The Death of an Irish Lass Page 3

  “But where are you?”

  “Lahinch, County Clare.”

  Noreen had heard “Lynch.” She repeated it.

  “No, no. La-hinch.” McGarr spelled it out.

  She got it that time.

  They shouted their good-byes and rang off.

  When McGarr got back into the pub he found that Michael Daly had bought him another whiskey. Daly said, “How can she meet you in the regular place when she didn’t recognize the name?”

  McGarr raised his glass, over the lip of which he said, “You didn’t tell me you were a detective.”

  “Nor did you, though I’m not.”

  McGarr had underestimated the farmer.

  “What did you say your last name is?”

  The bartender and several patrons nearby had pricked up their ears.

  “McGarr.”

  Daly nodded, then glanced at the others. “Peter McGarr,” he said in a loud voice, as though he had announced a race winner.

  Talk had quieted considerably in the pub now. McGarr was well known to most of his countrymen, the reputation he had developed while working for Interpol and, earlier, Criminal Justice in Paris having preceded him to Ireland. Since assuming the post of Chief Inspector of Detectives with the Garda Soichana, McGarr had hardly passed a week without his picture being in at least one of the national newspapers or on the telly.

  Now that they knew who he was, McGarr decided he’d pursue the business at hand. “Who else drinks Canadian Club?” he asked the bartender.

  He didn’t even have to look around. “You’re the only man, and I’ll advise you to go slow on it, for that’s the only bottle I got.”

  There was hardly a drink left in it.

  “That’s because a short, fat man dressed in a tan cashmere overcoat and blue suit put a dent in it last night,” said McGarr.

  The bartender raised an eyebrow.

  Somebody at the other end of the now quiet bar said, “I told you that fellow was a bit of a chancer.”

  McGarr had lucked out. The men who were here this morning were sure to have been present last night. That the pub was like a social club for them McGarr didn’t doubt.

  Said Michael Daly, “That’s not all that he put a dent in, neither. Jasus, he nearly run me down last night, and I noticed he had hit something with that beautiful new car of his. It was a darling machine, so it was.”

  “A Jaguar XJ12L, cream in color.”

  “The very same,” said Daly. “But he’d bashed the back fender all to blazes.”

  The pub was so quiet now McGarr could hear water dripping from a tap onto sheet metal in back of the bar. “Are you sure?”

  “It makes it the more tragic having that happen to a big white machine with such lovely lines. That’s the sort of car on which a small scratch stands out like a mortal sin. But a folded fender! It makes you want to curse the owner.”

  “And he was a man you could curse, too,” said another man. When everybody turned to him, he added, “Flashy and bloated. Had a way of speaking that put me in mind of the bawl of an ass.”

  “How many drinks did he have?”

  “Three quick ones,” said the bartender. “He was half seas over as it was. And he tried to con a fourth out of me as well. And him with that coat and car and all. I told him his trade wasn’t wanted, and if he hadn’t been so quick with his glass I would have taken that from him too.”

  The men in the barroom agreed with him. The flashy Dublin fellow had been pretty much of a bad type. They then quieted again and waited for McGarr to ask the next question.

  “Was he alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “And in the car, too,” Daly added. “I only saw one head. His. Sort of neckless and piggy, if you know what I mean.”

  “He didn’t happen to buy a full bottle of Canadian Club from you before he left, did he now?”

  “He did not!” The bartender straightened up and smoothed down his white apron that was stained from heading pints of stout.

  “Could he have bought a bottle of Canadian Club in some other public house in Lahinch?”

  “Indeed he might have. But not here.”

  “Could he have stopped at another pub on his way out of Lahinch?”

  “No, sir. This is the last stop in Lahinch.”

  Daly added, “And he didn’t, anyhow. I saw him stagger to the Jaguar, fumble around with the keys, and after a couple of minutes he roared away. The way he shifted that luvely machine was enough to make you cringe. Like he was grinding coffee.”

  McGarr thought for a moment, taking a sip from his glass. He was getting a little tight, which—he checked his wristwatch, 11:45—did not augur well for the rest of a day that undoubtedly would be filled with many details. “Does May Quirk come in here?”

  The men looked at each other. “Do you mean John Quirk’s young daughter? Is that what all the police business is about?” asked a man sitting on a bench along a wall. He set his glass on the table and stood. “I saw Dan O’Malley go out early this morning. She’s my niece, she is.”

  McGarr was still looking at the bartender, who asked in a low voice, “What’s this all about?”

  “Does May Quirk come in here?” he asked again, this time staring the man straight in the eye. He had always believed that the only real advantage he had over other policemen was that people always seemed willing to talk to him. For a long time McGarr had thought this was because he looked harmless and gentle, but his wife, Noreen, had told him it was his eyes. When he stared at somebody, she had said, he looked as though he could see right into them and knew their secret thoughts. His eyes were the palest of gray and unblinking.

  The bartender looked away and arranged a few of the glasses that were drying below the bar. “Yes,” he said with a sigh. “She’s been popping in here regular since she’s returned, and, I might add, all over town too. There’s not a licensed premises in the area that she hasn’t been in and out of at least once a night.” And before May Quirk’s uncle could object, he turned to him and said, “Well—it’s true, Billy. You know so yourself.”

  “Is she a drinker?” McGarr asked, restraining his own urge to sip from the whiskey glass.

  “Not a bit of it!” roared the old man, her uncle. “Just like her mother and father, she is. Oh—she’ll buy herself a drink, just to please certain parties.” He meant the publican, McGarr supposed. “But she never drinks it, does she now? And you never cry seeing her come through the door, do you, Edward? Not a bit of it! She’s always got half a dozen thirsty friends trailing in her wake. And who buys every time? May—that’s who.”

  “Ah, g’wan wid you,” said another man. “She’s an American now and probably makes more in a month than we do in a year.”

  “I’ll not have her dragged down in the muck by the likes of you ungrateful bowsies!” the old man roared.

  McGarr asked Daly, “What is she like?”

  Daly tilted his head slightly and said over the lip of his nearly empty pint, “Ah—May’s a great one for a laugh. And she’s got jokes. A codder, she is. She could wheedle a song from a stone, or make any man in this room blush and run.”

  McGarr pulled out his wallet and placed a ten-pound note on the bar. He then gestured his hand in a way that meant he intended to buy everybody a drink. He put his hand over his own glass, though, and said, “But not me, please.”

  Another man said, “And a finer pair of legs I’ve never seen in Lahinch!” He was an old gaffer with a stain of tobacco juice running into his white chin bristles. He then cackled a bit and clapped up his toothless jaw. He rocked back and forth in his seat and studiously avoided May Quirk’s uncle’s eyes.

  “That’s not all that’s fine on her, neither,” Daly whispered to McGarr.

  “You fancy her, do you?”

  Daly was a bit tight himself. He leaned close to McGarr and said in a rush, “God, I’d cut off my—” he paused, “—toes, if she’d have me just for a night. A woman like that…” His voice trailed o
ff and there was a faraway look in his eyes.

  “Have you approached her, I wonder?” asked McGarr.

  “Me?” Daly rocked back on his heels, his long chin upon his chest.

  “Why not? She sounds like a jolly girl to me. There’s no harm in trying.”

  Daly shook his head. “She’s jolly, all right, but there’s them that have tried. And I’ll say no more about that.” He glanced down the bar.

  “Hey, there!” May Quirk’s uncle roared. He began shuffling toward them with the aid of a cane. He was a tall, stout man with a red porous nose and blond hair that was turning white so that it looked dirty.

  “It’s none of your damn business,” said the bartender.

  “It’s not, is it?”

  “No. You’re not in this company.” He meant the group around McGarr at the bar.

  “May Quirk is my niece and I’ll not have you talking low about her in my presence.” He reached over Daly, grabbed McGarr by the shoulder, and spun him around. McGarr nearly fell off the stool and his drink sloshed against his chest, wetting his shirt and pants.

  “Christ!” said the publican, reaching for a bar rag.

  “What’s happened to May Quirk, little man?” the uncle roared. “And why are you asking all these questions? You’ll answer up fast or I’ll know why not!”

  Daly attempted to step between them, but the man shoved him out of the way like he was a bit of fluff. In spite of his years, he was still a strong man.

  McGarr looked up from his wet shirt and fixed the man with his gaze. He said, “You can best show your concern for May Quirk now by keeping your voice down and your hands to yourself. If you’ll wait for me outside, I’ll talk to you in private in a minute.”

  The old man blinked several times, then turned and shambled out the door.

  McGarr stepped off the stool.

  “Here, have your drink first, Inspector,” said the bartender, rushing to fill his glass.

  McGarr shook his head. “I can’t. Much as I’d like to. I’ve got a full day’s work ahead of me. What do I owe you?”

  The publican stepped away from the bar. “Not a thing,” he said in a louder voice. “The round is on me. It’s been our pleasure to have a drink with you.”

  “Please,” McGarr objected.

  “No.” He shook his head. “I insist. And I wish you luck with whatever you’re about, here in Lahinch.”

  Nobody was talking. They all sensed McGarr’s business was serious. What was more, McGarr guessed, it had been a month of Sundays since the publican had been so generous.

  He turned, shook hands with Michael Daly once again, and started for the door.

  “You forgot your note,” said the publican. He pointed to the bank note on the bar.

  “That’s for the next round,” McGarr said and waved going out the door.

  Outside, McGarr directed the old man into the shadows of a doorway and told him what had happened to May Quirk. He then advised him to do what he thought best, after Dan O’Malley had been to the Quirk house. He had to grab hold of the big man to keep him from falling. Old Quirk’s eyes gushed as though his tear ducts had burst, but he didn’t make a sound. McGarr took his arm and walked him slowly to his Cooper, where he eased him into the passenger seat.

  Climbing behind the wheel, McGarr called the Technical Bureau van on his police radio. When Chief Superintendent McAnulty came on, McGarr said, “Can you ascertain if that car really hit the wall alongside it, Tom?”

  “Already have and it did but it didn’t.” McAnulty’s voice was excited, like that of a child playing a particularly enjoyable game. “Although somebody has taken great pains to see that it looks that way. The stone, you see, is somewhat porous, and if the car had struck these particular pieces, some of its paint would have become lodged in them. Well, that’s happened, but all the stones that contain the paint don’t conform to all the striations on the body of the car.

  “And the rear fender has just a little more rust on the bared metal than the scratches along the side. None of it is visible to the naked eye, but it’s there, all right.

  “Now then, as for the scratches themselves. The ones that were made up here and recently—I’d say sometime last night—were put there by a sharp instrument, which had substances on it that we’re betting are dirt or earth or animal slurry.”

  “Like a pitchfork.”

  “You’re a smart man, Chief Inspector.”

  “Are you going to search below the cliffs?”

  “You can bet your bonnet we are. And I’ve got another little something for you. It’s not certain, but the doctor guesses she was pregnant.”

  Her uncle turned and looked at McGarr, wide-eyed. He then slowly rolled down the window and looked out.

  “Anything else?”

  “Just one thing. You’ll see a Wolsey parked near the greengrocer’s on a corner near the church. It’s black and kind of battered. My missus and the kids are in it. Can you tell her to go on without me? Tell her I’ll catch a lift later.”

  “How much later?” McGarr speculated that telling Tom McAnulty’s wife what he wished would be a trying experience. “I thought you were on holiday?”

  “Well—I am and I’m not. You know how it is, Peter. At least I’m away from my desk, amn’t I?”

  But McGarr knew how it would be, and it was. Mrs. McAnulty said, “You mean to tell me he’s had us waiting here in this heat for hours now and all along he had no intention of returning?”

  McGarr was leaning in the window of the car. Four little children in back were looking at him shyly. One little girl couldn’t keep from giggling. McGarr said, “I wouldn’t presume to know his intentions, Mary.”

  “Well then, where’s your wife?”

  McGarr had been afraid of this. Without McAnulty to abuse she was going to seize upon the man nearest at hand, but McGarr didn’t want to make McAnulty’s position with her worse than it was. “Dublin, of course.” That was a lie.

  “I suppose you’re as much of a demon for the job as his nibs.”

  McGarr reached back and tousled the little girl’s blond locks. “He’s a real professional, your Tom is. He doesn’t get half the credit he deserves. There’s not a man who could take his place.”

  She slid behind the wheel and started the car. “Perhaps not in the Technical Bureau,” she said. “Perhaps not there.” She roared away.

  McGarr drove May Quirk’s uncle to the Garda barracks, where he asked one of the officers to see the old man home and stay with him for a while. He was, McGarr had learned, a widower and without family.

  McGarr then strolled over to a cafe in the middle of Lahinch, where he tried to ignore the purported Veal Cordon Bleu on the menu, knowing that it would be in some major way a disappointment. Long ago McGarr had learned to avoid the pretensions of most Irish country restaurants, but the rest of the fare seemed to be only mixed grill, mutton, fried fish and chips, Irish boiled dinner, or round steak, and after debate he succumbed to the temptation.

  Sun poured in the window onto a spanking linen tablecloth and the open window of the dining room allowed him to hear the talk of the passersby on the sidewalk. After all the whiskey he had drunk, the tea was refreshing, which was the most that could be said for the meal. How the cook could have allowed such fine scallops of milk-fed veal to scorch amazed McGarr. It was such a moment that made McGarr regret his decision to quit the European continent and take his present job with the Garda. On the Continent McGarr had grown accustomed to thinking of each meal as an event to be anticipated with no little joy. When his expectations had been met in full, McGarr was suffused with a sense of well-being. Such a moment made him feel very fortunate to number among those of the species who were so elect as to share his time and place, in particular a choice table in whatever restaurant, inn, trattoria, cafe, bistro, or gasthaus that had pleased him.

  These other moments, however, plunged him into a funk.

  In such a mood, McGarr climbed into the Cooper, collected D
an O’Malley at the Garda barracks, and drove toward the Quirk farmhouse.

  THREE

  In the Irish Countryside

  THE QUIRK FARM lay along the road between Lahinch and Kishanny, up a winding, hilly road between tall earthen banks and hedgerows. McGarr had to slow at each turn to make sure the car didn’t slam into the side of a cow or clip through a flock of sheep. He waited twice while farmers waved their arms and directed their dogs after errant sheep. The farmers only smiled and tilted their heads to the side, a form of silent hello all over Ireland. Superintendent O’Malley, who was sitting beside McGarr, waved to them all.

  The Quirk property ran up the side of a steep hill. The garden by the road became in turn a potato patch, a pasture, rough forage, and finally, like much of the terrain in this part of Clare, a bald summit of rough gray rock. Near the top McGarr could see the odd white patch—sheep that had been left out to God and were collected twice a year for shearing, dipping, or sale. In all, the Quirks had little more than forty acres. Had they tried to farm it all, they could barely wrest subsistence from this poor land.

  Like many farm families, they had two houses. The smaller, its lime now fading back to mortar, was doubtless the house John Quirk had been born in. It was now used as a stable. The new house was, to McGarr’s way of thinking, one of the finest accomplishments of the Republic. For the last thirty years the government, through low-interest loans, subsidies, and direct grants, had been helping farmers build new houses with modern facilities. McGarr had visited other English-speaking countries in which no planning was evident in the selection of dwelling styles, and the tastes of the builders who had raised whole square miles of tight-packed oddities—some mere boxes with roofs, others grotesqueries conceived by addled brains—were suspect, to say the least. The new Irish farmhouse was no work of art, mind you, but it was pleasant to look at. The structure blended with the landscape and was built to last generations, if not centuries. Even the interior walls were either poured concrete or cinder block. The rooms were spacious and well lit by casement windows. Each house had at least a full bath and water closet. Most roofs were tiled. In short, the government had provided its people with a house any European peasant could be proud of.