The Death of an Irish Politician (15 page)

“Ovens blundered up the companionway and fell onto the deck. Hubbard went for the
phone to call an ambulance, at the same time leading Leona away from the vessel. O’Brugha ran for a litter and first-aid kit. No sooner had they gotten down on the dock than Ovens scrambled to his feet, fell again, got up, tripped over the hatch to the ice chest, and tumbled into the slip. The moment that O’Brugha got a boat hook on him, Captain Moran, who was watching them through binoculars from his bungalow up on the hill, set off the emergency siren and called the police.”

McGarr reached for the telephone on Horrigan’s desk. “What’s the Taoseaich’s phone number?”

Horrigan consulted a circular file on the desk. “834157.”

McGarr dialed the number and handed the phone to Horrigan. “Ask for O’Shaughnessy. Have him read the brief of the report, then the confession itself.”

After listening for a while, just as McGarr had expected, Horrigan said, “Put the Taoseaich’s secretary on, please.” He paused for a moment and said, “This is Minister for Justice Horrigan, Gerald. Does Superintendent O’Shaughnessy have an appointment to see the Taoseaich? Four-thirty and with McGarr. I see—thank you.” Horrigan’s face was now ashen and drawn.

He got up from the desk and moved to a sideboard. There he bent and drew a decanter from below. He poured a very full glass and
handed it to McGarr. “How did you do it? I never doubted for a moment Leona’s will to survive or that Mairtín would cave in in any way.” Horrigan sat at the desk.

McGarr leaned against one of the long tables.

“You didn’t have any real proof before that, did you?”

McGarr shook his head. “All the blood-spattered shoes and dress did was to place her at the scene of the crime. We had a photo too, but that’s not proof, since it would be impossible to get an exact time on it. And we couldn’t arrest either Ovens or Leona for the gun grease on the hull of
Virelay
.”

“And the old man admitted to the crime?” Horrigan asked.

McGarr nodded.

“That was the plan, you know. If you discovered his identity.”

“Did she know about the plan?” McGarr drank from the tumbler.

“Is this off the record?”

McGarr shook his head. “Of course not. Nothing is ever off the record with a policeman.”

“What does it matter, really?” Horrigan rubbed his knuckles across the stubble on his cheek. “She came to me right after it happened, and we worked it out together. It was the first thing we had done, you know”—he glanced at McGarr—”together in a long time.
Years and years. She wanted my help. That meant something, but we really didn’t have time enough to plan properly.

“If only that blasted Moran hadn’t touched off the horn. The minute the police arrived, however, it was quite another story.”

McGarr thought briefly of the afternoon on the dock. If the weather hadn’t been so pleasant, he would have let Hughie Ward and Bernie McKeon handle the junket to Bray. The other two, in a rush to establish themselves at the bar of the Khyber Pass, would have reported Ovens’ injury as an accident. So much the better that would have been for all parties concerned, he mused.

“When I found out you were on the case, I panicked.” Again Horrigan looked up at McGarr. “Your reputation is formidable, Peter, and deservedly so.”

McGarr drained the glass. “Do you still love her?”

Horrigan’s brow furrowed. “I certainly must. At least it appears I shall have given up a very great deal for her, enough perhaps to call it love?”

There was a question in Horrigan’s voice. McGarr did not want to answer it. He pushed himself off the table. “Have you released the Bombing Report to the papers yet?”

“Unfortunately—this morning.”

“That’s a shame.”

“Yes—I hope it doesn’t ruin you, Peter, now
that there’s no advantage in it for me.”

“It certainly won’t, if you have the decency to tell the Taoseaich the truth. Otherwise, I’m sure that I can get Driver to crack. We’ll dry him out and apply pressure. Now that he can’t use the money you gave him, he’ll come around.”

Horrigan raised his eyebrows.

“I’ll impound it as evidence. The trial could drag on for years. Driver will never be able to post bond, and he’ll come around in jail. He’s the sort of person who needs his”—McGarr looked into his glass—“freedom. In return for reduced charges he’ll testify against you.” McGarr could be sure of none of this. In the meantime, however, things would become very sticky for the chief inspector. From the very pith of his being, McGarr wanted to convince Horrigan that not owning up to the theft of the Bombing Report now would only bring Horrigan further trouble in the future.

McGarr continued. “But I meant that the real shame is your having let the thing go. If you hadn’t been so hasty, I was willing to let all your”—McGarr fished for the right word—“peccadilloes drop. After all, we understand each other now.”

“You were?” Horrigan reached for the phone. “What if it’s still possible?”

McGarr placed the glass on the desk. “Good luck, David.” He turned to go.

Horrigan tugged at the sleeve of his rain
coat. He took the tape cassettes from the middle drawer of the desk and handed them to McGarr. “No hard feelings?”

“Not now—no.”

They shook hands and McGarr left.

In the lobby of the Shelbourne a small boy was ripping the cords off a parcel of
Heralds
that announced the release of the Bombing Report.

IT WAS TWILIGHT by the time the Cooper crested Dalkey Hill. Setting behind a cloud bank, the sun suffused the western sky with a magenta glow. The Irish Sea was still, save for a fishing boat that was making for Greystones. Its starboard beacon cast a finger of green light on the glassy water. The gentle curve of shoreline from Killiney to Bray Head was dark now.

Even before McGarr geared down the steep hill from the Khyber Pass Hotel, past Captain Moran’s white bungalow, and toward the complex of slate roofs, which was the yacht club, he could see the glow of Ovens’ cigarette on the dock.

He was seated on the soft-drink case, staring at
Virelay
as she swayed on her dock lines in the wind that now began to blow shoreward
with the approach of night. He had a smudge of grease on the bandages that wrapped his head.

McGarr pulled another wooden case off the afterdeck and sat beside Ovens, who handed him a half-empty bottle of rum.

When they had drunk that, Ovens stood. “What’s going to happen to my boat?” he asked. Strangely, his voice was mild, his accent refined.

“Captain Moran and I will sail her back to Dun Laoghaire. Brud Clare can complete the repairs.”

Ovens looked at McGarr.

“Leona Horrigan will pay the bill, I’m sure. It’s the least she can do for you.”

While speeding down the short stretch of dual carriageway in Shankhill, the program of popular music McGarr had switched on was interrupted. An announcer came on with a bulletin that Minister for Justice Horrigan had resigned.

Ovens turned to the window and looked out at the rock walls and empty fields they were passing.