The Death of an Irish Sea Wolf

by Bartholomew Gill

  The door to what had once been the sitting room was open. There Ward found an old man seated at a desk in front of a tall arched window that looked out on the street. He was reading a newspaper.

  Wearing a swallowtail coat, morning trousers, and dove-gray spats, he turned only his eyes to Ward. They were blue, clear, but agatized with age. In a bank of cages beside his desk, a passel of exotic songbirds in many bright colors was warbling raucously. “I don’t get up anymore, unless you have business with us, which you don’t. What do you want?”

  “To see Monck or Neary.” It was hot—no, stifling—in the room. And yet everything was neat and well tended, like the colorful Persian rug in the middle of the floor.

  “Monck, which is me, is retired twelve month come July. And Neary will need a reason.”

  “It’s private actually, the matter of an estate.”

  “You’ll have to do better than that. All Monck and Neary matters are private, strictly so. We handle mainly estates.”

  Bresnahan stepped into the room. “We won’t take much of his time. As a matter of fact, we only need a bit of information.”

  The chair swiveled slowly and the old eyes regarded her, beginning with the pumps and rising to the pillbox hat; no, Ward decided, he was not alone. She handed Monck a card, and his old eyes lingered on the diamond-and-sapphire ring. “You won’t be taking any of his time whatsoever, is it, Inspector?”

  Bresnahan nodded.

  The old man shook his head in wonder. “Information is our stock in trade. We collect it, we save it, we bank it, and I’m afraid we can’t pay out as much as a farthing, the capital not being ours to give. But”—placing his hands on the arms of the chair, Monck rose unsteadily to his feet—“Neary has some modern notions about this, and she refuses nobody a see, much less a new-model guard.” He turned to Ward. “And who might you be?”

  “Her keeper.” Ward produced another card.

  “And a most fortunate man,” Monck muttered, shuffling toward the door. “That hair her own?”

  “She’s the genuine article in every particular.”

  “Me—I’m more interested in verbs. Pity mine are all past tense.”

  They were shown into a drawing room, where a maid served them tea and petits fours. Waiting in virtual silence, they listened to the bells of a nearby church ring in eleven and finally noon before Neary appeared.

  She proved to be a slightly older woman in quiet tweeds, with the thin smile and imperturbable manner that Ward had always associated with Ascendancy matrons. It was the bearing of privilege that said, There is nothing you can say or do that will shock or upset me, since I expect the worst of you and know myself to be demonstrably better. Just look at me now—I can even shake your hand with equanimity.

  And she knew the tack to take, which was guilt transference. “Please excuse the delay, but I had my schedule to observe. Had you rung up…” Astrid Neary widened her eyes, as though she could not imagine simply dropping in.

  She then perched on the edge of a chair and folded her hands in her lap, as though to suggest that whatever they had come for would not take long. Her thin legs were grouped gracefully to one side of the seat. “You couldn’t possibly be the same person by this name”—she glanced down at Ward’s card—“who is the pugilist, could you, Superintendent?” When she looked up, her eyes were dancing; they then took in his double-breasted designer suit, his square shoulders, his dark eyes and dark good looks.

  Ward ignored the question, since she would not have asked, did she not know. He had interviewed many like her in his now fourteen years with the Garda Siochana. Instead he explained that the name of her firm had arisen in the course of a murder investigation, and they would like to ask her a few questions.

  “Certainly. I will try to cooperate. You can ask me anything you wish.” Her pale blue eyes had grown brighter, as though somehow the possibility of helping the police entertained her. “But you should know that any question about a client is off limits, and I simply cannot answer.”

  “Is Mirna Gottschalk a client of yours?” Bresnahan asked.

  “There you go—but she’s not. I’ve never so much as heard the name.” Her eyes swung to Ward for approbation; see, she was doing what she could.

  “What about Clem or Clement Ford.”

  The hesitation was slight but significant. “Perhaps you don’t know this, but we’ve been brought to court by other government agencies more than a few times, and yet we have never been forced to give up so much as a client’s name.” She turned her head to Bresnahan, confiding, “It was a bother and a bore, but rather good publicity in the end. However”—her eyes met Ward’s—“we do not represent that name either. Not currently, not ever as far as I know, and I am a founding partner.”

  “What do you do for your clients?” Bresnahan asked. “If you don’t mind telling us.”

  “No, my dear. It’s a matter of record. We manage estates, establish funds and trusts, and execute the terms of wills and legal contracts.”

  “But I don’t understand the need for such—is it?—secrecy.”

  “It is and you would, were you, say, U2 or Liam Neeson, none of whom we represent”—and wouldn’t, said her tone—“and you wished to aid some cause anonymously, so you wouldn’t then be importuned by other similar efforts or castigated in the press for being…invidious or prejudicial.”

  “Or if you wished to conceal the source of the money of some fund?” Ward asked.

  “As in—what is the current term?—money laundering? Heavens, no. We accept no more than a client or two a year, and it takes us a full year at least to decide that we will. No matter—personal, financial, criminal, social even—is left unexamined, to say nothing of the many checks we make on any funds that are tendered to our care.

  “Because of income taxes, we are most careful in that regard. No scandal has been allowed to darken the luster of our reputation, which is everything in this profession. As in some others that come to mind, I should think.”

  Did she know about Bresnahan and him, Ward wondered. Or was she just guessing, both of them being young and attractive. They had tried to avoid being seen together socially, but there was only so much “hiding out” they could do, and the Dublin gossip mill was a potent engine indeed. In the two hours that they had been waiting she might well have learned any number of scurrilous things.

  “How is it, do you think, that a man named Clement Ford of Clare Island would have written down the name of your firm and this address?”

  “Really, now, I have no idea why somebody would do such a thing. We’re rather well known in some circles.” Astrid Neary glanced at her wristwatch.

  “Probably as his last act.” Bresnahan put in.

  “Last?”

  “The last in his life.”

  “Do you mean this man was murdered?” Neary opened her hand and glanced at Ward’s card again.

  “He’s missing and may well have been. But this is murder as it stands. What about Brigid Honora O’Malley. Do you represent her?”

  “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I don’t have to, you know. But, no, we don’t represent anybody by that name either.”

  “Do you represent anybody at all on Clare Island?”

  Astrid Neary stood. “No. I’m afraid I can’t help you there either. None of our clients has a Clare Island mailing address.”

  Which was a rather fine statement of denial. “Then, you do represent somebody on Clare Island, but he has a different mailing address?” Ward asked.

  “Really, Superintendent Ward, I haven’t been interrogated like this since my student days in mock court. But, again, Monck and Neary represents nobody on Clare Island that we know of.”

  “Could a client of yours reside on Clare Island without your knowing?” asked Bresnahan.

  “Surely—they don’t ask our permission nor do they inform us about their places of residence. And, frankly, we don’t wish to know more than where to send the quarterly notices of a
ccounts. Or checks. Usually that’s a bank or building society.”

  “And yet you research them thoroughly before deciding to accept them as clients,” said Bresnahan.

  “The years go by, people move, they die, they leave the country, even. But yet their assets, managed by the proper firm, often carry on without them. In fact, since the inception of the new banking laws, persons of foreign nationality, investing in Irish instruments, might actually nominate a third party to act as a nominal fiduciary agent. The level of privacy they enjoy at least equals that of other tax havens, such as Switzerland or the Cayman Islands.”

  “Do you represent many foreigners?” Ward asked.

  “Some.”

  “How many?”

  “Twelve on last count. Really, I’m afraid I must get back to my office.”

  “How many clients has Monck and Neary all told?”

  Neary began moving toward the door. “Forty-three.”

  “Then in summary—one last question, please”—Bresnahan rose from her chair and followed the smaller, older woman into the hall. “Monck and Neary might have a client of Irish citizenship or otherwise who asked you to secure and invest assets, the sources of which were not known to you because, at the time, it was not necessary to report them.”

  Neary stopped on the first step of the stairs to the first floor. She turned to them. “Yes, I suppose so. Years ago. But, as I said, the success of this firm has been based upon its judiciousness in everything, and, as I’ve said, we represent almost exclusively only the most well-known and respected interests in the country.”

  “Or, more recently,” Bresnahan pressed, “a foreign national might have been accorded the same treatment, because of the new laws.”

  “That’s it, in a nutshell.”

  “And you’ve never heard of Clem or Clement Ford?”

  The smile cracked the slightest bit. “We do not represent a person by that name.”

  “Did you ever?”

  Shaking her head in polite exasperation, Neary offered Bresnahan her hand. “You are as clever as you are beautiful, my dear. Did you ever consider the law as a profession?”

  Her small hand was dwarfed in Bresnahan’s. “I practice it daily.”

  “Oh, touché. A bon mot if I ever heard one. I hope you don’t mind if I repeat it to my friends.” Doubtless a tale laced with class prejudice, Bresnahan thought. You should have seen this woman. Big? And wearing a dress the color of a hay field in her native Kerry. Barged right into our office asking the most indiscreet…. “Did you ever represent Clem or Clement Ford?” She had not let go of the hand.

  “Not that I remember, my dear. I wonder if you could release my digits? I’m in pain.”

  Bresnahan complied. “Would you mind if we asked solicitor Monck?”

  “Capital idea.” Neary turned and began climbing the stairs. “Ask him anything you please. Even to lunch, if you’re brave.” In the shadows near the landing, the older woman checked her wristwatch again. “He’s notorious within at least a long mile of this place. And rightly so.”

  “No, I don’t recall any Clem or Clement Ford,” said Monck from his desk where he was now scanning a computer screen; on it ticks from various stock markets were flowing by. “But then, I can scarcely remember my own name most days.”

  Bresnahan and Ward exchanged glances; somehow neither believed he was as dotty as he made out. “How many people work here?” asked Ward. “Do you have staff?”

  “We don’t work here, young sir. We practice the law and sound, fiduciary, investment banking. Now and again Astrid hires in somebody to type and file and so forth. Low expenses, low fees. Our clients prefer it that way.”

  “And how many clients do you have?” Bresnahan pressed.

  Without taking his eyes from the computer screen, he said, “Last count, forty-three. Eighteen foreign nationals, the balance resident citizens.”

  “Would you have a list of them?” Bresnahan brought herself within range of his vision.

  Like a puppet, his head swung to her. “For you, I would, were there any such thing. But there’s not.”

  “Not even in that computer?”

  “This computer? Bloody thing’s a bloody brute and costly. See this key? I press that to buy, and this one to sell. Used to be you had to think about these things, ring up a broker, get his opinion, chew the fat, with luck perhaps even be taken to lunch. Only then would you plunge.” His old eyes again ran over Bresnahan. “Tell you something?”

  Bresnahan nodded.

  “We’d all be better off the way we were before.”

  “Which is?”

  “Ignorant. It’s the best advice I can offer today.” Monck’s gaze returned to the screen.

  CHAPTER 14

  COLM CANNING THOUGHT his head was one of the bells when his old Bakelite telephone began ringing shortly before noon. The phone was on the pillow beside his head, and his hand shot out and smacked the receiver from its yoke.

  He had placed the telephone there prior to collapsing the night before so he wouldn’t miss a “water taxi” summons from any of the well-heeled O’Malleys from Parts Unknown. They would begin arriving some time soon and might think forty-five quid spare change.

  “Call-em! Call-em!” the voice on the other end kept saying. Whoever he was, he was local, which would mean no bobs for Canning. But, reaching for the can of Guinness on the nightstand with one hand and the plunger with the other, he also heard, “Call-em, this is Fisherman’s Friend”—Packy O’Malley’s boat. It also sounded like O’Malley’s distinctive, gravelly voice, the result of drinking whiskey and smoking unfiltered Woodbines for the better part of fifty-seven years.

  Sitting up in bed brought on an instant, piercing headache. But Canning knew enough not to say the man’s name. “Where are you?”

  “Well, the fish is runnin’ great guns, so they are. But them scuts of seals is slashin’ through our nets like butter, and we’re lucky if we come up with a fish or two unmarred for sellin’ in any one net. A nip gone here, a mouthful there. The rest is cannery fare, if we can get them there on time. I tell you it’s a dreadful scene altogether.”

  It was Packy right enough, being cagey because of the cops.

  Cops! Christ! Canning’s face went red as beet root, he could see in the dim dresser mirror, and his heart started thumping just to think of the public…drubbing the old gouger had given him in Packy’s own kip in the harbor. The fecker had to be, like…sixty! Sucker-punched him, so he did—Canning’s ego now decided—there with two hundred and fifty pounds of blue uniform backing him in the shape of Tom Rice, the superintendent from the Louisburgh barracks.

  “Call-em, are ye’ there?”

  Canning grunted and remembered his other humiliation—the one in the hotel. That had been yet more unfair because he’d been drinking. It nearly got him barred from the place! By Christ, he hated all the thundering mainland gobshites who thought they could come out here and play Puck because they had readies.

  The Guinness can was empty. He chucked it at the dusty shelves of books his wife and he had read in university and humped out here seven years before, after his mother died and left him the house. They had thought they could make a go of the place—him fishing and writing, her painting and picking up whatever jobs she could get in computers, which she had studied and were now big.

  But with all the high-tech foreign fleets in Irish waters, the fishing was poor for one man in a small old boat, and the writing…well, just never materialized. The two children who did, however, took the wife away from the family’s only real income. Shortly after warning Canning that she would not allow her kids to live in “quaint, West of Ireland poverty,” she scraped up plane fare and skipped with them to her sister in California. A year now, come July.

  At first Canning had felt that she had stolen his heart and soul. But time had passed, and now at moments like this, he knew the truth—that there was something far wrong with him altogether. He was a different, but not better,
man than when he first returned to Clare Island.

  “Call-em, I want to ask you if you’d bring us out some equipment, like.”

  “Like what? Out where?” In the scullery, he opened the refrigerator. He had left the radio on, and RTE was playing the “Angelus.” Noon already!

  “Like equipment with a bit o’ metal in it. With some steel.”

  No Guinness. In fact, no nothing. There wasn’t so much as a bite to eat in the fridge; even the cheese looked like a wedge of China plate with blue mold all around. The butter smelled rancid. “I don’t bloody know what you mean—steel nets? Don’t tell me you intend to drag for salmon?”

  “No, not drag. Plink, like—if you know what I mean. Use your imagination. Didn’t you always say you wanted to be a writer? We need something so we don’t come back to the island empty-handed.”

  Nothing in the cupboards either. Just all the baking powders and spices from when the wife cooked. Canning pincered his aching temples. Use his bloody imagination? And what was this “always…wanted to be a writer?” Wasn’t he only bloody thirty-one years of age; Joyce didn’t publish Ulysses until he had gone forty. “Who’s we?”

  “The big fella and me. My backer and yours.”

  Clem Ford, Canning thought. So, he had survived; he should have known as much. The fucker was immortal. Steel…so they wouldn’t come back to the island empty-handed. “Where would I get this steel?”

  “You know the place.”

  Now Canning knew what O’Malley meant. Guns. Even before Packy got his new fast boat with the wide hold and few bulkheads, he had run guns off trawlers into the North for the I.R.A. But with the mangled hand, he had needed help of the sort that Canning could supply. The money had been good and the jars—usually a whole night of them—even better. Canning liked coming home to the wife with all the money still intact but enough of a load on to make him amorous. She could hardly refuse.