Free The Death of an Irish Sea Wolf by Bartholomew Gill

and sensitive ribs just up from the belt. The second landed smartly on an ear, with a twist to make it sting all the more.
    When the right hand jumped up in pain, McGarr loaded his weight into a shot thrown straight from his knees that sank so deep into the stomach he thought he felt backbone from the inside. Buckling up, the man sank toward McGarr, who grabbed a fistful of curly hair and spun him toward the door.
    “There’s a lesson in this, bucko. Seoinini like me? We do this for sport. Or at least it would have been sport, had you been more of a challenge. Like this, it’s just plain old police brutality.” Raising a foot to the rump, McGarr shot him out the door where he stumbled and fell roughly onto the concrete for all to see.
    Stepping out of the house, McGarr pulled some money out of his billfold and showed it to Rice. “How much is this, Superintendent?”
    “I count forty-five pounds.”
    Bending to the man, McGarr said in a low voice, “I’d stick this in your gob, if you didn’t need it to suck all that wind. In the future, put into the dock for your passengers. I might’ve broken my leg. And show some respect for your elders. You never know when they might teach you a lesson.” He shoved the money into a pocket of the oilskin, then straightened up.
    “Now, Superintendent—I’ll see the house.”

CHAPTER 8
    THE FORD COTTAGE lay some two miles from the harbor overland. But it was a good four by road, much of it along a rough mountain track scarcely wide enough for the ancient Bedford van that Rice had borrowed from the owner of the island’s only pub.
    The floor of the vehicle was largely gone, a few sheets of steel having been welded onto the frame for their feet. Looking down, McGarr watched the gravel, rocks, and grass flow past them, like an endless, gray-green watercourse. It reminded him of what he would rather be doing.
    Rice, who was driving, explained, “The islanders pick up these junks cheap wherever they can, so long as the engine has a bit of life left. Diesel’s the thing, since it’s cheap and they get the government subsidy.” On fuel used while farming or fishing, he meant. “Road tax? Insurance? Even number plates? Why bother, since the car’s never going off the island.
    “You hear these people complain, and some of them have ‘attitudes,’ like yehr mahn with the forty-five pounds. But with eight miles of water between them and the government, they have it made.”
    Unless, of course, they were visited in the dead of the night by a raiding party with murder in mind.
    The cottage was set off on a high cliff on the western sideof the island with no near neighbors in any direction. The views were spectacular, especially on a clear day such as this.
    To the north across Clew Bay were the mountains of Achill Island and North Mayo, layer upon towering layer, with the ocean defining all in a fringe of silver surf.
    To the south the steep shoulder of Croaghmore continued to rise. Two narrow paths wound across it, one leading up to its peak and the pristine sky, the other tracing down through a defile to a beach that was probably exposed only at low tide.
    To the east lay a long stretch of green commonage and walled fields. And beyond, the harbor with its collection of white houses, the pub, a shop or two, and the castle. But without so much as a tree for perspective, they seemed leagues away.
    Finally, to the west and maybe three hundred feet down lay the blue depths of the Atlantic clear to New York. And wind, McGarr discovered, stepping out at the bottom of the drive so as not to destroy any evidence. Gathering at the base of the cliff after thousands of miles of unimpeded sweep, it surged over the edge and pinned him against the side of the van.
    McGarr imagined that the place was virtually uninhabitable most days of the year; the storm of the night before, while severe, was not unusual. Now climbing the steep switchback drive, the wind was so strong that both men had to