Free The Death of Love by Bartholomew Gill

murderer, of the failure to conclude—as had Farrell andFrost, who were expert in the matters of mortality—that Power had died a natural death.
    McGarr tried to think of a way to keep Gladden from broadcasting his theory. As part of the investigation he could ask Gladden to “help the police,” was the phrase, and hold him incommunicado for forty-eight hours. But that might only extend a claim of official complicity to the Garda itself. And as Taosieach O’Duffy himself had said and Frost had reiterated only minutes before, Gladden was his own self entirely. Gladden would do what Gladden would do, and there was no stopping him.
    The most McGarr could do was to cover his arse and maintain a studious neutrality. What would he need? Witnesses who were sure to be friendly, if his own actions were ever questioned.
    Again reaching for the phone, he seemed to remember that Ruth Bresnahan, a new inspector on his staff, hailed from Sneem and would at least know of most of the major figures in the case—Power, Gladden, Frost, and their families. He would place her among the guests where she could nose about and ask questions, perhaps even stir things up. He would need to equip her with, say, a large new rental car and some attractive, pricey clothes paid for out of the squad’s “extraordinary expenses fund.”
    McKeon and O’Shaughnessy, the squad’s two most experienced hands, he would place as delegates from two Irish banks where he had contacts. And finally he would put Detective Sergeant Hughie Ward in the bar.
    He spoke to each of them in turn, requesting their confidentiality. “Have you phoned home?” Ward asked, when McGarr had finished.
    “Not yet.”
    “You should—your wife has been on to us twice that I’ve answered.”
    “Has Madeleine et yet?” McGarr asked, when Noreen picked up.
    “Of course she’s et. A half hour ago. How’s it going? Is it what they called you in for?”
    “Care to dine out?” It was a cheap ploy; any invitation that included the word “out” was now irresistible to Noreen.
    “Where?”
    “Here, of course. Parknasilla.”
    There was only the slightest pause. Any normal person would have challenged him on the fact that the hotel was at least a five-hour hard drive from Dublin. This was a time, however, to try a recently parturated, young professional mother’s soul, McGarr suspicioned, and Madeleine slept like a rock in their second car. It was a large, comfortable Rover that had been handed down by Noreen’s well-off parents, who changed cars every few years.
    “You haven’t answered my question.”
    “And I won’t.”
    She understood what that meant: It was a long-distance call that might well be monitored by an operator, and they discussed McGarr’s work only in private.
    “Well, when I arrive, how will I get my dinner?”
    McGarr smiled, having led her to the magic phrase. “Room service.”
    There was another pause in which he guessed she was imagining all the delightfully restful ramifications of hotel living. “And you’ll be up when I arrive?”
    “Count on it.”
    “How long will we be there?”
    “This week until Sunday.”
    “But how will we pay? Parknasilla costs a bloody bomb.”
    “It’s official.”
    Noreen made a sound in the back of her throat that McGarr interpreted as delight.

TUESDAY
    “The relations between sovereign borrowers and their creditors is like that of partners in a threelegged race; they can run, limp, or fall together, but they cannot part company.”
    World Debt Tables, 1983–84

CHAPTER 5
Scald/Squelch/Scorch
    NOREEN MCGARR AWOKE with a start Tuesday morning. Blinding her was a burst of golden light made all the brighter by starched linen drape liners, in the gauzy mesh of which the new sun now caught. It was scouring a storm-washed sky. She blinked, trying to clear her vision, but the dazzling, shimmering film punished her eyes, and she turned her head to the wall.
    Panic struck. Where was she? More—where was her