Read Online The Death of an Irish Sea Wolf by Bartholomew Gill - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Bartholomew Gill
Ads: Link
over the edge of the jetty, riffled its upper lip. Now and then square yellow teeth appeared, and a length of dry-cracked tongue. It was as though the mute corpse was saying, We dumb beasts are better than this, but you ! McGarr turned toward the car and what he suspected was human carnage.
“Apart from the one body in the boot, like I mentioned on the phone, the rest is just bullets and blood, and plenty o’both.” Rice went on, following him. His hand swept over the shiny brass bullet casings that littered the ground in front of a small white cottage, more a kind of converted outbuilding than a house by design. The door had been broken open and was hanging at an odd angle.
McGarr now glanced down at his feet. There were dark stains from the car to the edge of the jetty. The vehicle itself, while old and rusty, looked like it had been caught in a cross fire. The faded blue sheet metal was riddled and pierced by large-caliber bullets, the glass blown out of all windows but one. There were some other holes that appeared to have been caused by smaller-caliber fire, perhaps by a handgun. Or handguns.
“The other crime scene I told you about—the house—is about four miles by road from here at the base of Croaghmore. It’s the same. Blood in the hall, in the sitting room, on the gravel drive. Casings all over, one from a handgun in the house.” Croaghmore was the large mountain behind them, McGarr now remembered.
The crowd broke before him, silent, their eyes on his face, regarding him closely. He was the cop, the government man, the seoinin who might make sense of it all, when, in fact, it was they who had the answers. Unlike in Dublin or Cork or Limerick where anonymous crime was common, there was little possibility that the pivotal details of whatever had occurred were unknown to them. The challenge would be in convincing them to give up that truth.
“So, what we have is—three people is missing and one boat,” Rice went on. A beefy older man in a blue uniform, he toddled and huffed a half step behind McGarr.
“ Two boats, if you count the one that put into the harbor at nightfall. It was a big white yoke with sails, somethin’ like a schooner I’m told. There was at least three people aboard, foreigners from the sound of them. But only one of them called in at the bar over there.” He jerked a thumb at the largest of the buildings in the harbor front. “He was a young man, middling height, sandy hair cut short and wearing”—Rice consulted his notepad—“an orange deck suit with ‘ Mah Jong ’ on the back.”
“Like the game.”
“And the boat evidently. It was called that too. The bloke spoke good English sort of like an American and was quick to ask after Ford—where he lived. How he could get there? Was it far? That class of thing. When the barman volunteered to ring Ford up, he said no, he wanted his visit to be a surprise. Left most of his fresh pint on the bar.”
“Ford’s one of the missing?”
Rice nodded. “An Englishman who’s lived here for fifty years. Big fella, huge, and a kind man. Great, white beard.”
The woman standing by the boot of the car now turned her face to McGarr; it was haggard with woe. McGarr touched the brim of his cap. “Peter McGarr. I’m—”
But she nodded, and Rice interposed. “Jacinta O’Grady. Sergeant O’Grady’s wife. Former Sergeant O’—” but he had explained about O’Grady on the phone, along with how the man had come to be at the Fords’ house armed on the evening before—as a favor to the old couple. “He left his tea on the table, fetched his revolver from the closet, and that was the last seen of him,” Rice had reported.
The youngest child now began to cry, and the widow lifted him into her arms.
Because O’Grady had been a guard, a funeral detail would be sent out from Dublin. Radio and television would cover the event. It would do nothing for the family, but maybe somebody would recall having seen a large white
“Apart from the one body in the boot, like I mentioned on the phone, the rest is just bullets and blood, and plenty o’both.” Rice went on, following him. His hand swept over the shiny brass bullet casings that littered the ground in front of a small white cottage, more a kind of converted outbuilding than a house by design. The door had been broken open and was hanging at an odd angle.
McGarr now glanced down at his feet. There were dark stains from the car to the edge of the jetty. The vehicle itself, while old and rusty, looked like it had been caught in a cross fire. The faded blue sheet metal was riddled and pierced by large-caliber bullets, the glass blown out of all windows but one. There were some other holes that appeared to have been caused by smaller-caliber fire, perhaps by a handgun. Or handguns.
“The other crime scene I told you about—the house—is about four miles by road from here at the base of Croaghmore. It’s the same. Blood in the hall, in the sitting room, on the gravel drive. Casings all over, one from a handgun in the house.” Croaghmore was the large mountain behind them, McGarr now remembered.
The crowd broke before him, silent, their eyes on his face, regarding him closely. He was the cop, the government man, the seoinin who might make sense of it all, when, in fact, it was they who had the answers. Unlike in Dublin or Cork or Limerick where anonymous crime was common, there was little possibility that the pivotal details of whatever had occurred were unknown to them. The challenge would be in convincing them to give up that truth.
“So, what we have is—three people is missing and one boat,” Rice went on. A beefy older man in a blue uniform, he toddled and huffed a half step behind McGarr.
“ Two boats, if you count the one that put into the harbor at nightfall. It was a big white yoke with sails, somethin’ like a schooner I’m told. There was at least three people aboard, foreigners from the sound of them. But only one of them called in at the bar over there.” He jerked a thumb at the largest of the buildings in the harbor front. “He was a young man, middling height, sandy hair cut short and wearing”—Rice consulted his notepad—“an orange deck suit with ‘ Mah Jong ’ on the back.”
“Like the game.”
“And the boat evidently. It was called that too. The bloke spoke good English sort of like an American and was quick to ask after Ford—where he lived. How he could get there? Was it far? That class of thing. When the barman volunteered to ring Ford up, he said no, he wanted his visit to be a surprise. Left most of his fresh pint on the bar.”
“Ford’s one of the missing?”
Rice nodded. “An Englishman who’s lived here for fifty years. Big fella, huge, and a kind man. Great, white beard.”
The woman standing by the boot of the car now turned her face to McGarr; it was haggard with woe. McGarr touched the brim of his cap. “Peter McGarr. I’m—”
But she nodded, and Rice interposed. “Jacinta O’Grady. Sergeant O’Grady’s wife. Former Sergeant O’—” but he had explained about O’Grady on the phone, along with how the man had come to be at the Fords’ house armed on the evening before—as a favor to the old couple. “He left his tea on the table, fetched his revolver from the closet, and that was the last seen of him,” Rice had reported.
The youngest child now began to cry, and the widow lifted him into her arms.
Because O’Grady had been a guard, a funeral detail would be sent out from Dublin. Radio and television would cover the event. It would do nothing for the family, but maybe somebody would recall having seen a large white
Similar Books
