The Death of an Irish Tinker (12 page)

Biddy tried to smile. “I’m fine, really. Grand.” She took the bag from the woman.

“Are you sure? Your face, now—it’s all blood and dirt. Whatever happened to you?”

Opening the bag, Biddy tried to turn her body away, but the woman saw the gun. “Oh, my! Oh!” She turned and fled toward her open garden gate. “I don’t know what went on here. But I’m ringing up the guards this instant. They’ll sort it out, I’m sure.”

Unsteady now, staggering a bit, Biddy made her way toward the end of the laneway, her skinned scalp, face, and shoulder now paining her bad. If nothing else, she’d learned two things: She could get lucky, and the Toddler was not invincible. He made mistakes.

Maybe he was slipping. Maybe she could get him out of their lives the right way, the way that would matter to her most and pay the bastard back for Mickalou and all the others.

NEXT MORNING PETER McGarr bumped through the swinging door of the Murder Squad office and made straight for his cubicle.

Twelve years had changed him little. Although short by the measure of younger generations at five feet ten and a half, McGarr still looked somewhat youthful. The hair that could be seen under a stylish trilby was brilliant orange and curly, and his eyes were clear and gray.

All that was different, really, were his posture, which was a bit stooped now, and his gait, which had become more distinct. Called the Dublin trudge by his wife, McGarr’s way of perambulating was distinctive. With hands plunged in his trouser pockets and hat still on his head, he traversed the office leaning forward. His steps were quick, seemingly purposeful, but also a bit harried, as though “carrying the weight of an improbable universe” on his shoulders. Her quote.

Which assessment was accurate at least this morning. McGarr’s “form” was in no way good. Not more than a half hour earlier he had read an editorial in one of the morning papers that had made him angry. It contended that
whereas Ireland could boast of one of the lowest per capita murder rates in Europe—lower, in fact, than Japan and Singapore, which were considered two of the safest countries in the world—the country’s conviction rate was deplorable. Significantly below those two countries.

Granted, it was nitpicking at its worst, but the editorial went on to call for an inquiry into “Garda investigation priorities, techniques, and relevant personnel.” Only in passing were government barristers mentioned, as though winning or losing in court depended solely on Garda evidence and not on the capabilities of prosecutors.

Nor was any mention made of the fact that a significant portion of Ireland’s murders were political in nature and not pursued for political reasons. Or that those murders were generally not assigned to McGarr’s squad or were taken away from him the moment progress was made.

Drug-related murders were another area that many politicians and even some of the police wished to play down. Probably a decade ago McGarr had heard a high-ranking guard say, “Why make an issue of them? Let the scuts kill each other off. And fair play to them.”

Hands still in pockets, hat still on head, McGarr sat at his desk, beside which Detective Superintendent Hugh Ward was now sitting. He had replaced Liam O’Shaughnessy, who had long since retired.

With arms spread, Ward was reading a newspaper. “Gobshites, shooting from the lip,” he said. “It’s easy. A few pints of courage and a word processor. He’s probably all the chat among his own kind. But safe, knowing we can’t respond.” Since it was Garda policy not to.

And they—the others in the journalist’s
profession,
such as it was—would know that, McGarr told himself. But not the general public. Nor McGarr’s superiors, who hated criticism of any sort. Nor his wife or young daughter and their relatives, who would take it personally. McGarr was in a foul mood.

A gracefully shaped hand now appeared in front of him, setting a large cup of steaming coffee on the blotter beside the sheaf of papers. Fully a detective inspector now, Ruth Bresnahan was no longer the least senior staffer, but she nevertheless performed the coffee duty whenever it required instant attention. Straightening up, she glanced at Ward, who looked away noncommittally. McGarr, however, had not moved, and she decided to chance it.

Bending, she opened the lower left drawer of McGarr’s desk and removed a bottle of Hogan’s Own. It was a single-pot-stilled malt whiskey that had been aged in sherry casks to impart a ruby color and a sweet-smoky bouquet. Although no longer produced, cases had been acquired by regulars, like McGarr, when Hogan’s changed hands some years ago. He took a drop now and then, but only with cause.

Pulling out the cork, Bresnahan lowered the neck toward McGarr’s cup and waited. When there was no objection from the seated, hatted, hands-in-trouser-pocketed one, she splashed in a dollop and waited again. With still no objection, she added some more. Finally she simply topped up the cup, then corked and replaced the bottle.

Leaving the cubicle, she heard the newspaper rustle, as Ward lowered it to watch her go out the door. There she paused and turned to him, knowing that the straps of her “braced” slacks were riding provocatively along the sides of her full breasts. These last were encased in a ribbed cotton spandex bodysuit. Having brushed her auburn hair off her forehead, she had arranged the natural waves to flow over her shoulders. Her eyes were smoky gray.

And his? Adoring, worshipful, conquered. Which was enough corroboration for the moment. She moved back toward her desk, fully believing she had heard a sigh, although they had parted intimate company only a few hours earlier. The man simply could not get enough of her, that much was plain.

Holding the cup in both hands, McGarr breathed in the evaporating malt before taking a wee sip. The cup would
last him until noon. And should. Details and alcohol did not mix, but a “Hogan’s coffee” could certainly improve an ugly mood.

Taking a second touch that seeped down his throat like a soothing balm, he began reading through the stack of police activity reports that had come in overnight. It was a ritual that he had performed every working day for the last nearly thirty years. And perhaps because of the editorial, one item on the second page jumped out at him.

It was the report of a gunshot wound. The name of the victim? Desmond Bacon. And there could be no doubt it was
their
Desmond Bacon who had virtually disappeared for years and was only rumored still to be involved in his former illegal activity.

In the margin Bresnahan had written:

The time that Bacon had been admitted to hospital was circled in red pencil: 5:37
P.M
.

McGarr set down the cup and followed Bresnahan’s advice since she daily perused all police reports countrywide for items relevant to open cases. And she possessed a good memory and better analytical skills.

Page 17 said a woman had phoned in a complaint about what she first thought was a road accident in Raglan Lane but subsequently believed were also gunshots. After hearing
the noises, she observed her neighbor—one Beth Waters of Raglan Road—with “a great shiny pistol.” Waters placed it in her purse and walked toward the Pembroke Road.

McGarr glanced up from the activity sheet. Beth Waters: He’d heard that name before or read it. But where? He glanced back down.

A police patrol had been dispatched to Raglan Lane and discovered evidence of an automobile having struck walls on both sides of the lane. A side mirror from the car was later found that appeared to have come from the left passenger side of Desmond Bacon’s Rover, as did paint chips taken from the wall. The time of the woman’s phone call was 5:25
P.M
. It too was circled in red.

McGarr turned to page 11. The item marked there said that acting on a tip, Chief Superintendent Paul Hannigan and his Drug Squad had raided number 12 Raglan Road, a residence owned by the same Beth Waters, and discovered a sizable cache of heroin, cocaine, and tablets of MDMA, the drug known on the street as Ecstasy.

Hannigan took two inhabitants into custody: Tag Barry, twenty-nine, originally of Belfast, and Cheri Cooke, sixty-one, who gave a permanent address in Reigate, Surrey. There was no mention of their having been arraigned, so they would still be in custody, McGarr supposed. The house itself had been sequestered.

Hannigan also issued an all-points alert for the owner, Beth Waters, who might also be a British subject. She was described as being in her early to mid-thirties, nearly six feet in height, of full build, with short brown hair and brown eyes.

“This much made
The Times,
” Bresnahan had written in the margin. It was a paper that McGarr read mostly at night after supper.

The next sentence was circled in red and caused McGarr to remove his hat: “She also goes under the name Biddy Nevins and is known to associate with members of the Traveling community. She is armed and dangerous. If appre
hended, she is to be remanded to Dublin, as per order of Chief Superintendent Hannigan.”

The time of the raid on the Raglan Road house was also ringed in red 5:30
P.M
.

“Now turn back to page 1 and read the 13th entry,” Bresnahan advised in the margin.

It said that at 4:46
P.M
. CS Hannigan issued an order that a four-door teal-colored 500 SL Mercedes-Benz sedan be followed, until a unit under his command could take over the surveillance. It was headed south on the Merrion Road. “The car is registered to Beth Waters,” Bresnahan noted, “who is a rather well-known British artist now resident in Dublin. Yesterday was her first Irish opening.”

That was where McGarr had seen the name: in the shop a few doors down from his wife’s picture gallery in Dawson Street. McGarr reached for the phone.

“Our Toddler? Our Biddy Nevins?” Ward asked without looking away from his newspaper. “Together again.”

McGarr consulted the phone listing taped to the writing slide of the desk, then dialed Hannigan’s number. “Paul—Peter McGarr here.” After pleasantries were exchanged, he asked, “The Raglan Road raid? Who gave you the tip?”

There was a pause before Hannigan said, “Er, why do you ask, Peter?”

Which McGarr found interesting of itself, one chief superintendent to another. He waited, and when no other answer was forthcoming, he went on. “Did you see the other report? The one that says Desmond Bacon, the Toddler, was shot in the laneway in back of the Raglan house just before you arrived there. Later a householder reported seeing Beth Waters with a handgun?”

“Janie, you don’t say. The Toddler? And there we’d been hoping he’d dropped off the face o’ the airth.”

Hannigan was from Cork. Or Mars, thought McGarr, although he’d long ceased speculating on who got promoted to senior Garda positions and why. Even he, who handled homicides, knew that the Toddler was still active in the more
concealed aspects of the drug trade—as financier and importer, having sold off his holdings in Coolock and removed himself to an estate near Hacketstown. He worked seldom, it was said, and in volume only.

“’Twas an informant, Peter, to tell you the truth. But keep that to yehrself.”

Dead easy without a name. In his mind’s eye McGarr pictured Hannigan: a large, gruff middle-aged man with a shock of steely hair, a lantern jaw, and jowls the color of iron filings. It was said he’d been a hurling standout in his youth. Or was it Gaelic football?

Now Hannigan had a great protrusive belly that he made a show of at CSA (Chief Superintendents’ Association) banquets, patting it, while saying, “Ann-y day now. Anny-y day.” Or, “Beep, beep, here come da fudge.” Or, “The missus won’t do the Lamaze with me. She’s afraid me water might break, and she don’t swim a stroke.”

“Was it the same informer who put you on to the Mercedes on the Merrion Road?”

“Well…now that you mention it, we’ve had the woman in our sights for quite a while now, and when I heard she was about to scoot, why, I gave the order to move in. You know, man, woman, and a young one all pilin’ into the car and lashin’ off just when we were about to lift her. Why, I thought she’d been tipped, and I had to do somethin’.”

“Did you get her?”

There was another pause. “Get who?”

Christ, was he speaking Swahili, or was the man simply an eejit? “Beth Waters.”

“Nah. Jaysis, I tell yeh, the lads they’re just not up to it at all these days. Not like when we come in. Lost her, the car, whatever packet she had on her somewhere around Greystones. Said, once on the dual carriageway, she put on a great burst of speed and was gone. Car like that bein’ as quick as a cat.”

McGarr leafed through the activity sheets, noting that if the car left the Raglan Road house at 4:46 and was followed
as far as Greystones, some twenty miles south of Dublin, Beth Waters (or Biddy Nevins) could not possibly have been seen in Raglan Lane sometime before 5:25, when the neighbor phoned in about the gun. Or she was not in the car.

“What about the Biddy Nevins alias? Where’d you get that?”

“Er, the others. The suspects. The ones we lifted from the house.”

McGarr read the names. “Tag Barry and Cheri Cooke.”

“That’s them exactly.”

“In statement form? Signed?”

It was as if there were a screening delay on the line with all Hannigan’s dead air. “Presently. We’re about it now.”

“You’ll send me copies.”

“I will, sir. As soon as we’ve got them transcribed.”

“What do you make of the Toddler being there, just as you were raiding the house?”

“Well…years ago now, when he was circulatin’, he was a scourge, so. But a capable scourge, if you know what I mean. Beat us at every turn. And clean as an effin’ whistle. There was nothin’ we could do to put him away. Nothin’.

“Now…what gives between him and this Waters woman, I have no idea, and to be frank, I could not care less. Let the bloody scuts kill each other off, says I. The more, the merrier. I only wish her aim had been better. If it was her, and not some shower of…ambitious louts. Can I tell you something, Peter?”

McGarr grunted; it was Hannigan he had heard all those years ago.

“In the drug line there’s only one motive: greed. It rules one and all.”

“Thank you, Paul.”

“Ann-y time, Peter. I’m here for yeh, lad!”

McGarr rang off, waited a moment, and dialed his wife’s picture gallery, which answered, as usual, after an eternity of ringing. “You were?”

“Up the street.”

“At Malachi Jordan’s gallery.”