by Paula Martin
On Monday evening, she called Sister Gabriel to tell her the news.
"Do you know if Theresa had any links to Sligo, Sister?" she asked.
"None I can recall. She grew up on a small farm in County Clare, but maybe her husband was a Sligo man, or he moved there for his work. Will you contact her, Kara?"
"I'm not sure." She'd spent the day in an agony of indecision, and voiced her dilemma to the nun. "She may be one of the women who has kept her past a secret, and I don't want to damage her life by intruding now."
"Or she might have made countless attempts to find out what happened to her daughter."
"I keep going back and forth between those two alternatives. If I write to her, I could put her in a difficult situation if her husband knows nothing, and asks her who the letter is from."
"May I make a suggestion?"
"Please do."
"Write to her, but don't say your mother could be her daughter. Tell her you think she might be a relative, and give her some clues that only she will understand, but without putting her in any compromising situation. Make sure it is a letter she can show to her husband or family. She will then have the option to contact you or not, whatever she decides."
Kara nodded. "That's an excellent idea, Sister. Thank you."
"But don't build up your hopes too high, Kara. Remember that Theresa didn't write to me once she married, and, to my knowledge, she has never made any inquiries at the convent about Patsy."
"So she may not reply to my letter if she realises what I'm trying to find out? Is that what you're saying?"
"It is. But if she does, and if you do eventually meet her, will you tell her that her old friend Bernadette O'Brien would love to hear from her again?"
"Yes, of course I will, Sister."
On Thursday evening, Ryan's next night off, she sat with him in Murphy's Bar, and told him about her conversation with Sister Gabriel.
"A general letter about possible family connections, with some clues, was what she suggested." She pulled a notebook from her bag and chewed the end of her pen. "C'mon, I need some help with this."
His brow creased as the musicians started to play a foot-tapping reel. "Not sure I can concentrate with this going on. Want to come back to my place instead? At least we'll have some peace and quiet to think this through."
Her heart did an odd kind of jump. It was the first time he'd invited her to his apartment. "Sure?"
"Fer sure, if you can cope with a lumpy couch, and a threadbare carpet. It's not the best place I've ever rented."
Once they finished their drinks, he drove the short distance to Bridge Street. Kara followed him through an outer doorway with peeling paint, which opened into a narrow corridor, and he led the way up a steep flight of bare stairs.
On the landing, he pointed at the three doors. "That's the bathroom, that's the bedroom, and this is the living room."
"No kitchen?"
He held the living room door open for her. "I should have called this the combined lounge, dining room, and kitchen. Welcome to my humble abode."
She glanced around. The room was bright enough, with pale green walls, and a large window overlooking the street. The area on her right had a television set in one corner. On the other side of the wall-mounted electric heater was an old wooden table with a laptop, a printer, a couple of manila folders, and a pile of books. The green and pink floral couch in front of the heater wasn't to her taste, and was probably as lumpy as he said, but she could picture him lying on it and watching the TV.
An open shelf unit divided the room into two halves, and beyond it was a small kitchen with an oven, sink, and fridge-freezer. It was basic, habitable, and clean, but felt unlived in. There were no personal knick-knacks, or photos, or pictures on the walls.
Ryan laughed. "Freakin' awful, isn't it? But it's cheap and convenient for work, and, to be honest, I don't spend a lot of time here. Anyway, come and sit down."
She followed him to the couch. "How long have you lived here?"
"A few months."
"Where did you live before that?"
"Galway."
"Did you drive taxis there?"
"No, I worked in a bar – which is my cue to ask you if you'd like a drink, although I can only offer you Jameson whiskey or a can of lager from the fridge."
"Lager will be good, thanks."
Yet again he'd diverted the conversation away from himself, and she wondered why. He was intelligent, well-read, well-travelled, and articulate. Was he embarrassed by his seemingly aimless life, drifting from job to job?
She frowned when he returned from the kitchen area with a tall glass of lager for her, and a cola for himself. "I haven't taken your last can, have I?"
"No, there are a few more in the fridge, but I never drink when I'll be driving later. Can't risk losing my licence, can I?"
"No, of course not." An odd sense of deflation took her by surprise. Had she expected him to invite her to stay for the night? She dismissed the thought, and took a quick mouthful of lager. "I hope you're feeling inspired."
An hour later, and after numerous crossings-out, additions, and rephrasing, they completed the letter.
She read it out loud:
Dear Mrs Brogan
You don't know me, but I have been researching my family history. I am American, born and raised in New Jersey, but my mother was born in Ireland in 1959. She moved to the United States as a child, and I think she may be a distant relative of yours. I am currently living near Clifden, and would welcome the opportunity to meet with you, at a time and place of your choosing, to discover whether we have any family links.
I look forward to hearing from you.
Sincerely,
Kara Stewart
Her brow creased. "Is that enough?"
"I think so. It's vague enough to seem like an innocent inquiry, but 1959 and moving to America as a child may jangle a few bells in her mind."
"Isn't she going to wonder how I know her address?"
"It's amazing what family history researchers can discover. Declan found dozens of distant cousins in America, all descended from one of his great-grandfather's brothers who emigrated to Boston in the 19th century."
"How did he find them?
Ryan chuckled. "Racked up a huge phone bill one time when he was in New York, calling every Mulligan in the phone directory."
"Should I put my cell number on the letter as well as my address?"
"Good idea. She may feel more comfortable about ringing you rather than writing, especially if she wants to arrange to meet with you."
"I have so many doubts about that."
"But you've nothing to lose by sending the letter."
"I guess not, except if she doesn't reply, that will be the end of my search, won't it?" She gave a small sigh and leant against him as he slid his arm around her. "I so wanted my mom to know she was loved by a mother who didn't want to give her away and who has always wondered what happened to her."
"From what you've told me, it sounds as if your mom has a lot of issues to sort out."
"I don't think she feels she has anything to sort out. She was brought up by loving adoptive parents, she married a good man, and she's had a happy life."
"I'd like to bet there are times when she wonders about her Irish ancestry, and where she came from."
"Unless she's pushed it all to the back of her mind, of course. But even if she's not interested, I'd still love to know about my grandparents and my Irish heritage. Isn't that why people try to trace their family history? To discover all the different strands that combined in the past to make you the person you are?"
"I wonder if that's truer of Americans than it is of the Irish. Today's Americans can trace their ancestry to so many nationalities and cultures, whereas we Irish – well, I'm just grateful one of my ancestors survived the Great Famine, otherwise I wouldn't be here today."
Kara snuggled against his shoulder. "I'm glad your ancestor survived."
"Pre
sumably one of your Irish ancestors did, too."
She raised her head and stared at him with wide eyes. "Oh, gosh, that's the first time it's hit me that I'm half-Irish."
"You have Irish blue eyes, darlin'. That's your Viking ancestry, and your dark hair is Celtic."
He kissed her nose and ran his fingers through her hair. With a smile, she reached to kiss his mouth, and his hand splayed across her back as he pulled her closer. Her surroundings, even the uncomfortable couch, dissolved as she lost herself in a world that knew only him, and the delicious sensations his mouth and tongue aroused in her. His hands caressed the sides of her breasts before travelling down to her waist and hips and stomach, exploring her body in slow movements while their kiss became more intense.
Breathless, with her skin tingling, and warmth pooling deep inside her, she slid her hand along his thigh, but jerked back to reality when he broke away and sucked in his breath.
"Wh-what's wrong?"
He exhaled deeply and studied her for a few moments before shaking his head and smiling. "Nothing's wrong, me darlin' girl, but—"
"But what?"
"But I'm old-fashioned enough to want to take my girl somewhere special for the first time we make love. Not a lumpy old couch, or an even lumpier bed."
Her heart skipped a beat, but she smiled. "Somewhere like a hayloft or soft mossy bank?"
"I was thinking of the Sheldon in Dublin."
Her jaw dropped. "Wow, that is special. Even I know the Sheldon is one of Dublin's best hotels."
"And it has the most comfortable beds I've ever slept in."
She caught her breath at the prospect of sharing a bed with him. "You've stayed there?"
"Aye, a couple of times. Once after my cousin's wedding, although I don't remember too much about that occasion. I was nineteen and lost count of the pints of Guinness after the fifth."
"What was the other time?"
"Oh, a boring conference a few years ago." He planted a kiss on her lips and stood up. "Want another can of lager?"
She finished the quarter inch left in her glass, and looked at her watch. "I guess I should be going home soon, but I can call for a cab to save you having to drive me."
He pulled her to her feet and kissed her again. "Now ye're being silly. Of course I'll take you home."
Twenty minutes later, he stopped outside Mist Na Mara. "When will I see you again?"
"Most days are full, but weekday evenings are usually okay."
"I'm on the late shift for the next few days, but I'll call you." He squeezed her hand. "When will you have a free weekend? I meant what I said about taking you to Dublin."
"And I'd love to go there with you. We have residential groups most weekends, but I'll check whether I'll be needed for all of them."
"And will you send the letter to Theresa?"
"I think so, even though I'll spend every day in suspense waiting for a reply. I'm already wondering what her reaction will be when she reads the letter."
"If she's ecstatic at the thought of finding out what happened to her daughter, you'll probably hear from her fairly soon."
"What if she's ecstatic, but her family knows nothing about her past?"
"Then either she throws your letter away, or she deliberates for days, or even weeks, deciding what to do."
"Which means it could be a long time before I hear from her, if I ever do."
* * * * *
"McBride Construction is registered in Castlebar," Ryan said as he updated the Chief when they met in Galway the following week. "He seems to have a good reputation locally, and he's rented a unit in the industrial park for about a year."
Enya frowned. "Why is he not using the unit for storing the goods? There are always plenty of comings and goings in an industrial park to divert any suspicions, far more than at a small cottage he happens to be renovating."
"I thought about that, and it's possible he did rent it originally for storing the loot, but panicked when the Belfast taxi driver was picked up last December, in case someone spilled the beans about what was stored there."
"Good point, because obviously that's the first place we would search."
"Here's my theory, for what it's worth. About the same time as the route via Monaghan is compromised, Conor McBride discovers the contract to renovate the cottage at Mist Na Mara is out for tender again, after the first contractor went out of business. What does he do? Starts dating one of the girls at Mist Na Mara, makes a point of getting to know Guy Sinclair, and gives him a good quote for the job. An old cottage, off the beaten track – ideal storage place, at least temporarily, and if Conor finds or invents reasons to prolong the renovation, he has time to find somewhere more permanent."
"And where does Mick Leary come into all this?"
Ryan grinned. "That's theory number two. I made a few phone calls and discovered Mick worked as a dock labourer last year. However, since January he's been a crewman on the ferries out of Belfast – which, if you recall, is about the time when Connemara saw the sharp increase in thefts and burglaries. Part of his job is supervising the loading and unloading of cars and trucks, which gives him access to the car decks during the crossing. Simple, therefore, to transfer goods from one car to another, in case the first car is being watched."
"Are you thinking Mick Leary could be the ringleader?"
"From all accounts, he's not particularly bright, so I doubt it, but he might have suggested the cottage to Conor, since it borders his family's farm, and the only access is through the farmyard. I did wonder why all the overgrown bushes between the Mist Na Mara car park and the cottage hadn't been cleared to provide easier access but, at present, any activity around there can't be seen from the house."
"Is there any way you can get into it?"
"Short of climbing on the roof in the dark and letting myself in through a gap where they've removed some of the old slates, no. I've heard there's some problem with the rafters, too, and I don't fancy landing in a heap on the floor with a broken leg or worse. If anyone found me like that, my cover would be blown, for sure."
"You need to find an easier way to get in, Ryan. Until we have evidence of stolen goods being stored there, or in the taxi to Roscommon, our hands are tied."
"I know, I know. We need hard evidence, not theories. But at least we're getting closer. Have there been any more reported thefts or burglaries?"
"A few car break-ins, and some petty shoplifting, but that's the norm in the tourist season. I'll let you know if there are any major incidents."
"Okay. Paddy Walsh is still taking his Monday morning taxi to Roscommon, but I don't want to arouse Tom Wild's suspicions by asking any more questions."
"What about Guy Sinclair?"
Ryan hesitated. "Not sure. Mist Na Mara seems to be thriving but it takes a lot of money to keep a place like that going. Is he getting a pay-off from Conor for the use of the cottage? I dunno. I asked Declan to check his personal and business bank accounts but there's no unusual incoming or outgoing."
"So where do we go from here?"
"I need a different car to follow Tom Wild to Roscommon and find out where Paddy Walsh is taking his box of goodies. If I'm lucky, I might even be able to follow the next link in the chain. My guess is Cavan, and possibly Armagh after that. I also need a set of skeleton keys and lock picks to get into the cottage – oh, and an undercover tail on Mick Leary in Belfast to see if that leads anywhere."
"Hire another car, Ryan, and leave the rest to me."
They chatted for a few more minutes before Enya left, and Ryan downed another bottle of water from the mini-bar as he waited for a suitable time-lapse before he left the hotel. From the window, he had a view of Claddagh harbour, and his mind went back to the day he met Kara here in Galway.
Even then she was special in a way he couldn't define. Chemistry, maybe, or was it the invisible red thread in the Chinese proverb? But that conflicted with his long-held opinion that you made your own destiny, through hard work and seizing whate
ver opportunities came your way. After all, that was how he had progressed through the Garda ranks, and if he succeeded in wrapping up this case, in all probability he would be considered for promotion.
Were affairs of the heart different? Did destiny play a part in making sure you somehow met your soul mate, your anam cara? He couldn't kid himself he was simply intrigued by Kara's mother's birth, and the fact that Kara lived at Mist Na Mara, which had become the focus of his current investigation, was irrelevant. It was Kara herself who had captivated him, right from the time he first met her, and now she seemed to be a permanent resident in his mind. When he wasn't with her, he couldn't stop thinking about her, and when he was, he loved every minute.
As he drove back to Clifden, he smiled as he recalled her delight at the changing views of the Twelve Bens, her giggles when a couple of sheep refused to move from the middle of the road for several minutes before they ambled onto the grass verge, and her squeal of excitement when she caught a glimpse of a Connemara pony in a field near Maam Cross.
She was so wonderfully straightforward, with a zest for life and love. What you saw was what you got, and he liked that. He loved kissing her, too, and holding her slim body, and… No, it was better not to think any more about that while he was driving. Except now his thoughts involuntarily jumped to the possibility of taking her to Dublin. When they'd met earlier in the week, she said she'd be working the next two weekends, but she was waiting for Charley's confirmation that they could manage without her the weekend after that. Now he was metaphorically crossing every finger that she'd get the time off.