thought of Maddie, Nuala, Bernie, and all the others whose lives would be affected by the spate of trouble he had just brought on. Because he felt he had been—what was the term?—dissed. His pride had been hurt by O’Rourke and Kehoe when Sheard had been placed over him.
And all along Sheard had been the competent one who’d had a lead on Stewart.
What he regretted most, however, was not having questioned Stewart about Kara, and if she’d been a part of the conspiracy.
In the car, the lack of sleep and food suddenly hit him hard. He glanced at his watch—it was just about time to pick up Maddie. But instead he rang up Nuala and asked her to send a car in his place. After all, she could afford it, and, the truth was, he just wasn’t up to facing his daughter and any questions she might ask.
“It’s all over the news about Bernie, the helicopter, the dead woman, and you. They have him in custody. They’re looking for you.”
McGarr did not reply. He had pulled into the curb near the Royal Canal, and he now eased back his seat and closed his eyes.
“Are you all right, lad?”
“Sleep.” He rang off but did not fall asleep right away, asking himself: If he had been in Sheard’s shoes—the same Sheard who had gone on television to announce that Pape, Gillian Reston, and Ray-Boy Sloane and his New Druid drug gang were behind the theft and murders—would he have hesitated at all in collaring Stewart?
Sheard was already on record saying he’d solved the crime. Who, then, could Stewart lead him to?
McGarr closed his eyes and tried not to think of Kara Kennedy and whether...
He awoke with a start. The cell phone, which he had cupped to his chest, was bleating insistently.
“It’s me again,” said Nuala. “I hope you got some sleep and had something to eat.”
McGarr tried to speak, as he leaned forward to bring the seat back up to a driving position.
“Are you near a teley?”
McGarr swirled his neck, which was sore, and the burn on his back was again galling him. Glancing out the windscreen, he caught sight of a canal-side pub. “Could be.”
“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 fi?fty-fi?ve 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-fi?ve million?”
“Aye, you heard right. I think he’s drunk. He then went on to say he had to spend another fi?ve million, in addition to the fi?fty 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 fi?ne, 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 diffi?cult 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 fi?ve 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 offi?cer 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 fi?nance 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 fi?nished 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 offi?cers 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 fl?inty 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 confi?scating the stolen property, and Mr.
Sweeney will be accompanying us for the purpose of an interview and debriefi?ng.”
“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 offi?ce 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 fi?nd 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 fi?lings. He hasn’t submitted a property or title transfer or fi?led 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 Petroleum?”
“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-fi?ve thousand in a retirement program run by Trinity College. But not one debt that I could fi?nd.”
“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 defi?nitely 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 fi?rst fi?ve 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 fi?ne 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 stiffl?y 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 fi?ne 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 fi?ve of them, th
ey looked like a happy family out of a soap opera.
It took him a while to fi?nd 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-fi?tting 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 fi?rst 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 fl?ared the radical angle of her chest.
“And the furnishings—I admire your taste. It all must have cost a packet.”
Death in Dublin - Peter McGarr 16 Page 26