The Death of an Irish Lover (18 page)

And after dropping off the hair samples from Grace O’Rourke, Sylvie Zeebruge, and Gertrude McGurk at the police lab, McGarr looked up Pascal Burke’s home address and drove out to Ranelagh, an older suburb of the city.

The house was Edwardian in design, a brick structure with tall chimneys and multipaned windows. Mc
Garr could see from the plethora of mailboxes by the front door that it had been converted into flats.

Burke had lived in the attic, the landlady saying, “It’s so much like Jekyll and Hyde, the stories we’re reading about poor Mr. Burke in the papers. Shot in bed naked with a married naked woman who worked for him.

“Why, I kept thinking, it must be a different Pascal Burke than the one we know. Our Mr. Pascal Burke was forever the gentleman. And how he took care of his widowed mother until the day she died three years ago come Christmas. Hand and foot, I tell you. He never went anywhere without her. He was the most devoted son a mother could ever want.

“That’s when he moved up here,” she continued, opening the door to the apartment. “From the big flat on the second floor. He said it was time to start saving money, don’t you know. And then, the aerie here has a separate entrance—up the fire escape from the car park out back.”

McGarr stepped into an apartment that bore all the signs of a suddenly downsized life—too much big furniture in too small a space, most of it so out-of-date as to be near antique. Little wonder that Burke preferred the spacious and Spartan room over the pub in Leixleap.

Doilies decorated the arms of wing chairs, throw rugs lay on top of carpets, and even the telly was ancient. Black-and-white only, McGarr bet. In short, the flat looked like a time warp or a museum honoring the mother.

Pictures of her—young, old, pregnant, in formal wear with a décolletage that would make a stripper blush—were everywhere. She had been a beautiful natural blond with an angular body, when young. And
when older and fuller, the look that she presented the camera was still fetching and seductive.

“Thank you,” McGarr said to the landlady, who seemed loath to leave. “I’ll have a quick look round and show myself out.”

Once the door was shut, McGarr conducted a thorough search of the flat, which was not difficult, given the paucity of detail concerning Pascal Burke’s personal life. It was as though the man did not have a history, and everything that had been saved from his past referred to his mother in some way or another.

As for his father—who had been named Edmund, like the Dublin-born, British politician and states-man—he was pictured only once on their wedding day. He had died when Burke was seven.

Sandwiched between a heap of bills and junk mail that Burke had kept in a wicker basket on his kitchen table were three recent letters postmarked Leixleap with no return address. They were all unsigned.

Each said, in effect, what one passage stated in the third and final letter:

In yet another letter with a Leixleap postmark, were several photographs picturing the bearded Burke with a handsome but sizable woman around his age, which was forty. In one, he was seen laughing fully while the woman, who had wrapped an arm around his waist, lifted him off the ground on one hip.

There was a green plastic derby on his head and green beer in a glass on the table. On the back was printed, “
NEW ORLEANS, MARCH
17.
DIDN’T WE SHOW THE YANKS HOW IT WAS DONE
.” Because of the printing, it was impossible to tell if the handwriting was the same as in the letters.

The date was St. Patrick’s Day, of course. What struck McGarr was how much the woman looked like Burke’s mother did in middle age, apart from hairstyle and dress.

Pocketing the photo and the letters, he continued with his search, which yielded only one other item of interest: a bill from a solicitor for, “The preparation and filing of last will and testament, Mr. P. Burke.”

Reaching for the phone, McGarr dialed his own office and asked John Swords, the night-desk sergeant, to find the home phone number for Terence Maher. “He’s a solicitor with the firm of Maher, O’Connell, Fallon and Fitzgerald in Mount Street.”

McGarr hung up and moved to Burke’s closet, where he began going through the pockets of his clothes, looking for whatever turned up. Some people removed everything from their pockets every night, and all that remained were lint and shards of this and
that. While others forgot things—ticket stubs, receipts, credit-card sales-slip duplicates.

Burke was the latter. Nearly every pocket turned up something, the most notable item of which was an envelope from the Leixleap Inn. Folded in half as though used as paper for the note, “Sylvie in Belgium.” The phone number followed.

In the telephone directory, McGarr looked up the country code for Belgium and was about to dial the number when the phone rang. It was Swords with the phone number of the solicitor, Terence Maher.

“It’s late,” a voice grumbled when the phone was answered.

McGarr explained to Maher who he was and why he was calling. “Perhaps you read about the double murder down in Leixleap?”

“Double murder and suicide, wasn’t it? A lovers’ triangle.”

“Me to you?” McGarr seldom conveyed information about a case to any third party, but you had to give in order to get. “It was no suicide.”

“Your coddin’ me.” Maher no longer sounded sleepy, and McGarr could imagine the man saying to his colleagues on the morrow, “I heard it from the Chief himself.” Or, worse, ringing up some friend in the press.

“The young couple were murdered to cover up the first murder of Pascal Burke, which is why I’m calling. I’m in his apartment now looking at a bill for your services for the preparation and filing of a will. It would be helpful were I to know the beneficiaries and if you know the size of the estate.”

There was a pause. “Ah-ha. This is extraordinary, it is. But…in this case, given the nature of Mr. Burke’s
death…let me see—can you hold on a minute? I have all that stuff on disk, and I’ll have to fire up the machine.”

McGarr then heard a woman’s voice and some muffled conversation with only, “…a hell of an hour…nerve of the man,” plain from her, and “…the Chief Superintendent, McGarr himself” from him.

After a while, Maher came back on. “Chief—all his earthly possessions, of which I believe he had few—a car, the flat there in Ranelagh, which he owns, and the family seat which is a small cottage in West Cork—go to a certain Gertrude McGurk of Newry.

“Burke came to my office six or seven months ago and gave me the particulars.”

“Is that a change of beneficiary?”

“No, I don’t think so. I can remember him telling me that he didn’t have a will when he first walked in.

“Tell me, Chief—do you have a suspect?”

“Three. All women. But that’s the most I can say.”

“Would this Gertrude McGurk be one?”

“I can’t say, Solicitor Maher—libel, defamation of character. You know those waters better than I, I’m sure. Did Burke say anything to you about who she was to him and why she was his beneficiary?”

“As I remember, something to the effect of a fine broth of a woman who might need a hand up someday. But when I saw her age, which he listed here as twenty-six, well…I suspected she might be a daughter or some relation.” Maher waited for another scrap of information, but McGarr only thanked him and rang off.

Finding the country code for Belgium in the phone directory, McGarr dialed the number for Sylvie Zeebruge that he had found in Burke’s clothes. After a long series of rings, it was answered.

“Oui?”
It was a woman’s voice.

“May I speak to Sylvie Zeebruge, please?” McGarr said in his best French.

“Speaking.”

“Sylvie, this is Peter McGarr,” he continued in English. “How is your mother?”

There was a pause, as though she was debating whether to speak to him. “Ill.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Are you planning to return to Ireland?”

“Perhaps.”

“May I ask you a few questions?” When only silence followed, McGarr continued. “Your husband has told me that you and he are very close. And yet I didn’t get that impression when we spoke. Are you still a couple?”

Again, she did not reply.

“Hello, Miss Zeebruge—are you there?”

“Yes.”

“Antony Moran—what was he to you?”

“A friend.”

“Nothing more?”

“Do you mean—did we have good times, enjoy the same things, and have sex?”

It was McGarr’s turn to be silent.

“Yes, all of that. Many times. I miss him.”

“And Mr. Burke, did you have sex with him as well?”

There was a hesitation before, “I’ve had sex with many men, and I’m proud of it.”

“Did you have sex with Mr. Burke?”

Yet again, she did not answer.

After a while, McGarr continued. “It appears from my investigation that Mr. Burke was like you and bed
ded any number of women, including Gertrude McGurk.”

When yet more silence ensued, McGarr added, “In fact, it appears he preferred her.”

“What do you mean?”

“I just got off the phone with his solicitor. There’s a will, and she’s his inheritor. The house here in Dublin, where I’m sitting, whatever money he had, and the family seat down in Cork. It all goes to her.”

“What? I don’t believe you.”

“Shall I give you the number of his solicitor? You can ring him up if you like.”

“You lie.”

“I don’t. I think you know that.”

“Say it again.”

McGarr did, and he then heard what sounded like a quiet sob before a hand was placed over the speaker of the phone.

After a while, he added, “But maybe she won’t get any of it.”

“What? What did you say?”

“I said, maybe she won’t get all of it.”

“Why not?”

“Because it seems that Mr. Burke might have left a child. Or, at least, there’s the possibility that he has.” Again, McGarr waited.

“Go on, damn you,” she fairly cried. “What is it you have to tell me?”

“Only that a woman claims to be pregnant by Pascal Burke, and I was calling in part to ask you—as owner of the property where his body was found and where he often stayed—if you know if he had relations with the woman.”

“Who? What woman?”

“Why, one of your employees.” Playing it out, like this, was cruel, McGarr well understood. But Sylvie Zeebruge had chosen to leave the country, and he was interested in her reaction.

“I can’t think of an employee of mine that Pascal might have fancied. Now I know you’re lying.”

“Why would I lie?”

“To catch me up.”

“I could only catch you up, were
you
lying to
me
.” Or were you Burke’s murderer, McGarr thought. “Have you been lying to me?”

“This woman’s name, please. The one who is my employee and who is pregnant by Pascal. Then, I’ll know if you’re lying.”

“Grace O’Rourke.”

“You must be joking.”

“I’m not.”

“You have to be.
Grace?
”

“The very one.”

Sylvie Zeebruge began to laugh the deep, wet laugh of a long-term smoker. Finally, she said, “I hope you don’t expect me to believe you. This…ploy. What is it you expect me to say?”

“Nothing more than you have, and I’m thankful for your candor. Would you like Grace’s phone number? You might ring her up and verify her condition for yourself. What I just said.”

McGarr waited while it sounded as though she was lighting a cigarette. “Don’t bother, I have her number.”

“Do you have any idea when you’ll be returning to Ireland?”

“None.”

“Well then, I thank you for your cooperation. I
hope I won’t have to disturb you again. I’ll ring off now.”

“Wait!” she fairly shouted. “Now you have my interest up—what makes you think Grace is pregnant by Pascal?”

“She told me so.”

“A young woman’s fantasy. Women think, women
hope
they’re pregnant, all the time.”

McGarr wondered if she were speaking for herself. “You must know Grace after all this time. I know liars, I know people who speak the truth. Grace doesn’t lie. In fact, Grace O’Rourke is also loyal. Can I tell you how she protected you? No matter how I tried, no matter what I said, she wouldn’t give you up.”

“Give me up, how?”

“Being yet another of Mr. Burke’s lovers.”

“Can I tell you something?”

McGarr was hoping she would.

“I was his only
real
lover, he told me so. And as soon as I could get rid of Tim—my husband, as you call him—he and I were going to make a match. It was the cause of my sorrow when you spoke to me earlier. The other women in Leixleap who Pascal knew? They were…diversions to him, he told me. What is the phrase? Casual sex which, from time to time, we all need.

“But the very idea of Pascal and Grace being together is…ludicrous, to say the least. Either she fantasized the entire liaison, or she lied to you.”

“She did not lie.”

“Then, you’re a fool.”

“Sometimes, but not now. Do you have her phone number? Why don’t you give her a call? Judge for yourself.”

“I have it, and I will.”

“Promise?”

“You can be sure.”

“Incidentally, what hospital is your mother in?”

After an execration in French, the phone went dead.

Leaving the attic flat by the fire escape, he wondered if Burke had secreted women up the narrow passageway, after his mother’s death. Or had he saved his carousing for Leixleap and the banks of the Shannon?