keeping his voice very low indeed.
“Jasus,” said Ward. “I’ve been drinking tea since I returned. But listen to this—not one publican in Lahinch has sold anybody a quart of C. C. in months. Hanly lied to us there, too.”
McGarr also knew Hanly had lied to them two other times about how his car had come to be damaged, but he wanted to confront Hanly himself with that evidence. “Where’s Hanly now?”
“In the next room. Liam has him. I don’t know what he’s got against that fellow, but he’s leaning on him hard.”
McGarr thought of May Quirk again and knew how O’Shaughnessy felt. If a low type like Hanly was responsible for May Quirk’s death, McGarr would be put out himself. “Good enough. That gobshite is keeping something from us and I want to know what it is and why. Keep drinking that tea, boy, and spell Liam after a bit. I’ll be there myself in a while.”
“And McAnulty has been in touch with Phoenix Park.” That was the site of Garda Soichana headquarters. “He wants funding permission to search the area below the Cliffs of Moher. Wants to hire some riggers and a mountain-climbing expert. He’s also alerted the subaquatic unit. He said you’ve requested all that. The commissioner wants you to call him at his holiday house in Cork. Do you have his number?”
“Yes.” McGarr hung up and called the commissioner.
“I’ve been waiting for your call.” Fergus Farrell had hired McGarr. He was a gifted administrator in his late fifties. Rumor had it that he had stomach cancer. He was a tall man with large eyes that tortoiseshell glasses made look sad, but he never once mentioned his malady or missed a day of work. And his sense of humor was renowned. True, he drank a good deal so that his face, which some former skin condition had pitted, was red, but he never got out of the way or lost his sagacity. “What have you got out there?”
“A chance for some good publicity, I believe.” Again McGarr kept his voice down.
“We need that.” Because of the trouble in the North, the recent bombings in Dublin, and the seeming impunity with which gangs on either side of the political issue had been shooting each other along the border, it appeared as though the police were powerless to enforce the laws of the country. The thousands of crimes they had solved during the past year had of course notgotten the same attention in the press. Good news didn’t sell newspapers.
McGarr thought of May Quirk. “I think I can promise you some results on this one.”
“What do you know about the woman so far?”
“Tall, beautiful, a staff reporter for a big New York newspaper. Born and raised here in Lahinch. She may have been pregnant. She had twenty-seven thousand dollars on her person. Also, she was connected with an I.R.A. fund raiser in New York. The connection may have been romantic only, however.”
“The papers will be making a big thing of this one,” said Farrell. “They always do when it’s one of their own. But then there’s the expense of your request to consider. They could make a lot of that too, if—”
McGarr waited for Farrell to conclude the thought. He hadn’t managed to rise to the top of three separate police organizations by being a skilled detective alone. When Farrell said nothing more, McGarr suggested, “Perhaps then we’d better make it look like we’re breaking our backs on it. You know—as though we wouldn’t want it to happen again to any other members of the glorious fourth estate.” Also, McGarr wanted to bring Farrell in on the decision, just in case they spent large amounts of public money with no result. Many senior Garda Soichana officers resented the fact that McGarr hadn’t passed his entire career with the Irish police. Because he had been with foreign police agencies, McGarr had not been involved in domestic cases that might have revealed his political leanings. And since his return to Ireland, McGarr had taken great pains never to reveal his
“Jasus,” said Ward. “I’ve been drinking tea since I returned. But listen to this—not one publican in Lahinch has sold anybody a quart of C. C. in months. Hanly lied to us there, too.”
McGarr also knew Hanly had lied to them two other times about how his car had come to be damaged, but he wanted to confront Hanly himself with that evidence. “Where’s Hanly now?”
“In the next room. Liam has him. I don’t know what he’s got against that fellow, but he’s leaning on him hard.”
McGarr thought of May Quirk again and knew how O’Shaughnessy felt. If a low type like Hanly was responsible for May Quirk’s death, McGarr would be put out himself. “Good enough. That gobshite is keeping something from us and I want to know what it is and why. Keep drinking that tea, boy, and spell Liam after a bit. I’ll be there myself in a while.”
“And McAnulty has been in touch with Phoenix Park.” That was the site of Garda Soichana headquarters. “He wants funding permission to search the area below the Cliffs of Moher. Wants to hire some riggers and a mountain-climbing expert. He’s also alerted the subaquatic unit. He said you’ve requested all that. The commissioner wants you to call him at his holiday house in Cork. Do you have his number?”
“Yes.” McGarr hung up and called the commissioner.
“I’ve been waiting for your call.” Fergus Farrell had hired McGarr. He was a gifted administrator in his late fifties. Rumor had it that he had stomach cancer. He was a tall man with large eyes that tortoiseshell glasses made look sad, but he never once mentioned his malady or missed a day of work. And his sense of humor was renowned. True, he drank a good deal so that his face, which some former skin condition had pitted, was red, but he never got out of the way or lost his sagacity. “What have you got out there?”
“A chance for some good publicity, I believe.” Again McGarr kept his voice down.
“We need that.” Because of the trouble in the North, the recent bombings in Dublin, and the seeming impunity with which gangs on either side of the political issue had been shooting each other along the border, it appeared as though the police were powerless to enforce the laws of the country. The thousands of crimes they had solved during the past year had of course notgotten the same attention in the press. Good news didn’t sell newspapers.
McGarr thought of May Quirk. “I think I can promise you some results on this one.”
“What do you know about the woman so far?”
“Tall, beautiful, a staff reporter for a big New York newspaper. Born and raised here in Lahinch. She may have been pregnant. She had twenty-seven thousand dollars on her person. Also, she was connected with an I.R.A. fund raiser in New York. The connection may have been romantic only, however.”
“The papers will be making a big thing of this one,” said Farrell. “They always do when it’s one of their own. But then there’s the expense of your request to consider. They could make a lot of that too, if—”
McGarr waited for Farrell to conclude the thought. He hadn’t managed to rise to the top of three separate police organizations by being a skilled detective alone. When Farrell said nothing more, McGarr suggested, “Perhaps then we’d better make it look like we’re breaking our backs on it. You know—as though we wouldn’t want it to happen again to any other members of the glorious fourth estate.” Also, McGarr wanted to bring Farrell in on the decision, just in case they spent large amounts of public money with no result. Many senior Garda Soichana officers resented the fact that McGarr hadn’t passed his entire career with the Irish police. Because he had been with foreign police agencies, McGarr had not been involved in domestic cases that might have revealed his political leanings. And since his return to Ireland, McGarr had taken great pains never to reveal his
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