The Death of an Irish Politician (8 page)

“Shall I pack up your dinner and bring it down?”

McGarr knew Noreen would do anything to get in on the interrogative aspects of an investigation. He could see Kevin Slattery at his desk, also on the horn to his missus, making excuses why he wouldn’t be home. Slattery was the stenographer for interrogations. “What are we having?”

“Curried prawns on wild rice. How many are there of you?”

“Well, if you come down, I could send Kevin home, so that would make just Hughie, myself, and Mrs. Horrigan and you. We’ll let Hubbard eat prison food.”

“One hour.” Noreen hung up.

McGarr pointed to the door. Slattery smiled and left. Thus, the department wouldn’t have to bear the expense of having a matron in the room while Mrs. Horrigan was being questioned.

Billy Martin told McGarr that yes, before McGarr had arrived at the yacht club, he had touched the winch handle.

“Whereabouts?”

“Two places, I believe. The handle itself, you know. And then, because it felt so slimy what with his brains on it and all, I lifted it up by the base to get a better look.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that at the scene?”

“You never asked, for one. For another, you seemed so concerned that I not touch it, I figured that as long as we was drinking together, I’d not destroy the moment with such an admission. I should have known better. How’s it coming, sorr? Do you still think it wasn’t an accident?”

“Did you see a woman around the boat at all Friday afternoon?”

“Like I said before, Inspector, I never saw a woman around that boat. But then, I’m not of
an age that I’m exactly looking for them, don’t you know. Recently, I’ve been poking around the boat, sort of tidying things up for the unfortunate man. Is that all right?”

“Yes.”

“And I’ve come across some fancy duds, the like of which a woman would wear, so I believe the man did dally with the creatures at one time.”

McGarr wondered why Martin hadn’t seen or wasn’t telling him he had seen Leona Horrigan on the dock that afternoon. “How’s your eyesight, Billy?”

“Not bad at all, at all.”

“Ovens had your tools, didn’t he, Billy?” McGarr had a report on his desk listing the contents in the garage that the sailor had used as his work shed. Most of the tools had “Mairtin,” the Gaelic spelling of the surname Martin, either burnt into the handles or engraved in the metal. Clare had implied that once the debt on
Virelay
had been paid off, Ovens did no more work on the furniture he had been making in the shed. That meant Martin had known Ovens well enough to lend him his tools before Ovens took
Virelay
to Killiney Bay Yacht Club. Also, the Dun Laoghaire barracks of the Garda had sent McGarr a memo stating Martin had tried three times to get into the garage over the weekend.

“Again, sorr, you never asked. I tried to be
as helpful as I could, remember? I’m not a cop. So much more the shame.”

That was exactly the phrase Megan had used, but it was not unusual among older people.

“Well, I am. How long had you known Bobby Ovens before he put in at the club?”

“Certainly, sir, you don’t suspect me? About six months. We’re both boating people, don’t you know. We both like a jar or two from time to time. It was only natural that I ran into him.”

“Was
—is
Horace Hubbard in love with Leona Horrigan?”

“Who?”

“The minister for justice’s wife, Leona Horrigan. Surely you know her. She’s a member of the club, has at least two boats moored there.”

“I don’t think a blimp like him would stand a chance with a well-placed and luvelly lady like her.”

“Did Bobby Ovens owe you money?”

“Me?” Martin began to laugh.

“Do you now or have you ever belonged to the IRA or any of its affiliate organizations?”

“No. I once belonged to the IRB, way back when I was in my teens. But I joined the Fianna Fail early on and resigned the Brotherhood when Dev. sidestepped the Oath to the Crown and took his seat in the Dail. Dev. was the man for me, always.”

“I can check on that.”

“Do. How’s the poor blighter coming along anyhow?”

“The hospital lists him as dead. I’m waiting for a report from the pathologist now.”

“Ah, God.” And then without so much as a pause, he added, “Since you know my habits, stop around for a pint after work, sir.”

“Perhaps one of these days, Billy. Answer me a final question—why didn’t you tell me about the siren going off right after Ovens fell into the water?”

“Sure and I’ve worked at the club for years, Inspector, and the bloody thing goes off so often I don’t hear it much anymore. But now that you mention it, it did go off. I must have forgotten about it. A crippled chap up on the hill runs it. His name is Moran. He’s a club member too. He’s got a pair of Jap binos through which, some claim, he can see London.”

Noreen arrived with their supper and Hughie Ward, who had nipped out for a tête-à-tête with Sheila Byrne, had returned in time to ask Leona Horrigan if she would dine with them in the day room.

McGarr called Horrigan in Naas, then at the Shelbourne, and finally reached him at his office in the Department of Justice. He told him about his wife’s detention. The minister seemed pleased that McGarr had moved so fast. He claimed to know nothing of Hubbard,
and even the name was unfamiliar to him. “Is he her latest?”

“I don’t know.” Leona Horrigan’s social life was none of McGarr’s business.

“Are you going to make a charge against her? Shall I contact a solicitor?”

“I won’t press anything without contacting you first. I’m not sure of anything. They both ran, however.”

“Please keep me informed, Peter. Your assistant, Superintendent O’Shaughnessy, would like to have a word with you.”

“Would you have him call me in a half hour? I’m just about to eat.” McGarr preferred to speak to O’Shaughnessy beyond Horrigan’s hearing.

Before he could walk out to the day room, where Noreen had set the center table, the laboratory called. Al McAndrew, the chief chemist, had found blood spatters of the same type as Ovens’ on the shoes McGarr had lifted from Leona Horrigan’s closet. The spots were about three days old.

Ward returned from the detention block to say that Mrs. Horrigan had already eaten with the other prisoners and wasn’t hungry. McGarr sat and, as he ate, began leafing through the dossier Ward had compiled about Horace C. K. Hubbard.

He had graduated from St. Columba’s College, a secondary school in Rathfarnum, and then Trinity College, Dublin, where he had
read philosophy under Dr. Luce and had received first-class honors. In his final year he had published the paper “Berkelian Elements in the Epistemology of Gustave Flaubert,” which had been widely acclaimed. Twelve years later he was still listed as a research student at Trinity.

The pilaf was a delicate mélange of wild, brown, and Italian long-grain white rices baked in chicken broth and white wine. One of Noreen’s specialties was a chutney—her grandfather served forty-seven years with the Grenadier Guards in India—the sweet and pungent spices of which made McGarr’s nose sweat. This was a sure sign the food pleased him. Dublin Bay prawns in a mild curry sauce was one of his favorite dishes.

The phone rang. Ward got up to answer it.

Hubbard, as he had said, did live on Fitzwilliam Square, but no thanks to his own efforts in the world. The house had been left him by his maternal grandmother, whose husband’s name had been Farrington-Smythe. The taxes had been in arrears, and the bailiff had nearly auctioned the premises when Hubbard came up with a check covering what was due as well as the current year’s assessments.

That windfall dated from the time during which he was “reading” at the British Museum for his Ph.D. thesis, which he was calling “The Decline of Metaphysical Language in the Seventeenth Century.” His new tutor, Mr.
J. P. G. Gomes, believed Hubbard to be brilliant and predicted his thesis, which Macmillan planned to issue in the spring of 1976, would be an intellectual event of no slight significance. Gomes opined that the man’s politics had a Marxist orientation, “as is often the case with people who have inherited their money.” The British Army had cashiered Hubbard for being a homosexual.

That stopped McGarr.

Ward entered the room. O’Shaughnessy was on the line.

“It looks like Carleton Driver is our man. Didn’t show up at work Friday morning, which isn’t unusual when he’s on the booze, but he never put in an appearance at McDaid’s all Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and today, which is something of a record around here. No work today either.” McGarr could barely hear him above the din in the barroom. “Sinclair’s running him down right now. Brian Coffey poked around Neila Monahan’s place. The old girl hits the sack around eight and reads. An even older crone saw her in bed at fifteen-minute intervals right up until twelve-forty-five when the light went out. Shall I notify the Vice Squad?”

“Where are you headed now?”

“Home to bed.”

“Could you stay there for a bit? Have a jar or two. Hughie will be by with a writ to search Hubbard’s house in Fitzwilliam Square. I want
you to look for any evidence connecting him with a group that might want to lay hands on the papers. Also, keep an eye out for anything that might involve him in the Ovens affair—love letters, correspondence, personal stuff. I’m reading a report that says he’s queer, so don’t look just for female stuff.”

“Is Ovens a fairy too?”

“Never thought of that.”

“What’s happening there?”

“We collared Horrigan’s wife. She had Ovens’ blood on a pair of shoes.”

“This Driver fellow was often seen with a tall, handsome woman who picked up his tabs. She didn’t call herself Horrigan, though. Will you be there all night?”

“Think so. Anything else?”

“She could and usually did drink him under the table.”

McGarr hung up, dialed the Customs night superintendent, and rescinded Billy Martin’s travel privileges. He then called young Dr. O’Higgins and told him what he wanted. The physician objected but McGarr assured him Ward would use an ambulance and a certified police surgeon. McGarr handed Ward the writ O’Shaughnessy needed and asked him to drop it off on the way to the hospital.

McGarr swiveled in his chair and looked outside. The sky was black and a chill north wind quivered the glass shields of the street lamps.

Gerald, the gate guard, knocked on the door and then placed a brown bag filled with Harp lager bottles on the table. Noreen judiciously lowered it to the shadows beneath the table. Leona Horrigan was a felony suspect, but she was also the wife of the minister for justice.

McGarr began eating his dinner once more.

Hubbard had been engaged to be married once, but because of the discharge from the British Army, the girl’s father broke off the engagement. Hubbard was fond of Irish wolfhounds, skeet shooting, and yachts of the size he could not afford without taking a job in the glass works his mother’s side of the family ran out in Bray. Her brother—his uncle—had offered him a position on several occasions, and then, despairing, had disinherited Hubbard and offered company stock for public sale. Now Bord Failte owned a controlling interest in the business.

While McGarr was opening a bottle of beer to complete his repast, Bernie McKeon burst into the room flapping a large piece of photographic paper. He slapped it on the table. “Don’t touch. Don’t anybody touch that work of art, it’s still wet. In police circles you could call it a Rembrandt or at least a Reynolds.” McKeon was a small, muscular man with fair hair. Like most gentle men who join the police, his manner was self-consciously gruff. “And what have
you
been doing with yourself today,
Chief Inspector of Detectives?” He was eyeing McGarr’s bottle of lager.

“A little of this, a little of that,” said McGarr, baiting him.

“And not without all the comforts of home!” McKeon lifted the lid of the chafing dish. There was still plenty left.

Noreen spooned some rice onto a plate and then added the prawns.

Said McGarr, “Let’s see what you’ve got here, McKeon. Perhaps it might deserve a beer.”

It was a blowup of the dock area of the Killiney Bay Yacht Club. Both Martin and Hubbard could be seen leading a woman away from
Virelay
. Although the enlargement was quite grainy, she had twisted her head back to the boat, as though looking over her shoulder. Her mouth was open in anguish. Ovens was still lying on the deck, dark splotches on the sail where his head rested. This meant that in two separate actions somebody had clubbed him and then, later, dumped him into the slip.

“Well?” McKeon demanded, hands on hips.

“Give him a beer,” McGarr said. “But only one. He’s an inside man and I doubt he could handle more.”

“Hand me that bag, sonny!” McKeon demanded. He was two years older than McGarr.

After Bernie had eaten and Noreen had cleared the day-room table, a policewoman led Leona Horrigan into the room.

“Tea?” Noreen asked her.

She shook her head. Her eyes were worried.

“As you can see, we’re also drinking beer. Does that bother you, Mrs. Horrigan?” McGarr asked.

She shook her head once more.

In a corner of the room, McKeon was sitting in one chair with his feet on another, a fat, green cigar clenched between his teeth, the beers lined up in rows not quite a reach from him. Noreen was seated at one end of the table. McGarr directed the Horrigan woman to the seat at the farther end.

McGarr noted that Leona Horrigan was the sort of beauty Irishmen think of as particularly ethnic when away from home. Her hair was so black and fine it hardly resembled hair at all, but rather tousled black down. Her skin was very white and eyes green. And she was a big woman in every way. “Does my husband know?” she asked. In the direct light from above her head, her prominent cheekbones shadowed her face.

McGarr nodded. “He knows you stole the Bombing Report.”

She looked up at him. She blinked. For all McGarr could tell, she didn’t know a thing about it. The words did not seem to register.

“You know—the little girl who had her leg
blown off but she couldn’t feel it was missing because her hand was gone too. The grandmother eleven times over—they buried what they could find of her. The Bombing Report!” McGarr almost yelled. “The one that covers for your friends you spent forty-seven thousand pounds on last year. The one that’s going to hound the husband you hate right out of office!”