The Death of an Irish Tradition (7 page)

“Where’s Peter?” Murray demanded. “Isn’t he going to do this?”

O’Shaughnessy ignored him. He glanced at the son, then turned back to the window in which, he knew, his large body was framed.

“You are?”

“Sean Murray,” the young man said. “Sean Thomas Murray.”

“Address?”

“Seventeen Herbert Park, Ballsbridge.”

“Age?”

“Twenty.”

“Occupation?”

“Student.”

O’Shaughnessy paused, still thinking of how it would be in the West on a day like this: there’d be sun, of course, but it wouldn’t be visible by itself. Instead, it would be spread across the sky, everywhere and nowhere, white and hot, and in toward shore, near the rocks, the sea water would be the lightest green, the ocean swells slow, the Atlantic cold.

A fly was blatting against the pink glare on the window, which he now opened.

There were many questions he could ask—those which would further explore young Murray’s relationship to the victim, that would pinpoint the times at which he picked up the Caughey girl, dropped her off at the clothes shop, picked her up again, how long they rode the horses, and when exactly they had returned to the Caughey apartment, what he knew about the comings and goings of people who visited the apartment, the priest in particular—but O’Shaughnessy thought them redundant and inessential.

Only one question would establish young Murray’s alibi, and O’Shaughnessy had a feeling about him and his fleshy, sweaty father. O’Shaughnessy had heard so many lies in his time, had interviewed so many con men, frauds, and prevaricators that he could almost smell them—the acrid sweat, the rolling eyes, the quick glance to the left; the, “If you really want to know the truth…” “The fact is…” “I swear to God….” or here, “Just coming along for the ride….” and the hearty chuckle and glad-hand.

Horseshit, mister—O’Shaughnessy thought. The bastard had come here to front some sort of falsehood, and nothing bothered O’Shaughnessy more than being lied to and by the likes of a Murray, a man who was, in his opinion, nothing but a leech.

He turned on them. “What is the name of the garage where you had the brakes of your car adjusted?” he asked, knowing well that the girl had said it was the clutch that had been worked on. But he had succeeded in catching them off guard.

The son glanced at the father, who only passed a hand over his upper lip and looked away.

The son then directed his gaze at the stenographer’s machine, the back of it. He couldn’t even look her in the eye. The lie. It was the one Murray Sr. had come to the Castle to help his son utter. O’Shaughnessy was sure of it.

“It was the clutch. Ballsbridge Motors.”

“They’re at?”

“One sixty-four Shelbourne Road.”

In no way did O’Shaughnessy alter his expression. He kept his eyes on young Murray. Ballsbridge Motors sold Mercedes automobiles, like his father’s limousine, and O’Shaughnessy was willing to bet they did not service other types of cars.

“For your automobile, which is a—?”

“An MG.”

“You got there when?”

“Half three. Thereabouts.”

“Did they take the car right away?”

“Er—no. I had to wait a bit.”

“How long?”

He squirmed but did not take his eyes off the machine.

“I don’t rightly remember.” Perspiration had appeared on young Murray’s upper lip.

O’Shaughnessy studied him—the flowing, wavy hair that seemed permed or at least tossled carefully, the common, even tough-looking, face that denied whatever delicacy the hair-do established, the sculptured upper lip but with a bent nose above. But, like father, like son, O’Shaughnessy thought, and he pitied the young man. He had a long, hard road ahead of him. “Four, a quarter to?”

“Could be. I don’t know.”

Nor I, thought O’Shaughnessy. Nor I. “And what did you do while you were waiting?”

“Nuttin’.” Suddenly he had lost the Trinity polish and was just another young Dubliner, a jackeen, O’Shaughnessy concluded ruefully. Like his father.

“I guess I read a magazine.”

“Which one?”

“Oh—I dunno. I can’t rightly remember. I just turned the pages and thought about something else.” He was still concentrating on the machine, staring right at the black metal case, one arm on the table, the other elbow on his knee.

“What was it about?”

A pause. His head and shoulders moved slightly and he reached up to touch the paisley ascot in the neck of his off-white shirt. He was wearing a cream-colored blazer. “Automobiles, cars—” then his eyes flickered up at O’Shaughnessy triumphantly, “—Mercedes.”

“What about Mercedes?”

His father twisted his body in the seat and the wood creaked. “Is all this really necessary, Liam? I mean, Christ, what has all this got to do with anything?” He checked his wristwatch. “And we’ve really got to rush. The Horse Show. Sean is managing the arrangements for me.”

“Where did you sit? In the showroom or in the garage?”

“The showroom, I guess.”

“Where in the showroom?”

The young man hunched his shoulders, his hair fluffing around the shoulders of the blazer. He crossed his legs away from O’Shaughnessy—a dark brown worsted material, the pants; yachting moccasins with buff soles, no socks. “The showroom.”

“Where did you sit in the showroom? Are there chairs?”

Now his forehead was beaded with sweat.

The fly had gotten trapped between the panes and blatted angrily.

“In a chair, I guess.”

“And where was the chair located? Near the cars or near the window?”

“The window.”

“Which window. Street side or alley side?”

Again the shoulders. “I didn’t notice.”

“Many cars in the showroom?”

“Some.”

“Colors?”

“I guess.”

“Aren’t you interested in cars, son?”

“A bit.”

“And you didn’t notice the types and colors and styles.”

“No.”

“Not even a fleeting glance?”

“No.”

“Your father here has a Mercedes himself, does he not?”

Young Murray glanced up at O’Shaughnessy. “Three of them.”

Was it a challenge? It was. His father was monied and powerful, and he was making sure the lowly Garda detective, whose superintendency was by government appointment, appreciated the fact.

O’Shaughnessy turned and looked at the father. Was it pride on his face? It was, and O’Shaughnessy could only pity the boy more. “Who called you to say your car was ready?”

“The service manager.” His voice was definite.

So—it was upon the service manager that the lie was to be hung.

“How much did it cost?”

Yet again the shoulders and his eyes on the machine. “A few pounds.”

“Five?”

“I guess.”

“Or ten? Was it closer to five or ten?”

“Really, Superintendent,” the father objected, placing both palms on the table, “is this quite necessary?”

O’Shaughnessy ignored him. “You must have signed for it, since you can’t remember.”

The son wanted to glance at his father, but he kept his eyes on the machine. “Yes—I signed.”

The father’s eyes darted away, down to the side and at the floor.

“You signed the service slip?” O’Shaughnessy moved toward the stenographer.

“Yes.”

“And the work was extensive?”

“No, no—just an adjustment.” He was irked now. “That’s why I took it there and not to the garage I bought it at.”

“Which is?”

“Harold’s Cross Garage.”

O’Shaughnessy held out his large hand, and the stenographer pulled the sheets of paper from the machine.

“Would you sign this statement, Mister Murray?”

The young man eyed the sheets, the four copies of which O’Shaughnessy began collating.

“When it’s typed up, of course,” the father said, standing. “When it’s typed up and readable and we recollect it’s what was said, then well and good, we’ll sign. But not that stuff, Liam. No sir, not like that.”

“Then would you mind waiting? We’ll have it typed up right now.”

“Oh, no—you’ve kept us waiting long enough as it is. We have business, big business, Superintendent, and I can’t allow you to keep Sean from it.”

“Then you won’t mind returning at a later day, say, Monday morning. By then we’ll have it just as it was spoken, neat and in English. And I’ll have additional questions to put, of that I’m sure.”

The son looked away.

“Monday morning? You must be joking.”

O’Shaughnessy only stared at the father.

The hand moved over the upper lip, the harried eyes flashed. “Please try to understand, Liam. We’re not…civil servants. We’re businessmen and the Horse Show—why, we’ve worked all year for it. It’s more than just important to us, it’s vital. The auctions, the prizes, the competitions.”

Still O’Shaughnessy said nothing.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to call Peter on this. And Commissioner Farrell. It’s…extraordinary. Harassment—that’s what it constitutes. Harassment.”

O’Shaughnessy only moved to the door, which he opened.

The square of buildings had caught the heat and the courtyard was an oven. The lines of the shiny black Mercedes were blurry and difficult to look at. The chauffeur was standing by an open rear door.

O’Shaughnessy turned to Murray. “No hard feelings, sir. I’m only earning my keep.”

Murray’s facial features were suddenly transformed. “Why, of course. Of course.” He pumped O’Shaughnessy’s arm, his son behind him. Sweat seemed to pop from his forehead and upper lip, and his skin was the texture of tallow wax. O’Shaughnessy wondered if he was ill and not just from booze alone. “And I mine—as a counsellor, you understand. Strictly as a counsellor. You can’t be too careful. I’ve learned that.” Murray held O’Shaughnessy’s gaze. He was long used to lying.

O’Shaughnessy began walking him down to the car. “The Bechel-Gore thing. Do you know we’re investigating that again?” It was a question McGarr asked him to put to Murray, one of those on the slip of paper Greaves had handed him earlier.

“A sorry situation,” said Murray.

“Tragic. Such a vital man. Do you see much of him?”

“Unfortunately, too much.” Murray began chuckling. “The tragedy has only made him more…aggressive, channeled his efforts. He’s a fierce competitor, Liam, make no mistake about that. Ruthless, utterly ruthless.

“But you know,” he turned to O’Shaughnessy, “I don’t think my life would be as…bracing without him, if you know what I mean.”

O’Shaughnessy only nodded and looked out over the shimmering cobblestones toward the lemon-yellow convertible. Ward was standing by it, talking to the girl. The echo of the door closing pinged around the brick and masonry of the courtyard.

“And James Joseph Keegan. Do you see much of him?”

“Who?”

“Keegan. J. J. Jimmy-Joe. Leenane. He’s a man with a certain interest in horses.”

“Keegan, Keegan.” Murray’s brow was suddenly furrowed, the bushy eyebrows knitted. And O’Shaughnessy could smell him now—the stale, fruity but astringent odor of an alcoholic.

“Horses, you say?”

“Probably, but more definitely donkeys. Small man—sallow, cloth cap. Sixty-five. Seventy.”

“No—can’t say that I have. Should I keep an eye out for him?”

“If you would, if you would, sir. Peter and I would appreciate it.”

“Until Monday, then?”

Murray bent to ease his heavy body into the back seat of the limousine and he either coughed or cried out in pain. “The old bones. They’re not what they used to be.”

“I know the feeling, sir,” O’Shaughnessy said, but the look on the man’s face was one of real torment and he reached for the console attached to the back of the front seat. A lid snapped down to reveal a small bar.

“Can I offer you—?” There was a ruptured vein in the corner of Murray’s left eye that was shaped like a corkscrew. It seemed to be skewered right down into his eyeball.

“Not while on duty, thank you.”

“Then I’ll close the door. The air conditioning, you know.”

“Monday.”

“Well—” Murray’s hand was shaky on the bottle, “—early then. Monday’s a busy day. For us.”

“As early as you like.”

The chauffeur closed the door.

Already the lemon-yellow convertible was out the gate, leaving Ward standing in the glare, but O’Shaughnessy didn’t wait for him. He had business of his own, at Ballsbridge Motors. If he hurried he could get to the service manager when he knocked off for lunch.

Again an oiled lock. Under the pressure of McGarr’s double pick, the dead bolt of the front door to the Caughey apartment rolled over like a corpse.

Before stepping into the cool lower hall, McGarr glanced down the street toward the corner and caught sight of two uniformed Gardai. Each had taken a different side of the street and were advising householders that the neighborhood was being evacuated. It would make the other job—that of canvassing the residents about the report of a detective having visited the Caughey apartment yesterday afternoon—all the easier, once they got them all together. Nobody could part a curtain on the second floor, peek down, and pretend he wasn’t home.

McGarr smelled wax, years of it, and carpet-cleaning fluid of the sort that was put on with a brush from a bucket of water and then scrubbed—hard, laborious work. And the staircase was long—seventeen steps, two of which creaked audibly and wanted nails. No man here, they said to McGarr; he wondered if they could be heard in the apartment below. Another thing to check.

Wallpaper of Grecian urns, highly embellished and of a gold color on a beige background, new and expensive.

A second door at the top of the stairs, a large pane of plate glass, lace curtains, below which he could only see the gleam of another polished floor—the hallway leading to the interior rooms of the large apartment and the kitchen beyond.

The door was made of oak with tapered panels and little crenellations on the trim around the window. He bent and sniffed the lock—more of the same oil. She had been careful, painstaking, and McGarr concluded she herself had oiled the padlock on the garage. Whoever had booby-trapped the car would not have taken such care with the oil can only to have left behind the screwdriver and the length of wire. And there were fingerprints on the handle and shaft of the tool as well. Careless. Not at all like the old woman.