FULL IRISH MURDER
A FIONA MCCABE MYSTERY
KATHY CRANSTON
Copyright © 2017 by Kathy Cranston
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real life characters, organisations or events is entirely coincidental.
This book is written in Irish English.
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
1
FIONA MCCABE HAD JUST TAKEN her finger off the buzzer that connected to her brother’s shop when the phone rang.
“McCabe’s,” she said, almost certain it was Marty calling to tell her to stop distracting him.
“Fi, it’s Ben.”
She frowned. “What’s up? Are you ringing about the buzzer? It’s grand. I thought Marty was working there—I was only buzzing him to come over for a cuppa.”
Ben had recently—and reluctantly—started working at Marty’s hardware shop next door. Fiona wished she hadn’t mentioned tea: Ben would close up the shop and sit in the pub for the whole afternoon if she gave him the chance.
She was about to hang up when he muttered her name again.
“It’s okay, Ben. There’s no emergency. To be honest, I only use it to invite Marty over for tea. Thanks for checking. How’s everything going in the shop?”
“How should I know?”
She sighed. Ben hadn’t inherited the same work ethic as the rest of them and sometimes it grated on her. “There’s no need to sound so enthusiastic. You should be grateful to have the job.”
“I am,” he snapped. “Of course I am. But I have no idea how the shop is. I’m not rostered to work again until Thursday. Anyway, Fi—”
She shook her head, amused by the timing. “That’s funny, Ben. I just buzzed Marty for tea and you rang a second later. I honestly thought—”
“Fi!”
She finally noticed the panic in his voice. Fiona’s jaw clenched. She’d never heard Ben sound so stressed before. “What is it, Ben? What’s happened?”
“It’s Mam,” he hissed. “She’s been arrested. You’ve got to come over. I don’t know what to do.”
“What?” The idea of her mother being arrested was ridiculous. “You seriously think you can fool me that easily?”
“Ben?” she added when he didn’t respond.
“Fiona, come home. They’re just after taking her.”
“Who’s after taking her?”
Ben sniffed. “All of them. Fitzpatrick, Conway and Sergeant Brennan.”
“But why?” Fiona asked. “The woman obeys laws that don’t even exist in Ireland. What could she possibly have done?”
Then she heard the dial tone. He’d hung up. She realised with a sinking feeling that this was no joke.
“Oh good God,” she cried, reaching for her keys and phone. “What’s after happening now?”
The door opened just as she was running out from behind the bar.
“Where are you off to?” Marty asked as he sauntered into the pub. “I thought you buzzed me for a cuppa. It’s awful quiet in the shop—I wish they’d put on a new DIY show on the telly. That always gets the crowds in—”
“Come on,” Fiona interrupted, grabbing his arm and hurrying towards the door. “We’ve got to go!”
TEN MINUTES LATER, they were bursting through the door of their parents’ house. It was strangely quiet: the place was usually hectic morning, noon and night thanks to the fact that six out of the seven McCabe children lived there or close by and were always calling over.
“Hello?” Fiona called, feeling an awful sense of foreboding.
Ben appeared in the doorway of the sitting room just as she was about to leave and go look for them at the Garda station. “There you are. It’s about time.”
“What are you talking about? I came as soon as I hung up the phone!”
“Don’t mind him, love,” said a weary voice behind them. “He’s probably in shock. I know I am.”
Fiona spun around. “Dad! What are you doing here?”
Francis McCabe sighed. “Someone has to sort this mess out. I’m trying to get in touch with the solicitor and she’s told me she wants the human rights commission informed and God alone knows who else.” His shoulders slumped as if he didn’t have the faintest notion what he ought to be doing.
Fiona stared at him. She’d never seen him like this. Francis McCabe was usually the kind of man who leapt into action at the slightest hint of trouble. He’d presided over the PTA of Ballycashel National School for over a decade while his children were taught there. He was unflappable—or so she’d come to believe.
“Oh my God, Dad,” she gasped, unable to believe what she was seeing. “Please tell me you’ve got this, that you know what to do.”
He glared at her. “Of course I don’t know what to do. Margaret’s done a lot of odd things in her time, but getting arrested for murder?”
Fiona’s jaw dropped and she groped behind her for something to steady herself against. “Murder?” she repeated, the word feeling strange in her mouth, especially when she was using it in relation to her God-fearing, law-abiding mother.
She had assumed it was all a mistake; that her mother had been arrested for some minor infraction. After all, Sergeant Brennan, the most senior police officer in Ballycashel and Fiona’s arch-nemesis, had built quite a reputation for being trigger-happy when it came to prosecuting minor crimes. Fair enough, Margaret McCabe had threatened assault on a few occasions, like when she had narrowly lost out on the bingo jackpot one Saturday night and then returned to find her children had demolished the roast beef they were due to have for Sunday dinner.
But murder?
Murder?
“Dad?” Fiona said, stumbling into the sitting room and collapsing onto the couch. “What’s going on? Mam wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
He followed her in and sat down beside her. “I know, love. I know. I should be out there shouting from the rooftops and getting her out. The truth is I’m stumped. I’ve never had to deal with a situation like this.”
“But Dad,” she whispered, squeezing his arm. “There’s been a lot of stuff you’ve had to figure out. Like that time Colm stuck a pitchfork through Ben’s foot. And sure didn’t you become a dab hand at sticking us all back together with plasters instead of making yet another trip to the A&E?”
He shook his head morosely and let out a terrible sigh. “That was different.”
“How? You’re not a doctor. It’s no sma
ll thing to put your children back together again.”
“Like humpty dumpty,” Ben said, leaning against the doorframe and beaming as if he’d come out with something insightful.
“Not helpful, Ben. Dad, come on. We’ll fight this.”
But Francis McCabe wouldn’t be encouraged. He sat there slumped, staring at the blank TV screen. “That was different. I had Margaret to help. We figured it out together. Now…” He shook his head. “I know I’m letting her down, but I just can’t work out what to do. She doesn’t want me down there; she’s too embarrassed.”
“Ah, Dad,” Marty said. “I’m sure she’s not.”
“She is.”
“Right,” Fi said, jumping to her feet. “This is crazy.”
“Where are you going?” her father and youngest brother asked in unison. Marty said nothing: he had already turned towards the door.
“To the Garda station,” she muttered. “Somebody needs to sort out this mess.”
“Ah, your granny’s down there. She’ll sort them all out.”
But Fiona wouldn’t be dissuaded. She couldn’t believe that Sergeant Brennan had resorted to this. Besides, she couldn’t just sit around and wait.
“Fiona—”
“No! He can’t be allowed to get away with this. He’s probably retaliating because of how we got involved in his last case.”
Francis shrugged. “I don’t see what good we’ll do going down there and mouthing off at him.”
Fiona refused to back down. Fury built inside her as they hurried out of the house: the thought of Sergeant Brennan harassing her poor mother!
She stormed up the road, struggling to keep pace with her older brother. Rage propelled her on. She became even more worked up when a waft of acrid smoke hit her in the face. She stopped and stared. Now that she was paying attention, she could see plumes of black smoke rising from Trish Mahony’s back yard. She shook her head. What were they burning that was so toxic that the smell now clung around her face, making her feel stifled and claustrophobic?
“What the hell is that?” she growled.
Marty shrugged. “They’re probably just having a bonfire.”
“It doesn’t smell like cut grass or tree-cuttings. It’s like they’re burning plastic! Why can’t she use her bin like a normal person?”
“I don’t know, Fi,” Marty said with a sigh. “Maybe it’s something personal. Like old credit cards.”
“What, a whole trailer-load of them? I’ve a good mind to knock in there and make her smell my hair. I only washed it this morning…”
She shook her head. What did it matter what her hair smelled like? She certainly had more important things on her mind.
Marty smiled sympathetically before carrying on towards the Garda station. “Of course you’re upset,” he murmured. “It’s understandable. You can go and give out to Trish Mahony after we’ve sorted this out.”
They were halfway into town by the time she realised she hadn’t thought to ask who her mother was supposed to have murdered.
2
“WHAT THE HELL do you think you’re doing?” Fiona hissed, ignoring Garda Conway at the desk and marching into Sergeant Brennan’s office. “I want my mother released now. This is harassment and I’m not afraid to go to the papers. Do you hear me?”
Brennan stared at her. He rolled his eyes and looked back at his computer monitor. “Are you sure it’s a good idea to come in here and start harassing a Garda sergeant? Are you out of your mind?”
Fi baulked. That was certainly not the reaction she had expected. So much so that she struggled to think of a response. “This is ridiculous,” she yelled. “My mother is nearly sixty. You can’t just put her in jail to mess with us. She’s done nothing wrong.”
“Is that what you think?” He folded his arms and leaned them on his immaculately tidy desk.
“Of course. She wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“You have to admit you’re somewhat biased,” he said with a sneer.
“The cheek of you,” she gasped. “You won’t get away with this. It’s harassment pure and simple. Other people around here might be afraid to report you because of who your father is, but I’m not. You can test me on that.”
He shook his head. “I can’t believe you’re bringing my father into this. What’s he got to do with anything? I got where I am through my own abilities.”
Fiona felt it was best not to respond. Instead, she shot him a look of total disbelief.
Because it was nonsense. Brennan was a bully and a bore and a whole lot of other B words that Mrs McCabe wouldn’t tolerate being said in her house. Anyone else would have been fired years ago, but he was protected by his father who was a good friend of the Garda Commissioner.
His eyes narrowed. “Anyway, she’s just here for questioning. At least get your facts straight.”
“I’m not some Garda process nerd. I want to get my mother out of here and I’m not leaving without her.”
He stared at her levelly. “I’m afraid that’s not going to happen; no matter how much I’d like you out of my office and at least five hundred metres away from me.”
“Believe me, I’d prefer to stay that far away from you. At least. You’re making it difficult, though. She’s my mother. You’re harassing her. I’m not leaving without her.”
He glared at her but said nothing more as he reached for the phone and hit one of the speed-dial buttons along the side.
A moment later, Garda Conway’s booming voice echoed in surround sound from the phone and through the open door behind her.
“Sergeant. What can I do you for?”
Brennan winced. “I told you before not to answer the phone like that. You sound like someone out of a used car yard, not an officer of the peace.”
Conway didn’t respond.
The sergeant sighed. “Anyway. Can you come in here and remove Miss McCabe from my office? I have important Garda business to attend to.”
“Yeah,” Fiona muttered. “Like picking your nose and being a…”
Luckily, Garda Conway’s laughter shook her out of her dark mood and made her stop talking before she took it too far. That was the thing about Brennan: you didn’t want to go too far or he’d probably charge you with breaking some obscure law nobody had heard of for several decades.
When Garda Conway lumbered in a few moments later, Fi stood and accompanied him out without arguing. She liked Conway: he’d been stationed there since she was a child and he’d always been nice to her.
“Your boss is impossible,” she muttered, once they were out of earshot.
“I know,” Conway said, his voice uncharacteristically low. “You should have come to me and not stormed in there. You’re only winding yourself up.”
“Yeah,” she agreed. “But I had to go to him. He’s the one who brought my mother here. What’s going on, Garda Conway? How’d he set this up? He can’t get away with it, surely.”
At this, Conway’s good-natured agreements stopped. He looked away and wouldn’t meet her eyes no matter how intently she looked at him.
“What is it?” Fi asked uneasily.
“He probably tried to tell you himself, but I don’t blame you for not listening. That voice would go through you.”
Fiona laughed despite the situation. “It would too. It’s like a whole army of cats scraping blackboards.”
“Fiona,” Conway said.
There was no levity in his tone now. Her heart sank. “Level with me, Garda Conway. What’s going on?”
He sighed and shook his head. “I hate to be the one to tell you this, Fiona. But your mother’s being questioned in relation to the murder of Mrs May Stanley.”
“May Stanley?”
“Yes. She lives on one of the lanes off the Newtownbeg road. Used to live.”
“I know her. But I don’t understand. You’re telling me she’s been murdered? I don’t believe it.”
Mrs Stanley looked the same as she’d looked back when Fiona was starting primary s
chool. Everyone knew she was old but it was a mystery just how old she was. Fi didn’t know her well but she had always seemed pleasant.
Conway nodded. “I’m afraid so. We received an anonymous tip-off about a disturbance earlier. When we arrived… well, there she was.”
“And you found my mother there?”
He shook his head. “I can’t really talk about the details of an open case, Fiona.”
“She’s my mother,” she said through gritted teeth. “You’re going to need to tell us what you’ve got sooner or later.”
“Fine. She wasn’t at the scene, but she was seen in town earlier having an altercation with Mrs Stanley.”
‘You’re joking!”
“I’m not. I’m deadly serious.”
“But Mam wouldn’t…” Fiona blinked. She couldn’t in good conscience claim that her mother was incapable of getting into a row.
“Mam wouldn’t murder anyone. And she certainly wouldn’t hurt Mrs Stanley. Only a complete psychopath could murder a nice old lady.”
“Well, unfortunately that’s the only lead we have. It appears she was the last person to see Mrs Stanley.” He shook his head and stared down at the desk.
“I can’t believe you think my mother did it! Who reported her? What have you got on her exactly?”
“I can’t tell you that,” he said calmly. “I know you’re only looking out for your mother, but I can see tempers are running high.”
She sighed and bit her lip. “Okay. Fair enough. But can you tell me more about this row? As far as I know, Mam didn’t really know Mrs Stanley.”
Conway tapped away on his computer at the reception desk, though Fi didn’t know why. It wasn’t like Ballycashel was the murder capital of Ireland. It was a tiny town in the middle of nowhere, where serious crime was unheard of. Well, apart from a murder several months before. But that had been an anomaly.
Hadn’t it?
Fiona gritted her teeth and told herself to stop overthinking. It was all a mistake, she suspected. Or an April Fool’s joke (never mind the fact that it was September and not April). It was too crazy. It had to be a wind-up.
Full Irish Murder (Fiona McCabe Mysteries Book 2) Page 1