Death in Dublin - Peter McGarr 16 (9 page)

Kara nodded; it was one of the few early histories of Ireland.

“Describing the book as ‘the most precious object in the Western world,’ it said that for ‘two months and twenty days’ the four Gospels went missing until found in Donegal, ‘covered by a sod.’ ”

“Was it damaged?”

“That’s not known. But over the years it’s suffered some damage. Yet for all its antiquity, the manuscript is in rather splendid shape.” Her brow glowered. “Or at least
wa
s
.”

She raised her glass and drank.

If only to keep her talking, McGarr asked, “I thought the Book of Kells was a Bible with gospels and the like.”

“It is, surely. But the Latin text, as copied from St. Jerome’s Vulgate translation, is rife with errors—mi
s
spellings, missing words, solecisms—as though the words are inessential.

“But not the illustrations, on which great care and artistic attention was lavished. That’s because it was not meant to be read. Rather, it served an evangelical purpose.”

McGarr took note of the way she gestured with her left hand, as though chopping off little wedges of i
n
formation while speaking.

“Many of the early evangelists carried with them beautiful, supposedly holy objects to wow the pagans. Bede reports in the
Historia ecclesiastica
that when Augustine arrived in England to preach the gospel in 597, he came bearing ‘a silver cross and an image of our Lord and Savior painted on a panel.’ He raised it on high for King Aethelberht to see.

“Later, Pope Gregory advised the clergy that i
m
ages were aids to understanding the sacred text, sa
y
ing that pictorial representations provided a living reading of the Lord’s story for those who cannot read.”

Again catching the barman’s eye, McGarr pointed to their glasses, requesting another round.

“And the more richly embellished with gold and other colorful and precious materials the better. Books like Kells were meant to impress and be viewed and admired by communicants in processions during holy days and as part of the Mass. You know, almost like a
n
other form of altar furniture.”

“But what about the—is it?—iconography of the thing?” McGarr asked. “The Christian images are plainly there, but many others look like particularly Irish designs. And the intricacy, the interweaving, the whole image-within-an-image-within-an-image bit is defi?nitely Irish. That’s there as well.”

“Oh, defi?nitely. The free association of ideas seems to have been not only acceptable among the monks who produced Kells but rather encouraged. Which r
e
sulted in the sheer sumptuousness of its multilayered images that were in play among other artists of the time, as seen in the stone and metalworking designs that have survived.”

“What about the animal shapes—lions, sheep, snakes, and so forth?”

She took another touch of wine and set the glass down. “Most refer to Christ, even the snake, which is an image of renewal. You know, the circularity of the snake swallowing its own tail?”

McGarr suspected he had heard something like that from Noreen.

“Zoomorphic forms also harken back to antiquity and Celtic and Pictish carvings. But what makes Kells special and more than simply another, albeit outstan
d
ing, illustrated manuscript is the tension that obtains between the Christian purpose of the book and the underlying motifs drawn from so many other non-Christian sources.

“It’s a curious mix, but one that was carried off with consummate panache. In spite of the eclecticism, there is not a moment of doubt or confusion. The entire work communicates surety and the power of belief. As G
i
raldus Cambrensis, the thirteenth-century chronicler, put it, ‘the work, not of men, but of angels.’ ”

A cigarette, McGarr thought. What he needed most now was a cigarette. But he didn’t know if she smoked, and he didn’t want to ask if he could, although plenty of others around them were smoking. “Any idea of its value?”

“As I mentioned this morning, inestimable.”

“But a money amount. I’m trying to get a handle on the size of the demand. What the thieves might poss
i
bly ask, when they do.”

She took another sip and turned to him, her jade eyes now a bit glassy. “It could be any fi?gure and every
fi?
gure. Millions, surely.”

“Ten, twenty?”

“Or more. It depends on what you’re willing to spend.”

Which was the question: Who would be willing to pay for the return of the books? The government, in the guise of Taoiseach Kehoe, could not be seen as selling out to thieves and murderers using public money of great magnitude without, of course, recovering the funds and catching them with the books intact.

Also, the government did not own the manuscripts. Trinity College did. And in spite of much governme
n
tal aid, the college was offi?cially a private entity which certainly could not afford a ransom in the amount that McGarr feared would be asked.

At the same time, allowing the books to be lost would be tantamount to political suicide for Kehoe. He would be known forever as the taoiseach who botched the Book of Kells Affair.

The only possible outcome that would keep Kehoe out of political trouble in offi?ce would be the safe r
e
turn of the books and the capture of the thieves along with the ransom.

Glancing up at the television screen at the end of the bar, where Jack Sheard was again pictured fi?elding questions during an earlier press conference, McGarr realized that in at least one way he’d been freed by not having been placed in charge of the investigation—he would not have to make himself available to the press. And he would not be held directly responsible if in some major way the investigation/recovery failed.

But it still galled that Sheard had been granted the preferment. Also, Sheard, being ambitious, would sequester for his own use entirely whatever unsolicited
information came in, yet he would expect McGarr to funnel any and all information to him without foot-dragging, McGarr suspected.

“Does that bother you?” Kara Kennedy asked. “That he’s been named lead investigator?”

McGarr drew in a breath and nodded slightly. “To be honest, it does. But obviously this theft takes prec
e
dence over the murder. And his brief is theft.”

“But don’t you outrank him?”

“No. But I am more senior.”

“Could that be why you’re out here tonight?”

Hunched over with his elbows on his knees, McGarr was still staring at the screen. Somehow, the whiskey he’d drunk had not done the trick, and he felt a bit bleak without knowing why. “Perhaps. But you could make a case for my being here most nights.”

“Since when? Since your wife died?”

Slowly, McGarr swung his eyes to her.

“I don’t mean to be cruel, but you’re at least as well known as he.” She pointed to the screen. “And it was in all the papers. I’m sorry. It only just occurred to me.” Her hand came out and touched the back of his.

The new drinks were ready, and McGarr rose to r
e
trieve them. Now he himself was on the television, booting—literally—the fi?nal cameraman out into the street.

“Gooo-ooooooh-aaaaaal!” crowed one of the ba
r
men, like Andres Cantor, the Argentinean football a
n
nouncer, and the men at the bar—many of whom knew McGarr personally—roared their approval.

“To put it in Latin,
Ars ejectic
a
,” said one.

“C’est bootiful,”
said another.

“Forget that—it’s a documented case of police
bootality,” put in a third before singing the Sinatra lyric “All the way—all the way!”

“The natives are restless,” said McGarr, picking up his change.

“You have only yourself to blame. They need no encouragement.”

Carrying the drinks back to the hearth with its fi?re, McGarr noted that voices hushed as he passed other tables.

From deeper within the room he heard, “Book of Kells...murdered a security guard...browned off entirely, did you see his eyes?...millions and mi
l
lions... spineless government fooks...they’ll feckin’ get away with it, you’ll see.”

Handing Kara Kennedy the fresh glass of wine, Mc-Garr attempted a smile.

“You’re a celebrity.”

“And doubtless the subject of a future lawsuit.”

“What would happen in that case? Would you have to provide your own defense, or would you be covered?”

McGarr nodded. “In the line of duty.” He had been sued more than a few times on frivolous grounds, only to see large sums awarded by a legal system that was notoriously arbitrary. “But enough about me. What about you? Are you married?”

Her eyes dropped to her glass. “Yes. I think I am. Or, at least, I was.” She then explained in halting tones that she had been married four years earlier to an oil broker who, fi?fteen months ago, was sent to Yemen by his fi?rm.

“Either he walked away from me, all his responsibi
l
ities, and his life, or something catastrophic happened to him over there. Nobody’s heard from him—not his fi?rm, his parents, nor I.”

When she raised her eyes, they were again bri
m
ming with tears. “Sorry, I’m just not in good form tonight. Not good company.”

“Nor am I, I’m afraid.”

“Ah, that’s nonsense. Haven’t you been good co
m
pany tonight? Haven’t you cheered me up?” She clinked her glass against his. “It’s the way to get out of a depression, I’m told—putting your own troubles aside and helping others.”

“My thoughts exactly,” said a deep male voice. “It’s why I’ve come.”

McGarr looked up. It was Chazz Sweeney hi
m
self—immense and in a powerful way formless—his nose beaked, his fl?eshy face pocked from some chil
d
hood malaise. He smiled slightly, and his bloodshot eyes surveyed them, looking sly and not a little bit predatory.

Charles Stewart Parnell Sweeney—his complete and sardonically apt name—was a man whom McGarr thought of as more dangerous than any violent crim
i
nal in the street.

Although only ever a Dail backbencher—and that time out of mind—Sweeney had once been said to vi
r
tually control the country through his contacts with the movers and shakers in commerce and industry.

Nominally the director of a private merchant bank, Sweeney had a small, drab offi?ce on the Dublin quays. But he was said to have been the bagman for an older group of politicians who had been exposed, publicly shamed, stripped of much of their known wealth, and even—a few of them—placed in jail several years ea
r
lier. But not Sweeney.

Not even when—two years ago, following the deaths of Noreen and Fitz—Sweeney was arraigned
and tried on a variety of charges including the murder of Enda Flatly, a Drug Squad detective.

A brace of the country’s best barristers, however, convinced a jury that McGarr and Ward were “conta
m
inated with hatred for him [Sweeney] because of his stalwart religious beliefs.” Sweeney was an adherent of Opus Dei, the ultraconservative Catholic religious sect.

McGarr himself had little history of church atte
n
dance, and Ward was shown to be “living in sin under one roof with not one but two common-law wives and children by both of those women.”

Sweeney’s weekly newspaper,
Ath Cliath,
became a daily during the three and a half weeks of the trial, with coverage of both the trial and continual exposés of Ward, Bresnahan, and Ward’s other “common-law wife,” Leah Sigal, whose Jewish background was r
e
ferred to often.

During what came to be known as the Barbastro A
f
fair, Sweeney was convicted only of possessing an ill
e
gal handgun. Sentenced to six months in prison commuted because of time served, he walked out of court the day of the decision.

The following Monday he sued the government for “a consistent pattern of police harassment” and was awarded 2.7 million pounds.

Yet for all his millions, Sweeney was wearing his signature wrinkled and soiled, if expensive, mac, a rumpled shirt, and a patterned red tie. His cordovan bluchers were in need of polish. There would be a navy blazer the size of a small sail beneath the mac.

“Yes?” McGarr asked.

“I’ve come for a wee chat. About the book.” He was sweating, in need of a shave, and his skin as always looked sickly and gray.

Turning to the bar, Sweeney raised a fi?nger and swirled it. There was a drink in his other hand.

“Which book?”

“Sure—is there any other at the moment?”