The Death of Love

by Bartholomew Gill

  McGarr palmed up her resignation and stuffed it into the pocket of his coat. “Do me a favor, Rut’ie? I’ve got to make a phone call. Carry that into the snug. I don’t want it hanging about.” He meant the plastic sack with the photocopies of Power’s notes.

  “But aren’t you going to decide what to do with them?”

  McGarr nodded. It was not his way to give advice, especially to friends, but maybe if she understood exactly what she would be missing…Power’s cards were nothing if not fascinating to somebody such as she, who would know the players by name and reputation.

  On the other hand, there was the ambitious Rory O’Suilleabhain to consider. Did McGarr trust her not to tell him? Why not? Without the originals the information contained in them was merely rumor and innuendo, which had been Gladden’s dilemma.

  And finally, the cards would get her mind off her father and…decisions. Hughie Ward was, after all, McGarr’s protégé, and anything he could do to advance Ward’s interests, he would. “Care for a peek?”

  Like a racehorse, Bresnahan’s handsome head came up. “You’re joking.”

  “I’m not. You know where the private snug is? The barman will buzz you through.”

  An hour passed, then two. And three. From Hogan’s office, McGarr kept trying to phone Ward in Limerick, but all lines were continually in use. McGarr was tempted to say it was a police emergency, but—if the operator checked—it might give away both where McGarr was and the fact that he had something for Ward.

  When finally McGarr entered the snug, he found Bresnahan with her legs stretched across the tiny room toward a coal fire that was glowing in the hearth. She was looking into the bottom of an empty glass.

  McKeon had out his Colt Python, which he appeared to be cleaning.

  O’Shaughnessy was still reading a last inch or two of cards, holding them away from his eyes at an odd angle.

  McGarr set fresh glasses before each, and they waited for the older man to finish. Beyond the lathed and carved wood of the snug, beyond the leaded-glass window above it that pictured a rose, a shamrock, and a brimming pint of Guinness, McGarr listened to the city—the groan and wheeze of a bus braking, steps on the footpath, bells from the Castle, which was just up the street—and thought how it was just another moment in the lives of perhaps every other Dubliner within hearing of Hogan’s, but a crucial time in the lives of the four people gathered in the snug. Five counting Ward, who was not present.

  Finally O’Shaughnessy read the last card. He then squared and banded that group and dropped it into the sack with M.J.P. FROST, CHEMIST, SNEEM, CO. KERRY on the side. Looking up, he said, “I don’t know exactly when it happened—sometime in the sixties with people like O’Duffy and the debt and all—but a massive—” He paused, as though groping for a word.

  “Recrudescence,” Bresnahan supplied.

  “Exactly, Ruthie. A massive recrudescence set in. The government discovered it could lie to the people and nobody seemed to care. And since it could lie, why not steal too, which they did, if Power can be believed.

  “Then everything went haywire. The murder rate, as we know, and drugs, and all the problems in the North. I hate to say this, but in many ways Gladden was right with all his blather about creditors being predators and returning to ancient values that were cherished by our race and forgetting about the rest of the world.”

  O’Shaughnessy sighed and reached for a fresh drink on the tray on the table that separated them. “Maybe all this should be exposed and made public, but it would make me feel dirty to be Irish. Nobody wants to hear this about their leaders—all the dirty dealing, the graft, and corruption of public trust. Even their personal indiscretions and sordid affairs. Especially not now with the papers making O’Duffy out to be another Kennedy or a De Valera.”

  He took a sip and added, “But, you know, it should be told. All of it. Which is the only way things will ever get any better.”

  Said McKeon, “Who are we to censor history? What was done was done and should be exposed. Let the guilty be punished.”

  There was the word again, thought McGarr. Guilt, which loomed so large in Irish life, private and public. But guilty of what? The accusations of a dead man? He wondered how much of what was alleged could actually be proven in court. And what damage any attempt to do so would cause.

  No, the allegations contained in Paddy Power’s note cards, were they to be mailed, say, to each of Dublin’s four newspapers, would then be tried in the court of public opinion, which was the least fair that McGarr knew. Every word of the note cards would be considered truth, and all parties mentioned painted with the same brush. “Rut’ie?” he asked.

  She was now looking down into her new drink, turning it this way and that, letting the curtain of amber fluid flow down the bevel of the squat cocktail glass. “In moral terms, it’s a genuine dilemma, is it not? As the sergeant has just said—”

  “Bernie,” McKeon suggested. She was part of them now, and no matter what she decided in regard to her career, her relationship to the three men in the snug had definitely changed. Whatever decision they made there would bind them for life.

  “—as Bernie has just said, who are we to censor history? But I suppose the more basic question is, who are we?” She glanced up at McGarr, who nodded to say she should go on. “We’re the police, who deal in facts that are provable in a court of law. How many suspects have we brought in whom we knew were guilty, but we just didn’t have the proof? And how many others have we brought to court thinking we had proof, only to have it dismissed or derogated or thrown out for one thing or another?

  “If we’re now judging the value of the evidence before us, I’d say what we have mainly is smoke and shadow and not much more. Some of the allegations about who got what from the government for which considerations might be proven, but we don’t even know if laws were broken. Or at least I don’t, my brief having been murder during my tenure.

  “Power’s main contention seems to be that the way the borrowed debt money was divided up and how it will be paid back is unfair. Well—that’s what the Dail is for, to dispense fairness. Often it seems to fail, but it’s the highest and best court we have, and we have to live with its shortcomings.

  “Which still leaves us here with the moral dilemma—who are we to judge these cards and what should be done with them? Though we must.”

  Or, rather, McGarr must. Three pair of eyes turned to him, and he explained the deal that Harney had outlined earlier in his hospital room. “It makes the decision doubly difficult. I wouldn’t want Harney to think I truckled and went along with the easy and self-interested choice.”

  “Ah, the hell with Harney,” said McKeon, who was obviously tiring of the chat. “Let him and them think what he will. This country has already made all the martyrs it will ever need. Consider the job they’ve done on you already. You couldn’t resign now, if you chose, with all their allegations flying about. Half the public would think you were a party to O’Duffy’s assassination and the other half that you were the author of a cover-up.

  “As long as the cards don’t fall into Harney’s hands, we’ve done the country a favor, and if you can help yourself into the bargain, all the better.”

  Said O’Shaughnessy, “Remember, now—it’s not just yourself anymore. You’ve got a wife and child to think of.”

  “Here—gimme the feckin’ t’ings, I’ll show you what we should do with them.” McKeon reached into the shadows of the floor, picked up the sack of original note cards, and dumped them on the coal fire.

  Bresnahan’s head snapped to McGarr. “Is that what you want, Chief? Perhaps we should keep a copy and release it—”

  “After the prominent figures are dead?”

  She nodded. “For the sake of history.”

  McGarr had thought of that, but, he imagined, some one or other of the O’Duffy/Harney inner circle would take care of history in the way that Power had intended. And McGarr did not wish his own death be remembered primarily as th
e occasion of the destruction of some other persons’ reputations. “Did you ever think that releasing the cards at any time would play right into Gladden’s hands? In an oblique way it would provide a reason for what he did at the bridge.”

  Obviously she had not. She looked away at the fire. “When there can be none.”

  Both O’Shaughnessy and McKeon nodded.

  A few of the cards had begun burning immediately.

  McGarr stood. “While you’re about the rest, I’ve a phone call to make. But, mind—what just happened here is between ourselves alone.”

  “Sinn Fein,” McKeon chortled. From between his teeth he sprayed whisky that showered the smoldering mound of note cards and burst into bright flame. “We need more accelerant here. Tell Hogan, more! Rounds and rounds!” He began laughing, flicking sheet after sheet of the photocopies onto the fire until the hearth was filled with the acrid rainbow flame of photosensitive paper.

  When Harry Harney finally rang back, McGarr said, “I’ll watch with interest your rehabilitation of my good name. If all goes according to our conversation this morning, you’ll get your wish.”

  “But how will I know you’ve destroyed them?”

  “You’ll just have to take my word.”

  “Which is good.”

  As was my name before I got involved with the likes of you, thought McGarr. “Some other things—” He now thought of Ward and Bresnahan and Rory O’Suilleabhain, who would soon be a T.D. He did not want to interfere, but at the same time he took care of his own, when he could, and he would not see Ward eclipsed by some culchie farmer with dung on his boots. “I want a special commendation for Hugh Ward.”

  Harney grunted.

  “Also, I’d like him named acting chief superintendent of the Murder Squad. In my absence.”

  “But aren’t there more senior—”

  “I’ll take care of that. But I also want Bernie McKeon advanced to superintendent. Also I want a writ, back-dated to Tuesday last, allowing me to install a listening device in room two-sixteen at Parknasilla.”

  “Ah, McGarr—who do you think I am? I only own a newspaper. No judges, no courts.”

  McGarr waited until he heard Harney grunt.

  “And finally I want Ward’s first official act as acting superintendent backed by you, your son, and all the resources at your command including the paper. No matter what it is.”

  “You ask too much. I can’t be giving you carte—” There was a pause and then: “Can’t you at least tell me what it’ll be?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you won’t like it. At first. Ultimately, you’ll see, it’ll be good for your son, who’ll be perceived as his own man.”

  “Ah, Christ—what is this, McGarr? You playing politics now?”

  “You do all the time. The difference is, I hold the cards, and not in a manner of speaking.” He waited again. “Now—do we have a deal?”

  “No! Of course not! I need to know chapter and—”

  McGarr rang off.

  Seconds later the phone rang again. “Never, ever, hang up on me again. Is that understood? Nobody hangs up on Harry Harney,” he blustered over what sounded like his sempiternal cigar. “McGarr? You there, McGarr?”

  “Do we have a deal?” McGarr asked in a mild voice.

  “Of course we have a goddamned deal. You just better keep your half of the bargain.”

  “Ditto.” McGarr again laid the receiver in its yoke.

  Now he only had Noreen to assuage. Doubtless he would hear how history, of which she was a twice-degreed handmaiden, had been corrupted. Fortunately life was more complicated than history and definitely more forgiving; and she would still love him even though he was wrong.

  CHAPTER 27

  Death Denial

  THE ROMAN CATHOLIC cemetery in Sneem lies to the north of the village, along a road that leads to the mountains. It has been placed on a hill with all graves facing east and the rising sun.

  The monument that says BRESNAHAN was erected in the nineteenth century; its limestone obelisk is worn smooth and looks almost translucent at the edges, like mother-of-pearl. Smaller stones that mark the graves of individual members of the family span a wide arc near the crest of the hill.

  After the requiem mass to which he arrived late and left early, newly appointed Acting Chief Superintendent of the Serious Crimes Unit Hugh Ward got to the cemetery much in advance of the funeral cortege. Without the aid of his driver he mounted the snowy hill. Walking slowly with cast and cane through the flowered mounds of the several freshly filled graves, Ward wondered how many he might have saved could he have exerted more force on the wheel and crashed Gladden’s hurtling truck into a wall or a building. Not his own life, for certain.

  Which was guilt, he decided—that he was alive and they were dead. In this churchyard alone there were four new graves that he could see. Five now when he came upon and nearly stumbled into the freshly dug hole for “Thomas Aloysius Bresnahan.” And still there was Power, Ward thought, turning his face into wisps of wind-driven snow toward the very pinnacle of the hill where stood a short, wide woman silhouetted against the dun winter sky.

  She was wrapped in a long black fur coat and a stylish Cossack hat to match. Down in the car park was a black chauffeured Rolls, in which, Ward assumed, she had come. With strong, sure steps she approached him. “You’re Inspector Ward. Or, rather, newly made Chief Superintendent Ward, who saved all those people at the bridge. I congratulate you on your promotion.”

  Ward said nothing, only regarded her dark, quick eyes and tanned, leathery complexion that he had seen before. Given her coloring and regular features, she looked not a little like Ward himself, and he imagined that an observer, seeing them standing there, might mistake them for mother and son.

  “I’m Nell Power,” she went on. A slight smile now bracketed the corners of her mouth, and her eyes glinted as they played over his face. “I was just saying a few prayers for Paddy, who’ll need them. Before leaving for Dublin.

  “Who’s this?” With a toe of her shoe she nudged a little dirt into the grave. “Ah, yes—Tom Bresnahan, a big, strong, sober farmer. A good man and true, if you fancy the type.”

  “You don’t?”

  Nell Power made a face. “Not really. Oh, I suppose, he was great for a father. Raised a rare, handsome daughter, he did, though I suspect you know more about her than you’d let on to me.”

  “Shane Frost is more your type?”

  “When he’s handy. Actually young, dark, daring fellas, such as yourself, are more my cup of tea.”

  To be quaffed off at a swallow, Ward thought, remembering how she had taken Frost.

  “If I give you my card, will you promise to stop round? I have a wee place in Herbert Park. Call first. I’ll make sure we’re alone.”

  “Interview, you mean?”

  “Intriguing word, isn’t it? But I suppose you have many intriguing interviews.”

  “A perk of the job.” Ward smiled into her black eyes. “Is it the Eire Bank shareholders meeting you’re returning for?”

  She nodded. “Pity what happened to Gretta when she had so much to live for. Now, I suppose, some foundation will benefit from all her hard work and sacrifice.”

  “Like with your husband’s estate.” Frost had announced that the bulk of Power’s great fortune would be left to the Paddy Power Fund, which would continue to support Irish charities.

  She nodded. “Being in service to Paddy could not have been easy.”

  Following him into the grave harder still, Ward thought.

  She glanced down the road where a hearse and funeral cortege had appeared. She removed a card from a pocket and slipped it into Ward’s hand, her long fingernails grazing his palm. “I understand you’re an athlete. Perhaps we can golf together.” Or swing, her smile said. “I could teach you a thing or two, I’m sure.”

  Ward raised an eyebrow.

  “About life, don’t you know. Winners and l
osers. Your former chief wasn’t educable, but now it’s your Murder Squad, isn’t it? I must be off now.”

  “Not staying for the ceremony?”

  “I think my welcome would be in some doubt. Had Paddy not been—what’s your term for his death?”

  “Murdered.”

  “—T. A. Bresnahan might still be alive. There’re sure to be some who think I wanted nothing less, absurd as it is. But that’s Kerry.” She clasped the sable collar to her throat and turned to her car.

  And thus Ward was standing alone by the open grave when the funeral procession arrived.

  Rory O’Suilleabhain got out first and helped Bresnahan and her mother from the lead car. He then joined McGarr, O’Shaughnessy, McKeon, and two other men, who by their dated funeral suits were obviously from the area.

  O’Suilleabhain himself would benefit from Bresnahan’s tutelage, Ward thought, thinking of the phone call he had had with McGarr earlier in the morning. O’Suilleabhain’s topcoat was also out-of-date. The vent was too long, the hem too short, and the cut too small through the shoulders; he was showing too much wrist, collar, and bum, especially now in bending with three of the other men to lift the coffin from the hearse. McGarr in his bandages merely walked at its side.

  Bresnahan approached Ward, careful of the snow and ice and holding the arm of a tall, dark, much older woman who was evidently her mother. “How are yah?” Bresnahan asked. Their eyes met for only a moment before she wrenched hers away.

  “I want you to meet my mother. This is Hugh Ward, the Guard who—”

  “So sorry,” said Ward, taking her bony hand.

  “Oh, yes. Your…colleague.” Apparently she and Bresnahan had discussed him, and she did not care for the word. Or him. “You’re the young man who, they’re saying, saved so many others.” Her eyes flickered toward the grave.

  “And you, me, and Rory, Ma—if you’ll remember. We were right in the path of the thing, before the wheel turned.”

  Her mother nodded, but her eyes had suddenly filled with tears.