Read Online The Midnight Choir by Gene Kerrigan - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Gene Kerrigan
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Garda headquarters in the Phoenix Park, shown his ID, and was past the security barrier before he realised that he’d ignored the monument. There’d been a time when he couldn’t come through those gates without looking to the right and paying a silent tribute to what it represented – the forty-three gardai killed on duty since the foundation of the state. Since the murder of Garda Maura Sheelin he had self-consciously tried to resist taking the monument, and what it represented, for granted. Back in Templemore he’d learned the stories behind the Roll of Honour but it was dry stuff, names and dates from the history books. Not half as interesting as learning how to take a watertight statement or how to make a suspect come quietly. After Garda Maura Sheelin’s murder, Harry Synnott had seen the Roll of Honour as an emblem of something that had to matter deeply to any serious police officer. He believed it was that murder, and his part in what followed, that had shaped his life over the past two decades.
Sheelin’s murder was part of the third wave of police killings. The first wave was in the 1920s, when the Garda Siochana was in its infancy. The war of independence and the civil war had left a lot of guns around, and almost as many old scores to settle. One poor bastard in an ill-fitting uniform was shot dead because he’d been too energetic in his pursuit of poitin -makers. The second wave of killings was short-lived, a product of the unrest during the Second World War, as the IRA realised that their old buddy Eamon de Valera was well settled into power and was more likely to hang them than to nod and wink at their capers. The third wave came with the resurgence of the IRA after 1970. In 1987, Garda Maura Sheelin walked into a bank during a Provo hold-up. She was in civvies, looking to cash a cheque before heading off for an afternoon’s shopping with her sister. It was a time when Mickey Mouse bank security dovetailed with the needs of paramilitaries eager to top up their coffers.
The two bank robbers came running out, hauling holdalls stuffed with cash and waving revolvers. Maura Sheelin could have stood aside, played civilian, she could have waited and called it in, given a description. Instead, she stood firm in the doorway, shouted ‘Garda Siochana!’ and grabbed hold of the first robber. He shrugged her off, slamming her against the porch wall, leaving her winded, her right hand grasping at the second robber, who shot her as he ran past. She lasted five hours in hospital, doctors patching up her insides and the subsequent complications tearing her apart all over again.
Harry Synnott knew her slightly, her fiancé having been in Synnott’s class at Templemore. The Maura Sheelin murder turned out to be the case that put Synnott’s foot on the first rung of the promotion ladder, pleasing some within the force and pissing off a whole lot more.
‘It’s not that time?’
Colin O’Keefe was one of the few who had applauded Harry Synnott’s performance in the Sheelin murder case. Now he was standing by the open boot of his car, his arms full of R-Kive boxes, watching Synnott approach.
‘One-thirty,’ Synnott said.
‘Look, let me dump this lot, wash my hands. Meet you in my office in half an hour?’
Harry Synnott nodded. Another cheapskate lunch.
Detective Inspector John Grace was in the copy room, off a corridor between reception and the Commissioner’s office, when he heard, ‘So, this is what they have you doing?’
He turned and saw Harry Synnott with a big smile on his face.
‘Don’t tell me they’re letting the likes of you into the inner sanctum?’
‘Another working lunch with O’Keefe.’
‘Hope you’re not hungry.’
They shook hands and Synnott said, ‘You’re finishing up this week?’
‘Tomorrow, lunchtime. You’ll be at the retirement party do? Sunday evening, The Majestyk?’
Synnott grimaced. ‘Turner’s Lane – it’s not a month since I transferred out of
Sheelin’s murder was part of the third wave of police killings. The first wave was in the 1920s, when the Garda Siochana was in its infancy. The war of independence and the civil war had left a lot of guns around, and almost as many old scores to settle. One poor bastard in an ill-fitting uniform was shot dead because he’d been too energetic in his pursuit of poitin -makers. The second wave of killings was short-lived, a product of the unrest during the Second World War, as the IRA realised that their old buddy Eamon de Valera was well settled into power and was more likely to hang them than to nod and wink at their capers. The third wave came with the resurgence of the IRA after 1970. In 1987, Garda Maura Sheelin walked into a bank during a Provo hold-up. She was in civvies, looking to cash a cheque before heading off for an afternoon’s shopping with her sister. It was a time when Mickey Mouse bank security dovetailed with the needs of paramilitaries eager to top up their coffers.
The two bank robbers came running out, hauling holdalls stuffed with cash and waving revolvers. Maura Sheelin could have stood aside, played civilian, she could have waited and called it in, given a description. Instead, she stood firm in the doorway, shouted ‘Garda Siochana!’ and grabbed hold of the first robber. He shrugged her off, slamming her against the porch wall, leaving her winded, her right hand grasping at the second robber, who shot her as he ran past. She lasted five hours in hospital, doctors patching up her insides and the subsequent complications tearing her apart all over again.
Harry Synnott knew her slightly, her fiancé having been in Synnott’s class at Templemore. The Maura Sheelin murder turned out to be the case that put Synnott’s foot on the first rung of the promotion ladder, pleasing some within the force and pissing off a whole lot more.
‘It’s not that time?’
Colin O’Keefe was one of the few who had applauded Harry Synnott’s performance in the Sheelin murder case. Now he was standing by the open boot of his car, his arms full of R-Kive boxes, watching Synnott approach.
‘One-thirty,’ Synnott said.
‘Look, let me dump this lot, wash my hands. Meet you in my office in half an hour?’
Harry Synnott nodded. Another cheapskate lunch.
Detective Inspector John Grace was in the copy room, off a corridor between reception and the Commissioner’s office, when he heard, ‘So, this is what they have you doing?’
He turned and saw Harry Synnott with a big smile on his face.
‘Don’t tell me they’re letting the likes of you into the inner sanctum?’
‘Another working lunch with O’Keefe.’
‘Hope you’re not hungry.’
They shook hands and Synnott said, ‘You’re finishing up this week?’
‘Tomorrow, lunchtime. You’ll be at the retirement party do? Sunday evening, The Majestyk?’
Synnott grimaced. ‘Turner’s Lane – it’s not a month since I transferred out of
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