Love and Shamrocks: Ballybeg, Book 5 (13 page)

“I’ll be fine. I hope your wife is okay.”

Tension oozed from his every pore. “So do I.”

Soon after Ruairí left, the lunchtime rush began in earnest. Being in the heart of Ballybeg, MacCarthy’s did a roaring trade with workers from nearby shops and offices looking for a quick bite to eat. Everyone wanted food and a drink, and everyone wanted them served within seconds of placing their order.

After an hour of being rushed off her feet and still no sign of the other MacCarthy sister, disaster struck. The Guinness tap ceased to flow. Clio fiddled with it, swore, and crouched under the counter. Was a tube blocked? Or was the barrel empty? If so, how was she going to replace it?
Feck
!

“Problem?” asked a voice from above. A very familiar masculine voice.

Clio jumped in fright, bashing her head off the edge of the counter in the process. Stars swam before her eyes.

“Are you okay?” Seán lifted up the counter flap and came to kneel beside her.

“I’m fine,” she lied, wincing from the pain.

He raised a questioning brow.

“Okay, I’m not fine, but I soon will be.”

He touched her head gently, massaging the area she’d injured. “You’ll have a bump and a headache to keep it company.”

“Frankly, my head is the least of my worries at the moment.” Clio nodded toward the empty beer barrel. “Ruairí meant to check the kegs earlier but he had to leave in a hurry.”

“Need help?”

Clio wiped sweat from her brow. “This is my third shift, and I wasn’t supposed to be working on my own. We haven’t covered changing the barrels yet.”

“Not a problem. My grandfather ran a pub in Dublin. I spent my teenage years changing barrels and pulling pints.” Seán stood and helped Clio to her feet. “Why don’t you sit down for a sec until your head settles? Brian and I can take care of the customers.”

“Do you know your way around the kitchen?”

“I don’t, but Brian does. Sharon MacCarthy is his girlfriend. He’s helped out at the pub before.”

Seán waved across the pub to his partner, and Brian ambled over to the counter. “Problem?”

“Can you help Clio serve customers while I change a barrel?”

“Sure.” Brian shrugged off his uniform coat and rolled up his shirtsleeves. “Where are the food orders?”

Clio shoved the notebook toward him. “Here, complete with table numbers.”

The younger man scanned the list. He wasn’t as classically good-looking as his partner but there was something appealing about his earnest freckled face and soft Donegal lilt. “Okeydokey. I can manage this. Do you know where the cellar is, Seán?”

“Yeah. I helped Ruairí move barrels once before.” Seán gave Clio a bone-melting smile. “I’ll be back in a sec.”

She stared dreamily after his retreating back. It had to be the blow to the head. She never mooned after men.

“I’ll hit the kitchen,” Brian said. “Are you feeling up to serving drinks?”

“I’m a little dizzy, but I’ll be fine.”

Brian checked his phone. “Sharon sent a text to say the bus from Cork City was delayed, but she should be here in fifteen to twenty minutes.”

With the policemen’s assistance, Clio managed to keep the tide of customers satisfied for the next quarter of an hour.

“Thanks for helping out,” she said when the crowd finally thinned. “Am I keeping you from important police work?”

“We’re on our lunch break,” Seán said, “and it’s been a quiet day.”

“Do you have much to do in Ballybeg? Apart from babysitting my mother?”

His disillusioned expression was eloquent. “The fire at the halting site is a dead end, and not much else is happening. The odd bar fight to break up. A few stray sheep to herd. That sort of thing.”

“Doesn’t sound particularly exciting.”

He screwed up his nose. “No.”

“I love Ballybeg,” Brian said, emerging from the kitchen with a neatly sliced fruitcake. “There’s a sense of community here that you don’t get policing a big city. Everyone knows everyone else by name, and people are willing to lend one another a hand. I’d miss that if I moved to a bigger station.”

Clio smiled at Seán. “You don’t agree?”

“Well…everyone does know everyone else’s name, not to mention his or her business. I prefer more anonymity, you know?”

The three of them whirled round when the pub door burst open. In hurried the young blonde Clio had seen talking to Seán earlier in the week. She’d replaced the fake-fur coat with a fuchsia-pink puffy jacket and the towering heels with matching furry pink boots. “I think you’re needed out at the halting site, lads,” she said in a breathless voice. “I saw an ambulance drive up there when I was on the bus. There was quite a commotion.”

As if on cue, Seán’s phone began to play “Bat Out of Hell.” He exchanged a loaded look with Brian and held it to his ear. “Mackey speaking. When was this? Right, sir. We’ll head straight to the hospital.”

“What’s happened?” Brian asked when he rang off.

“A young Traveller boy was found badly beaten. He’s been taken to the hospital with severe head injuries. The super wants us to question the family.” Seán turned to Clio. “Will you be okay now that Sharon is here?”

“Yes. Thanks again for your help. Before you go, I gotta ask, what’s with the funny ringtones?”

Brian snorted. Seán’s worried expression turned into a grin. “It’s a habit of mine,” he said. “Everyone gets an assigned ringtone.”

“Usually a song from his ridiculously large vinyl collection,” Brian said with a chortle. “Our Seán hasn’t embraced CDs, never mind downloads.”

“We’d better get a move on. I’ll see you tomorrow, Clio.” A wry smile brought a twinkle to his eyes. “I believe I’m to escort your mother to Cork City.”

Her heart skipped a beat, and a tingling sensation skittered over her skin. “I believe you are.

SEÁN’S FRIDAY MORNING began with a throbbing head, a bruised ego, and no leads. He swallowed a groan. He’d been in law enforcement too long to assume his day couldn’t get any worse.

The squad car bumped over the dirt track. Each bump jolted Seán’s joints, sharp reminders of his underslept, undercaffeinated condition.

“You okay?” Brian asked from the passenger seat.

“I’ll be grand.” He stretched his neck from side to side, hearing the stiff bones creak. “My body’s objecting to my night on a hospital chair.”

“Rather you than me, mate,” Brian said. “So do the Travellers have any idea who attacked Jimmy Murphy?”

“If they do, they’re not talking, and Jimmy’s in no state to be questioned.”

What an understatement
. The poor lad was in a coma, his fate a hovering question mark. Getting info out of his relatives had been about as successful as a donkey winning the Grand National. In other words, they’d said sweet feck-all. Seán’s fists balled in frustration. He hated feeling helpless during an investigation and having the sense that he was chasing his own tail.

“Do you think Peig Murphy will talk to us?” Brian asked.

Seán slid a glance toward the passenger seat. “Unlikely. I’ve been out to the halting site five times since the attacks began, but Peig’s always…away.” He drew out the last word, rolled it on his tongue.

“The Tinkers take the piss,” Brian said. “Think they’re above the law.”

“In their eyes, they are. They have their own code, moral and judicial. As far as they’re concerned, our laws are irrelevant. If we’re to have any hope of getting info out of them, don’t let them hear you call them Tinkers.”

The car continued its bumpy ride. At last, the trees parted to reveal a field dotted with caravans, cars, and assorted junk. The majority of the caravans were old and shabby, but one or two modern mobile homes were perched at the edge of the field.

“Would you look at the state of the place?” Brian’s tongue dripped disgust. “The county council’s had over a decade to put in sanitation facilities.”

A crackle of laughter bubbled up Seán’s throat. “Ah, the infamous Traveller Accommodation Act. Brian, my lad, I saw very few Traveller halting sites with the promised parking spaces and plumbing before the Irish economy imploded. Now that we’re well and truly screwed financially, I doubt they’ll ever follow through.”

Seán shifted gears and eased the car to a stop a few meters from the first caravan. He took a last swig from his energy drink, then climbed out of the vehicle.

No sooner were they out of the car than they were surrounded by a gaggle of curious children and excited dogs. The older kids hung back, wary of people from the settled community, especially those wearing police uniforms.

Seán locked eyes with one of the older boys. “I’m looking for Mrs. Murphy.”

The child regarded Seán through dark solemn eyes that reflected a stoic resignation more suited to a man of ninety than a boy of ten.

Indecision flickered over his features. After a brief pause, the boy inclined his head toward the lone brightly colored caravan among the drab mobile homes.

“Good lad,” said Seán. He tossed him a euro.

The boy let the coin fall to the ground. It splashed into a puddle of mud. Its intended owner made no move to retrieve it, radiating disdain.

Wrong move
.

Brian cleared his throat and nudged Seán. They picked their way through debris and children and knocked on the front door of the colorful caravan.

At first, there was no response. Seán was on the verge of adding a second, heftier knock when a deep voice bade them enter.

Inside, the caravan was crammed with trinkets. Religious icons jostled for space with more exotic wares. The decor made John-Joe and Nora Fitzgerald’s house look Spartan.

The caravan’s lone occupant was seated at a small table, enjoying a glass of whiskey, a cigarette, and a game of solitaire. When she glanced up, the large crucifix around her neck clanked and swayed.

“Mrs. Murphy?” Seán blinked through the haze of smoke.

“Been a long time since anyone called me Missus.” Her deep, phlegmy guffaw sounded like she was in danger of hacking up both lungs. “Call me Ma. Or Peig, if that tickles your fancy.”

She was dressed in severe black and looked more like a nun than a gypsy. Her white hair was pulled back in a tight bun, emphasizing the grooves etched into her cheeks and forehead. Blue eyes, small and shrewd, were fixed on Seán.

He drew his ID from his pocket. “Sergeant Seán Mackey, Ballybeg Police. This is my partner, Garda Brian Glenn.”

Peig scrutinized the ID, then jerked a hand toward the spare chairs at the table. “Sit.”

They sat.

“We’ve come about Jimmy,” said Seán, shifting uneasily on the hard wooden seat.

A spasm of pain rippled over Peig’s coarse features, deepening the grooves. “Oh, aye,” she said, taking a drag on her cigarette. “Keeping up appearances, are ye? No one bothers about the Travellers excepting ourselves, least of all
An Garda Síochána
.” She leaned forward, exhaling a cloud of acrid smoke. “Lest, of course, there’s a burglary in the neighborhood.”

“That’s not true Mrs.…Peig. I’m a member of the police force, and I care about the welfare of everyone in my jurisdiction, regardless of heritage.”

“Fine words, boy. I’d like to see action to back them up.” Peig leaned back in her chair, stubbed out her cigarette, drew another from the pack. Sweet Afton, nonfilter. Noting his surprise, she said, “Got my own private stash.”

Must be some stash
. Sweet Afton ceased production several years ago. “Mrs. Murphy,” he began again, but she cut him off with a curt gesture.

“We’ll have tea.”

Seán tapped the table with his knuckles. Rushing Peig was pointless. If she was determined to steer this interview, he’d best let her think she was in control.

Peig stood, and he could hear her creaking bones as she moved to her small kitchen. The whistle of the kettle soon followed. “I don’t take sugar,” she said, making it clear that Seán and Brian wouldn’t either. Seán didn’t care. He wasn’t fond of tea and intended to drink as little as he could get away with.

Impish glee danced across Peig’s face. She grabbed the whiskey bottle and poured generous dollops of amber liquid into their hot tea.

Seán held up a hand. “We can’t drink on duty.”

“Can’t or shouldn’t?” she asked, sitting her skinny frame back behind the table and shoving a mug and a challenge toward Seán. “Sure, let that young pup drive.”

Brian regarded his mug as if it contained deadly nightshade instead of a serving of Ireland’s finest.

Seán leaned back with his tea and took a cautious sip.
Jaysus
. It packed a punch. “So.” He kept his voice normal, easygoing. “About the attacks.”

Silence sliced the air sharp as a kunai knife.

“Do you know who attacked Jimmy?” asked Peig. Her glare could bore holes in cement.

“Not yet,” Seán said. “We were hoping you could help us.”

Her harrumph expressed her opinion of Seán, the settled community, and the
Gardaí
. Very little. “This is why we Travellers prefer to look after our own affairs. When the Guards can be bothered to investigate, they find nothing, and we’re as likely to find ourselves accused of all sorts of shenanigans.”

“With all due respect, Peig,” Seán said, “We can’t be allowing vigilante justice. If someone is trying to harm your people, let us help.”

Her snort was eloquent.

Seán flexed his jaw. “Over the past four months, we’ve received reports of tires shot out, smashed windows, and trashed caravans. If the attack on Jimmy is connected to the vendetta against the Travellers, the perpetrator is becoming more dangerous with each incident.”

Peig stubbed out her cigarette in an overflowing ashtray. “I’m not a fool, boy. You don’t know the half of it.”

“Enlighten me. How did this begin?”

Peig leaned back in her chair and crossed thin arms over her scrawny bosom. “It started with the dog.”

“There was nothing about a dog in the reports I received.”

Peig shrugged. “We hoped to sort it out on our own, but we’ve been no more successful than you lot.”

“Tell me about the dog.”

Her mouth formed a grimace. “Last May, one of my son’s racing dogs was beheaded. A greyhound. Beautiful creature, she was.”