Irish Secrets (3 page)

Enya gave a cynical laugh. "Claimed his boss sent him to a taxi firm over the border in Monaghan to collect them from another driver. The Belfast and Monaghan police kept close surveillance on both taxi firms without being able to pin anything on either, especially when the one in Monaghan closed down less than a week later."

"Which suggests that whoever's running this racket switches the route once a taxi firm is compromised."

"And now they're going through Roscommon instead of Monaghan? It's possible. Do we need to haul this Tom Wild in for questioning?"

Ryan hesitated. "If he
is
involved, he's probably small fry. On the other hand, he might not even know what's in the boxes Patrick Walsh is taking up to Roscommon. I'm more interested in where Walsh picks up his load. That could be what leads us to Mister Big."

"You may be right, because it's not a small operation. They're going for the expensive stuff, and somehow they're getting it across to England or Scotland. The latest info we've had is that last week the Manchester police recovered five of the twenty laptops stolen from the school in Skelleen at a shop in one of the suburbs. The week before, the Glasgow police raided an industrial unit and found some of the silverware from the Ballinstone burglary."

Ryan nodded. "At least they found the stuff before it was sold, but it only represents about five percent of what's gone missing from shops, schools, hotels, cars, etcetera, etcetera, since January, when we saw the upsurge of thefts and burglaries in this area."

"I'll lay bets the other ninety-five percent has also found its way to the UK or even further afield, and we still don't know who the local fence or fences are, or where the goods are being stored, or how the hell the stuff is getting from here to there."

"I'll see what I can find out about Patrick Walsh, and about the white transit van that brought him to the taxi office."

"Okay, but go carefully. If we scare them off, chances are they'll switch taxi firms again, and we'll be back to square one." Enya finished her mug of coffee and stood up. "And I don't need to tell you to stay focused, do I?"

"No, Chief." For an instant, Ryan's mind flitted to Kara Stewart, but he smiled. "No distractions this time."

"Good." As Enya reached the door, she turned. "I'll leave by the back door, as usual. I doubt anyone's following you – or me, but with undercover ops, you can't be too careful." Her eyebrows lowered. "You're not still dating Sinead Ellis, are you?"

"
Jaysus
, no. I've not seen her for nearly a year."

"She lost us the chance to arrest Michael McGuffin when she blew your cover."

"You don't need to remind me." He grimaced but raised one hand in acquiescence. "Sinead knew my real name, but I'm Ryan Brady for the duration of this investigation."

"Good. Keep in contact."

Ryan finished his sandwich and let the usual twenty minutes elapse after Enya's departure before he left the hotel. It was only one-thirty, which meant he had over two hours to waste until he drove to Eyre Square to pick up Kara. There was no point collecting his car yet from the parking garage, and he hesitated outside the front door as he weighed up how to spend the rest of the afternoon. Since he'd be driving later, he couldn't go for a pint in one of the pubs, so should he amble along the path by the River Corrib? Or wander across the bridge and down past Claddagh Harbour to the shore?

With a small shrug, he turned up Quay Street instead. Maybe he'd spot Kara in one of the narrow streets between here and Eyre Square. If she'd finished her shopping, they could set off back to Clifden earlier than they'd arranged.

He strolled past the pubs and cafés where people sat at tables outside with beer or coffee, and stopped for a while to listen to two street musicians, one with a fiddle, the other with a flute, playing
Danny Boy
. Appealing to the tourist trade, obviously.

All the time, his glance flickered around the pedestrian street, crowded as usual with tourists studying their guide books, women clutching paper shopping bags from the knitwear and fancy goods stores, students with backpacks, and others, like himself, wandering aimlessly.

Not that he was completely aimless. He wanted to meet Kara, even though his mind told him he was doing what he'd promised Enya he wouldn't do. Allowing himself to be distracted by a woman.

His thoughts drifted to the first time he saw her, one evening during his first week in Clifden, when he picked up the four women from Mist Na Mara Arts Centre who were going into town for a meal.

"And a few drinks," said the blonde one with a laugh. "Will you be able to pick us up at Murphy's about ten-thirty?"

"For sure." He gave them his card. "Call me when you need me."

As they scrambled out of his car, Kara – except he didn't know her name then and only found out the second time he drove them into town – looked back at him. "Thanks so much," she said, and went on, "I love your accent."

"Are you American?"

Her wide smile sent a current of awareness along his veins. "I guess my accent gives me away, doesn't it? But I'm practising my Irish accent, don't you know?" she added, in a not very good imitation of Irish.

He laughed. "I think that might be more Cork than Connemara."

Her eyes lit up in amusement. "I'll keep practising!"

As he drove off, he tried to tell himself the spark of interest he'd experienced was a normal reaction to an attractive woman.

And she
was
attractive, with brown shoulder-length hair framing her face in casual waves, bright blue eyes, and alluring lips. Nice figure, too, with well-rounded breasts and a neat bum. In fact, everything that appealed to him.

He reached the bench on William Street that was flanked at each end by bronze statues of Oscar Wilde and another writer whose name he couldn't recall, and sat down. Resting his elbows on his thighs, he stared down at the grey pavement stones.

Stay focused
, Enya had said.

No distractions this time
, he'd told her.

He needed to knock this attraction to Kara on the head before he allowed her to get under his skin and divert his attention from the job he was being paid to do. After the fiasco with Sinead last June, he'd stayed well clear of women, and couldn't afford to succumb to temptation now.

He shifted his thoughts away from Kara to his suspicions. Of course, there could be an innocent explanation for Tom Wild's regular trips to Roscommon with Patrick Walsh, but all his instincts told him they were connected in some way with the thefts from the Connemara area. And his instincts were usually right.

After wandering back along the street, he glanced at his watch. Still too early to collect his car. Now he regretted his offer to pick Kara up at four. If he hadn't suggested it, he would be back home by now and forgetting all about her.

He headed past the hotel toward Claddagh, where the River Corrib flowed into Galway Bay, and leaned on the iron railing overlooking the harbour. Small boats bobbed on the water, swans glided around, and seabirds wheeled and dived, adding their raucous cries to the rumble of traffic heading over Wolfe Tone Bridge into the city centre.

A lone figure in a red jacket walking along the opposite side of the harbour caught his attention. Was that Kara? He screwed up his eyes, knew it was, and couldn't deny the buzz of anticipation that raced through him at the prospect of the return journey to Clifden with her.

Chapter 3

The elderly nun who opened the door of the Convent of the Sisters of Calvary didn't even smile as she snapped, "Good afternoon. Can I help you?"

Kara's heart sank. Judging by the severe expression on the nun's angular, lined face, she didn't hold out much hope of getting
any
help from her. Still, it was worth a try.

She mustered a friendly smile. "Hello. I'm Kara Stewart, and I'm interested in any information you may be able to give me about my mother who was born at the Ballykane Home for Mothers and Babies."

"Who told you to come here?"

"Erm – no one. I—" Taken aback by the nun's sharp question, Kara faltered before rushing into an explanation. "I've spoken to Sister Mary Teresa in the hospital, and she suggested I write to Sister Augusta, but I already did that and didn't receive a reply, so when I saw the sign pointing here to the convent, I hoped I may be able to speak to Sister Augusta in person."

"Sister Augusta doesn't receive visitors."

"But how can I find out anything more about my mother's birth when she didn't answer my letter?"

"If she didn't reply, it means she hasn't found any records relating to the name you gave her."

The nun, whose navy habit was the same as Sister Mary Teresa's and whose name badge showed her to be Sister Gabriel, started to close the door, but Kara persisted. "Sister, if your mother had been born at one of the mother and baby homes, wouldn't
you
want to know more about her, and about her mother, too? Especially if the child was taken away from the mother and sent to adoptive parents in America?"

Sister Gabriel remained stony-faced. "We have a duty to uphold our guarantee of confidentiality to the mothers, many of whom were in their teens when they committed the mortal sin of bearing a child out of wedlock. They were given the opportunity to put their unfortunate experience behind them, and any revelation now of their guilty secret may disrupt, even destroy, the lives they have made for themselves since then."

"I see. So even if Sister Augusta traced my mother's birth, she probably wouldn't reply to me, because she has to protect the unmarried mother. Is that what you're saying?"

"It is. Now, will that be all, Miss Stewart?"

"I guess so. Thank you for your time, Sister Gabriel."

The door closed, and she let out a dispirited grunt before retracing her steps to the hospital entrance, and crossing the road. As she strolled along the wide promenade, her mind ran through what the two nuns had said. Josie had been right about them not being prepared to reveal anything about the mothers or babies who had been in their care, so what could she do now? It seemed like she had hit a brick wall.

It was a longer walk than she'd anticipated along the coast road toward the city centre, but when she eventually reached the picturesque harbour at Claddagh, she stopped to take a photo of the colour-washed stone cottages on the far side of the water, and zoomed in for a picture of one of the swans rising up to flap its wings.

She headed for the bridge across the river, paused halfway to take another photo of the harbour, and jumped when a voice beside her said, "It looks much better when the tide's fully in, you know."

An electric thrill shot through her, but she turned with what she hoped was a casual smile. "Oh, hi, Ryan. I didn't expect to see you here."

"I could say the same. I thought you were shopping, not taking in the sights of Claddagh Harbour, pretty though it is. I expected to find you with a dozen or more bags looped over your arms, but you've bought nothing?"

"Not even any lunch. I was going to buy a sandwich or something before I met you in Eyre Square."

"I have a better idea. Come on."

"Where to?"

"My car's parked in a hotel garage on the far side of the bridge, and there's a good pub a few miles away with a deadly view of the bay."

"Deadly?"

He laughed. "That's our Irish slang for what you Americans might call awesome. And the pub does a great seafood chowder."

"Sounds good to me."

Something about his long legs striding beside her as they walked across the bridge caused her heart to perform a series of flippity-flops.

* * * * *

Thirty minutes later, they sat on the terrace outside Padraig's Bar and Restaurant, overlooking the rippling water of the wide bay and the gentle grey hills of County Clare on the far side.

Kara smiled. "You're right. This is a beautiful view."

"It's one of the best places to watch the sun go down on Galway Bay, like the song says."

"I love that song, and the
Cliffs of Dooneen
, too. Where's Dooneen?"

"Down in Kerry, but those cliffs aren't as dramatic as the Cliffs of Moher. Have you seen those?"

"Not yet. Guy, my cousin, and his wife were going to take me there last month, but it rained all day, so we didn't go."

Ryan laughed. "Aye, you need to get used to the rain here in the west of Ireland, and the wind, too, especially when the Atlantic gales blow in."

"But today is perfect. Blue sky and sunshine, and only a few small clouds over the hills. I think this is how we Americans always imagine Ireland. Hey, this is delicious," she added, as she took the first mouthful of the seafood chowder the server brought to their table.

"Told you it was good."

"I assume you had some lunch today, unlike me."

"Just a sandwich, but that'll keep me going until I get back home and finish off the Irish stew I made yesterday." When she grimaced, he went on, "You don't like Irish stew?"

"I've only had it once, and the meat was kind of tough and chewy."

"That's because it hadn't been cooked long enough. I let mine stew in a slow cooker for anything up to twenty-four hours."

"Do you always do your own cooking?"

"When I have time, yes. I enjoy experimenting with different recipes."

Kara stored this piece of information in her mind. Not that it proved he was single, of course. Mark used to cook for himself in his Manhattan apartment, although his cooking usually involved heating frozen meals in the microwave. She doubted he even knew what a slow cooker was.

"Anyhow," Ryan went on, "since you didn't do any shopping today, I'm assuming you were enjoying the sights of Galway. Did you find the Kennedy memorial?"

She realised she'd have to admit she didn't, and thought of making a vague excuse about wanting a walk along the promenade. After a few seconds' hesitation, she decided to tell him the truth, if only because it would be a relief to talk through some of the frustrating experiences of her day.

"I didn't go into the park," she said. "I caught the bus to Salthill. I was trying to find out more about my family history."

Ryan frowned. "In Salthill? I thought your family came from County Tipperary."

"I don't really know anything about the family. All I know is that my mom was born in Ballykane, and was adopted by my grandparents in 1960."

His eyebrows shot up. "Adopted?"

From his change of expression, she guessed the cogs in his mind had clicked into place, and went on, "Yes, she was born at the mother and baby home in Ballykane."

He nodded. "I believe hundreds, if not thousands, of babies were born there in the 50s and 60s."

"And many of them were adopted by American couples, but I couldn't get any information from the Sisters of Calvary." Briefly she told him about her encounters with the nuns, and ended with a small sigh. "Josie, the secretary at the Adoption Agency, warned me they probably wouldn't tell me anything. That's where I went this morning before I stepped out in front of your car, by the way."

"In that case, it's not surprising you looked the wrong way. Your mind was obviously on other things. What else did she tell you?"

"She agreed my mom was born at the home when I showed her the adoption certificate. It's dated about three weeks after her first birthday. It seems there was a law prohibiting the export of illegitimate babies under one, but the nuns sent them to America as soon as possible after that."

"Less mouths to feed."

Kara grunted. "It was all about money, wasn't it? Josie said it was illegal to charge fees for the adoptions, but the nuns could still solicit expenses or donations, and my grandfather – my mom's adoptive father – made donations for over fifty years." She finished her chowder, pushed the bowl to one side, and shook her head. "I don't know what to do next. It'll probably be months before one of the Agency case workers contacts me because they receive so many applications, and the nuns won't divulge any information, even if they still have the records."

"Have you tried checking the civil registration records for your mother's birth?"

"I only know her adoptive name, Linda Jane Howard, but she wouldn't originally have been registered with that name, would she?"

Ryan studied her for a moment. "How serious are you about finding out about all this, Kara?"

A small quiver ran through her as his blue eyes met hers. "I'd love to find out more. After all, my mom might have several half-siblings or cousins here in Ireland, but—" She paused and moistened her lips. "I'll be honest with you. She doesn't know I'm looking for her mother."

"Why not?"

"It's kind of complicated. I didn't even know she was adopted until last fall when my grandfather died. While we were clearing out all his stuff, I found a large manila envelope with some letters from the Reverend Mother at the Ballykane Convent, an adoption certificate, and a bank book. Mom admitted she knew she was adopted, but said it happened over fifty years ago, so it was irrelevant now."

"Has she ever tried to find her birth mother?"

"She said she'd heard it was impossible to find out anything about adopted babies from Ireland but, once I knew I was coming to Ireland, I decided to try to find her mother, so I could surprise her." She gave a short laugh. "I guess it was naïve of me to think I could walk into some record office, or even the convent, and find out everything I needed to know."

Ryan nodded slowly. "She was right about it being difficult to trace either the children or their mothers. Not completely impossible because every so often there's a story in the press about a child finding its mother, or vice versa, but for every successful search, there must be hundreds who never find the parent or child they're looking for."

"It's perhaps as well I didn't tell my mom about my intentions. Far from being able to surprise her with news of her mother, at the moment it seems like I would have raised for hopes for nothing."

"Do you have her date of birth?"

"Yes, it's on her adoption certificate. Why?"

"I have a friend who knows a bit about genealogical research. I can ask him to search through the birth records, if you want."

"That would be awesome. Thank you so much."

* * * * *

Ryan gave himself a mental kick as soon as he made the offer.
No distractions
, he'd told Enya. But was offering to help someone with their family history research a distraction? All he had to do was give Declan the details, and ask him to contact Kara if and when he discovered anything. He didn't need to be involved at all.

If she hadn't been sitting by his side after they left the restaurant and he drove along the coast road, he would have let out a hollow laugh.
Not involved?
Well, maybe not yet, but he could easily let himself be pulled into getting to know her better.

"This area's known as the
Gaeltacht
," he said, in an effort to stay away from any personal topics. He didn't
need
to know anything more about her.

"What does that mean?"

"Between here and Clifden, most people speak the Irish language rather than English."

They continued to talk about the language and the Connemara area as he drove north to Maam Cross and along the N59 to Clifden.

No distractions.
The words drummed through his mind, but somehow the problems of stolen goods, and of Tom Wild and Patrick Walsh's large cardboard box receded into a misty haze.

When he turned into the lane leading to Mist Na Mara, Kara looked around at him. "Would you like to join us for supper? I think we're having lasagna this evening."

He had to summon up all his willpower to shake his head. "Thanks for the offer, but I'll probably be meeting up with some friends later."

"Oh, okay."

He knew he hadn't imagined the fleeting disappointment that crossed her face, but went on quickly, "Write down your phone number, and your mother's date of birth, and I'll see what Declan can find out."

"Is that the genealogist?"

"It is. I'll ask him to call you."

"Okay, thanks."

She scribbled her number and the date on a piece of paper she tore from a small notebook and handed it to him when he stopped outside the house. "I doubt he'll be able to trace her when I don't even have her birth name or her mother's name."