Read Online The Death of an Irish Tinker by Bartholomew Gill - Free Book Online Page B

investigation more difficult. But maybe not in this case. Maybe what the Monkey would now need wassomebody who could talk some sense to him. “It was murder.”
    “Where’s Archie now?”
    “About to be taken in.”
    “And charged?”
    “Perhaps. It all depends on how cooperative he is. Maybe it wasn’t his idea at all. Maybe it was the drugs.”
    “Of course. Without a doubt. It was the drugs. Archie may be many unfortunate things, but I know in my heart he’s no murderer.”
    McGarr wished he had a pound for every time he’d heard that.
    “Where will you be taking him?”
    “My office.” He thanked her and rang off.
    A few minutes later he pulled the unmarked blue Ford Granada into the curb by the pub where the Toddler and his minions were still lined up. Climbing out, he removed his Garda ID from a pocket and flashed it at the other guards, saying, “Peter McGarr, Murder Squad.” Loud, so the Toddler and his solicitor would hear.
    With the laminated ID still out, he made directly for the Monkey Man. “You must be Archie Carruthers.”
    The young man’s eyes shied toward the Toddler, as though seeking permission to acknowledge his own name. Carruthers had narrow shoulders and a thin chest. On him the galways ring of dark and curly facial hair looked almost comic, truly like some monkey or leprechaun or pooka. But not like a real human being, which was fitting since he was not a person. He was an addict, a true Monkey Man.
    “I asked you. Are you Archie Carruthers?” Out of the corner of an eye McGarr saw the Toddler nudge the solicitor, who stepped forward.
    “What’s this about? I represent this man.”
    “Since when?”
    “Since this moment.”
    “And do you represent the rest of these people?”
    “I do. Aye.” The solicitor was a tall gray-haired man in a splendid tailored overcoat.
    “Without even knowing their names. Tell me—what’s the name of that undoubted felon over there, the one with murder in his eyes?” McGarr pointed to one of the Bookends, who was glaring at him. “Or the young woman beside him. A renter, I hear. Fancy her yourself?”
    McGarr waited, studying the man, trying to remember who he was. But there was no reply.
    “Ah, then, you’re a rare, generous man for someone in your line of larceny. Fee free to unlimited, anonymous clients. Be honest, you take it out in trade.”
    Still nothing, which was strange. McGarr had seen the solicitor before, but he could not give the fleshy but handsome face a name. The man’s color was high, his nose streaked with veins.
    McGarr turned to the Monkey. “Archie Carruthers, you’re to come with me.” He took hold of the young man’s gaunt arm. Under the chauffeur’s jacket it felt like a thin branch.
    “On what charge?” Finally the solicitor had found his voice.
    “Oh, the very worst. Monkey business one, as premeditated as it comes.” McGarr turned back to the man, aware that the Toddler was hanging on every word said. “Square with me now, solicitor. Be uncharacteristically honest, and I won’t run you in. D’you fancy the odd glass of bubbly?”
    The solicitor’s head went back, aware of the ruin of his nose. “Bubbly?”
    “Champagne. From the look of you, I’d hazard you do. Veuve Cliquot—know the brand? They say it’s wonderful, the very best. Gets you up there. High. Makes you feel like a body in a tall tree, all chained and shackled. Had that effect on Mickalou Maugham. Sent him straight to heaven on the eleventh of November last.” Hand still on Carruthers’s arm, McGarr spun him around. “Or was it the tenth, Mr. Monkey Man?”
    Again Carruthers’s eyes appealed to the Toddler.
    Whom McGarr now took one long step toward, dragging Carruthers with him. “No, that’s wrong.” They were nearly nose to nose, the Toddler and he. “The murder of Gavin O’Reilly was the tenth. He was the man you put under the bus. Maugham was the eleventh. He couldn’t have lasted more than a day chained naked in that