Love and Shamrocks: Ballybeg, Book 5 (26 page)

Helen waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, all right. The burglars probably took them along with everything else. I doubt they’re of significance. As I said earlier, there’s nothing in the cellar to steal.”

“All the same, it’s best to be cautious.” Seán got to his feet.

Clio jumped up. “I’ll see you to the door.”

“No need. I can see myself out.” His smile was hard, his eyes granite. “I’ll be in touch.”

Watching his broad, blue-uniformed back descend the stairs, Clio’s stomach cramped. She bit her lip and ran a hand through her by-now disheveled hair. She’d blown it with Seán. Whatever might have developed between them—no-strings sex, friends with benefits, or something deeper—she’d blown it into oblivion.

BY LATE MONDAY MORNING, Seán had been in touch with a colleague from his old division in the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation regarding the robbery.

Frank was out sick, finally struck down by the flu that had flattened his kids a couple of weeks previously. Instead, Seán spoke with his friend’s new partner. The man promised to look into the matter and to call Seán back when he had information to share. Paranoid about information leaks after last year’s fiasco, Seán deliberately failed to mention a potential connection with Ray Greer.

After hanging up the phone, he shoved his chair back from the desk and stretched his stiff back. He’d won this morning’s toss for the portable heater. Being able to sit in his office without a coat and scarf made for a pleasant change. Less pleasant was the raw sensation he experienced whenever his thoughts strayed to Clio. Why hadn’t she told him the whole story the night he’d cooked her dinner? She’d opened up about Lar. Why not tell him the truth about Ray? But he knew the answer to that question, and it chafed at his conscience. Clio felt let down by the police, and didn’t trust them to take her side over O’Leary’s beating. Truth be told, he wasn’t sure he’d believe her side of the story if he hadn’t spent so much time with her over the past couple of weeks.

A knock made him glance up. Brian peeked his freckled face around the door, clutching a fluorescent pink sticky note. “Got a sec, Seán?”

“Yeah. Come on in and pull up a seat by the heater.”

After closing the door, Brian unwound the hand knit scarf his mother had made him for Christmas and plopped onto a chair. He stared at the pink note and scrunched up his nose. “Before I get to this, there’s something I’d like to mention.”

Sean eyed his partner with unease. “What?”

Brian’s cheeks were stained with red. “The other day, Colm—Sharon’s father—made a remark about your past. And, well, the story of what happened to your parents tumbled out.”

“Too many people in Ballybeg know or suspect for it to stay a secret forever.” He gave a weary sigh. “Frankly, I’m surprised it didn’t get out before now.”

His partner coughed and cleared his throat. “I just wanted you to know that you can talk to me.”

Brian’s concern touched Sean more than he’d expected. “Why don’t we go out for a drink when the Greer business is over? I’ll tell you the whole story, minus Colm Senior’s embellishments.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Brian gave him a quick smile, then returned his attention to the pink note. “So…I’ve finished looking through the surveillance tapes from the Havelin’s security system. The only people seen entering and leaving the house on the night of the robbery were party guests or police officers.”

“Unfortunately, that doesn’t mean much in terms of narrowing down the list of

suspects,” Seán said, leaning back in his chair. “Given the size of Clonmore House, the security system is seriously lacking. There are only three cameras placed around the outside and one at the main gate. There are no cameras inside the house. Given the fuss Helen made about the stalker, I’m surprised she didn’t have a new security system installed.”

“Hopefully, she will now.”

“Oh, yeah. On the super’s recommendation, she hired his nephew’s security business to install a new one. I believe they’re due to come next week.” Seán drummed his fingers on the desk. “I still think this was an inside job. Someone at that party stole the money and the copy of the leopard antique. The only fingerprints on the safe were Helen’s and Clio’s, and all that tells us about the robber is that they were smart enough to wear gloves.”

His partner shifted in his chair, angling himself nearer to the heater. “I’m inclined to agree with you on the inside job. Have you and the super come up with a plan for the fourteenth?”

“We’re still working out the details. My suggestion is that we get Clio to arrange for Ray’s men to access the house. Arrange for Helen and Tammy to be away and try to catch them in the act. The super is going to talk to the higher-ups in the hope of forming a task force for the fourteenth.”

Brian’s auburn eyebrows arched. “How do you feel about arranging another sting operation?”

Lousy.
“It’s my job.” In other words, he’d make damn sure nothing went wrong this time. “In other news, Clio spoke to Emma Reilly, her private investigator friend. Emma e-mailed me all the info she dug up on Ray Greer over the past couple of weeks. Impressive though her work is for the short timescale, she hasn’t discovered anything I don’t already know.” The only oddity in Emma’s e-mail was her failure to answer his question about Lar Delaney’s connection to Ray, but that might be out of loyalty to Clio rather than an indication that she was hiding something.

“What’s next on the agenda?” Brian asked. “Dare I hope it’s lunch?”

Seán smiled but shook his head. “Sorry, mate. We’ll have to grab a sandwich later. We have two imbeciles to question.”

***

When Seán and Brian marched into MacCarthy’s, heads turned. Everyone seemed to recognize instantly that the police were not there to eat a spot of lunch. Propped up at the bar in their usual spot sat Uncle John-Joe and his partner in crime, Buck MacCarthy. John-Joe’s jeans had seen better days, but his Elvis hair was freshly gelled and sprayed. Buck was wearing sailor pants and a Right Said Fred T-shirt.

“Well, Ruairí,” Seán said when he reached the bar, “We have a pair of eejits as uncles.”

Ruairí raised his dark eyes heavenward. “What have Buck and John-Joe done this time?”

“We’ve done nothing.” John-Joe bristled with indignation. Whiskey fumes rolled off him in pungent waves. “Why do you always blame us for everything that goes wrong in Ballybeg? Why not the fecking Tinkers?”

“The Travelling community hasn’t been dealing in this.” Seán pulled a bottle of clear liquid out of the carrier bag he was holding. “The pair of you know anything about this?”

“Ah, Buck,” Ruairí said in disgust. “Have you been making
poitín
again? Did blowing up your garden shed over Christmas teach you nothing?”

Buck’s one good eye swiveled. “I don’t know anything about that there bottle.”

“What about you, John-Joe?”

“Ah, no. It’s nothing to do with me.”

“Funny, because Inspector O’Shaughnessy says he bought it from you. But if you know nothing about it, you’ll have no problem opening up
your
shed for us, will you?”

John-Joe didn’t do subtle body language, and his relief was palpable. “Go right ahead. I’ve got nothing to hide.”

“What about Buck’s boat shed? Anything to hide there?”

John-Joe’s Adam’s apple bobbed.
Bull’s-eye
. “Why do you want to go doing that, Johnny?” his uncle asked. “A man’s entitled to earn a few bob where he can.”

Ruairí tossed the cloth he’d been using to polish glasses onto the counter. “Do you have a search warrant for my uncle’s boat shed?” .

“Oh, yeah.” Seán produced the document from his coat pocket.

“Looks like you’re screwed, lads,” Ruairí said nonchalantly and returned to polishing glasses behind the bar.

“Right, Brian. Let’s get this freak show on the road.”

They hauled their prey out of the pub and into the police car. Buck and John-Joe bitched and moaned the entire way to Buck’s falling-down cottage by the sea.

“Put a sock in it, lads,” Seán snapped from the driver’s seat. “The only words I want to hear out of your gobs are answers to our questions.”

The boat shed leaned against the house in a way that made it look like it would collapse at the smallest breeze.

“Right, Buck. Open up.”

“Ah, Seán. Sure it was only a bit of fun.”

“It’s our cultural heritage,” shouted John-Joe. “This is an outrage.”

“
You’re
the outrage.” He felt his cheeks heat with anger and embarrassment. “Open this damn shed before I kick the door down.”

Buck cursed and swore but finally persuaded the rusty lock to open. The door creaked on its hinges. Inside the shed, distilling paraphernalia were plain to see, as were crates of bottles containing
poitín
. To add to the ambience was a mangy-looking basket containing an equally-mangy-looking puppy. The dog, thrilled to see company, bounded out of its bed and danced around Seán’s ankles.

Seán scooped the little creature up into his arms and stroked its matted fur. “Well, boys, what do you have to say for yourselves?”

Buck jerked a thumb at his partner in crime. “It was him.”

“No, it was
his
daft idea,” John-Joe retorted. “I never wanted to go along with it, not in that damn boat.”

“Boat? What are you on about?” Seán asked. “Is that how you’ve been distributing the stuff?”

Buck’s sole working eye swiveled toward John-Joe. “Ah, you eejit. What did you go telling him that for?”

“Who are you calling an eejit?” John-Joe jabbed a finger into his friend’s chest. “What sort of sailor can’t even swim? That’s the only reason you wanted me to come along.”

“Come along where?” Seán demanded. “Jaysus, lads. Tell me you weren’t transporting this shite to all the way to Britain?”

Furtive glances passed between the two culprits.

Seán exhaled a sigh. “Seriously, the pair of you are total fuckwits.”

“We tried to sail to Britain, but we didn’t make it farther than Cobh,” John-Joe admitted.

Seán blinked. “Run that by me again? You loaded Buck’s boat up with bottles to export and only got as far as
Cobh
?”

His uncle’s beady eyes darted to the side. “We might have put a few too many crates in the boat. We were starting to sink, so we headed back to shore.”

The puppy gave Seán’s nose a lick. “Where does the dog come into the story?”

Buck did a slack-jawed shuffle, and rubbed his unshaven jaw. “A pal gave me a litter of puppies. I sold all but the runt.”

“What were you planning to do with him?”

The older man shrugged. “Offload him somewhere. I got no time for a dog, and he’s too ugly to appeal.”

The dog whimpered against Seán’s neck and gave him another lick to seal the deal. Clever little creature knew a sucker when he saw one. “I don’t like the sound of ‘offload.’ This little guy’s coming with me.”

“Take a look at this,” Brian called from the back the shed. He held up what looked at first glance to be a semiautomatic pistol.

“What the hell?” Seán swiveled toward Buck.

“I can explain,” the older man said, his one good eye darting from side to side. “They’re not mine. I swear.”

Seán sighed. “They never are, are they?”

“They’re all fake,” Buck insisted. “My nephew gave them to me for Christmas.”

Brian fingered the weapon with caution. “This one doesn’t look like a fake to me.”

Seán examined the gun. “That’s because it isn’t.”

“What?” Buck’s jaw dropped.

He pinned the man in place with his glare. “Which nephew gave you the guns?”

The man swallowed. “Young Colm,” he muttered, staring at the filthy floor.

Seán rubbed his jaw with his free hand. “Bring Colm MacCarthy Junior in for questioning, Brian.”

“Right-o. I’ll step outside and make a few calls. The smell in here is killing me.” Brian paused, his hand on the door. “Poor old Ruairí. He’s always having to bail Colm out.”

“It’s them drugs,” said John-Joe when the door closed after Brian. “Addled Colm Junior’s mind. I might have a drop too much every now and again, but I don’t go in for that shite. Sure you don’t know what you’re putting into yourself.”

“So says the man knocking back lethal home brew,” Seán said dryly.

“Colm MacCarthy was always a bad lot,” John-Joe insisted, warming to his theme. “I told Buck not to store any of his stuff. Didn’t I, Buck? Didn’t I tell ye not to listen to that fecker’s lies? And now look where we are.”

“You’re here because of illegal
poitín
, John-Joe. You can’t fob that off on Colm.” Seán held open the door. “After you, lads. We’ll need to take a statement from you down at the station.”

Outside the boat shed, Brian was leaning against the police car, mobile phone in hand. When he saw Seán, he opened the back door and helped shove John-Joe and Buck inside.

“I take it from your expression that you had no luck in locating MacCarthy.”

Brian shook his head. “His missus says she kicked him out the day he got out of prison. Can’t say I blame her.”

“I doubt Colm’s exactly a prince amongst husbands. But be that as it may, we need to find him and haul him in for questioning. I suspect he knows who’s attacking the Travellers.”

“How’s that?”

“I never bought Buck’s story about buying the air rifle on the Internet. Did you see his house? I found no sign of a computer or a laptop. And Buck’s barely literate. I doubt he knows how to operate a computer, never mind order off the Internet. He has no credit card. How did he pay? Not saying it can’t be done, but most people use a credit card or a service like PayPal.”

“Yeah, that is odd. All right, then. I’ll get back to searching for Colm, tracking down his pals, and so on. He’s rumored to be linked to a Dublin gang, you know, but I never found anything concrete to support the claim.”

“Dublin, eh? Hmm…he must go somewhere on his frequent disappearing acts. Easier to disappear in a big city like Dublin than elsewhere. I’ll ring a mate of mine in the Dublin force and see what he has on Colm, if anything.”

At least, thought Seán, this was one case the super couldn’t shoot down as less important than playing bodyguard to a pampered television host. “Once we book the two eejits in the car, you track down Colm Junior and I’ll go pay a visit to Colm Senior.”