Read Online The Death of an Irish Sea Wolf by Bartholomew Gill - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Bartholomew Gill
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schooner leaving the island. Or O’Malley’s fishing boat. Already every maritime policing agency had been notified, not only in the Republic but also in the North, in Britain, and in Norway. Planes and helicopters had been dispatched, but so far nothing.
“Would you tell me something?” Jacinta O’Grady took a step closer to the boot of the car, then turned her head to her other children. “The lot of yeh stay where you are.” She then tried to raise an edge of the gray blanket, but the wind, sweeping over the jetty, tore the wool from her hand. Only Rice, reaching out, kept the blanket from being swept out into the harbor. “Whatever happened to the back of his poor head?”
McGarr could see at a glance. The bullet had entered the forehead, then exploded, blowing away the skull from the earsback. It made his face look unreal and one-dimensional, like a pasteboard cutout tacked to his shoulders.
But McGarr only shook his head. It was a scene he knew all too well, and no words, no matter how well chosen, could help.
“Don’t you know? Can’t you tell me?”
Rice signaled to some of the other women who moved forward.
“Who was it? Who could have done such a thing? Taken a life, a husband. Taken a father from his children.”
Stepping round the car, McGarr peered into the backseat at a mass of fat green flies that had gathered on the pooled blood. There was plenty of it. Too much for one person to have survived. In the matter of lethal bloodletting, McGarr was rather expert.
“Now—what I mentioned, Chief, is here on the floor under the wheel.”
It was a woman’s ring that was sparkling even in the shadows. A single shaft of sunlight, angling through a bullet hole in the side window, had caught its large central stone and was spewing rainbows of prismatic light over the pedals. The smaller surrounding stones had the deep blue color of sapphires.
“Could it be real?” McGarr asked.
“Not likely. That big job is the size of a peach pit, and them other ones is too alike to be real. And whyever would it have been left behind.” If it were real, Rice meant.
McGarr was tempted to reach for it, but the Tech Squad would be arriving soon by helicopter. Instead, he turned toward the cottage.
It was bachelor digs, he could see as he entered; men’s clothes were hung on pegs, and the furnishings were Spartan and few. Dirty dishes were heaped in the sink, most shattered by bullets. Somebody had swept the room with an automatic weapon.
Turning to step back outside, McGarr walked into the chest of a larger man; it was the captain of the boat that had ferried him to the island. He was standing in the doorway with a hand out. “Now, bucko—my forty-five pounds.”
McGarr tried to step to one side, but the man moved in front of him. And to the other. Again.
“Did ye not hear me?”
McGarr knew the tone; more, he had seen that squint-eyed smile before. The man in the yellow rain slicker was twenty years younger, twenty pounds heavier, and a good six inches taller. Already his hands had formed fists. He was about to give McGarr a thumping, or at least try. Which posed a dilemma.
McGarr could not appear to be intimidated, especially not here in front of the gathered population of the island whose respect he would need. But neither could he be seen in a brawl that would be reported to the press.
As though wary or frightened, he moved back into the room, drawing the man away from the door. Rice stepped forward to intervene, but McGarr raised a hand. “Sure, if that’s all the gentleman wants, I’ll give him his twenty-two pounds fifty. He’ll get the other half when he takes me back.”
The hazel eyes widened and the ears pulled back. Here it comes, thought McGarr—telegraphed, no, carrier-pigeoned maybe a whole second—before the hands leapt for McGarr’s throat. Sidestepping, McGarr threw a double jab with his left hand. The first blow caught the small ribs—the soft, cartilaginous, easily broken
“Would you tell me something?” Jacinta O’Grady took a step closer to the boot of the car, then turned her head to her other children. “The lot of yeh stay where you are.” She then tried to raise an edge of the gray blanket, but the wind, sweeping over the jetty, tore the wool from her hand. Only Rice, reaching out, kept the blanket from being swept out into the harbor. “Whatever happened to the back of his poor head?”
McGarr could see at a glance. The bullet had entered the forehead, then exploded, blowing away the skull from the earsback. It made his face look unreal and one-dimensional, like a pasteboard cutout tacked to his shoulders.
But McGarr only shook his head. It was a scene he knew all too well, and no words, no matter how well chosen, could help.
“Don’t you know? Can’t you tell me?”
Rice signaled to some of the other women who moved forward.
“Who was it? Who could have done such a thing? Taken a life, a husband. Taken a father from his children.”
Stepping round the car, McGarr peered into the backseat at a mass of fat green flies that had gathered on the pooled blood. There was plenty of it. Too much for one person to have survived. In the matter of lethal bloodletting, McGarr was rather expert.
“Now—what I mentioned, Chief, is here on the floor under the wheel.”
It was a woman’s ring that was sparkling even in the shadows. A single shaft of sunlight, angling through a bullet hole in the side window, had caught its large central stone and was spewing rainbows of prismatic light over the pedals. The smaller surrounding stones had the deep blue color of sapphires.
“Could it be real?” McGarr asked.
“Not likely. That big job is the size of a peach pit, and them other ones is too alike to be real. And whyever would it have been left behind.” If it were real, Rice meant.
McGarr was tempted to reach for it, but the Tech Squad would be arriving soon by helicopter. Instead, he turned toward the cottage.
It was bachelor digs, he could see as he entered; men’s clothes were hung on pegs, and the furnishings were Spartan and few. Dirty dishes were heaped in the sink, most shattered by bullets. Somebody had swept the room with an automatic weapon.
Turning to step back outside, McGarr walked into the chest of a larger man; it was the captain of the boat that had ferried him to the island. He was standing in the doorway with a hand out. “Now, bucko—my forty-five pounds.”
McGarr tried to step to one side, but the man moved in front of him. And to the other. Again.
“Did ye not hear me?”
McGarr knew the tone; more, he had seen that squint-eyed smile before. The man in the yellow rain slicker was twenty years younger, twenty pounds heavier, and a good six inches taller. Already his hands had formed fists. He was about to give McGarr a thumping, or at least try. Which posed a dilemma.
McGarr could not appear to be intimidated, especially not here in front of the gathered population of the island whose respect he would need. But neither could he be seen in a brawl that would be reported to the press.
As though wary or frightened, he moved back into the room, drawing the man away from the door. Rice stepped forward to intervene, but McGarr raised a hand. “Sure, if that’s all the gentleman wants, I’ll give him his twenty-two pounds fifty. He’ll get the other half when he takes me back.”
The hazel eyes widened and the ears pulled back. Here it comes, thought McGarr—telegraphed, no, carrier-pigeoned maybe a whole second—before the hands leapt for McGarr’s throat. Sidestepping, McGarr threw a double jab with his left hand. The first blow caught the small ribs—the soft, cartilaginous, easily broken
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