Free The Death of an Irish Sinner by Bartholomew Gill

looks like she was murdered.”
    “Mary-Jo? You’re coddin’ me.”
    “Can I tell you in the morning?”
    “Sure. Of course. You must be knackered. But”—there was a long pause during which McGarr nearly fell asleep—“who were you just speaking with in the den? I could hear the rumble of your voices.”
    “Dery Parmalee. He’s staying over.”
    “The journalist from Ath Cliath ?”
    McGarr made a low noise in the back of his throat.
    “Down here to cover the story?”
    McGarr again assented.
    “Quick, isn’t he?”
    Which was the question that McGarr fell asleep on and woke up wondering about.

CHAPTER 9
    BUT PARMALEE was gone by ten the next morning when McGarr got down to the kitchen.
    Seated at the long table were Bernie McKeon, Hugh Ward, and Ruth Bresnahan, Murder Squad staffers, who were being served a killer Irish breakfast, McGarr could see as he walked in: crisped rashers, sausages of several kinds, a mound of eggs scrambled with cream and cheese, grilled tomatoes, chips, and buttered toast.
    None of which McGarr could have. His cholesterol was sky-high, a Garda physician and friend had told him, after a mandatory testing of everybody in the unit. Well into the two hundreds. “Add to that, Chief Superintendent, you don’t seem to be able to do anything about your smoking, so something has to go.
    “May I suggest fatty foods? I could put you on a strict diet. You’d lose weight, feel better, be more active. How much younger is Noreen than you? A fair few years, I’d say. I’d hazard she’d like you around as long as possible.” Worse news was—a copy of the physician’s report had been sent to the house.
    Some friend.
    The diet proved to be simple in the extreme; anything and everything that tasted at all good was verboten. “Not to worry,” the cruel doctor had assured McGarr confidently. “You’ll get used to the regimen. Once you start losing a few pounds and feeling better, you’ll turn up your nose at all those bloating things that you formerly hungered for.”
    It was now day eleven, and McGarr’s nose was pointing at the platter of eggs. Add to that, he had never actually felt unhealthy, he decided, raising a hand in greeting to the others, as he advanced on the table. It had been the physician who had predicted he would possibly feel bad sometime in the future.
    “We’re talking about the big one here, Peter,” the man had carried on. “Myocardial infarction. A heart attack. Bang, and you’re dead. Or some major surgery followed by an equally major change in how you conduct your life. Perhaps you might have to change your occupation. Could you handle that?”
    At the moment, McGarr believed he could handle a smallish dab of everything on the table.
    But before he could even sit down, a bowl of stirabout was placed before his chair, along with a cup of black coffee, a glass of orange juice, and a small heap of pills—vitamins mostly, but also one to lower his blood pressure and another to combat the cholesterol.
    “You should keep in mind,” the preachy doctor had continued, “that growing old successfully requires abandoning unhealthful practices one by one.”
    Until oatmeal mush was all that was left, McGarr decided, looking down into the gluey mass.
    “In addition to tobacco and rich foods, I also mean alcohol,” the man had ranted on, scanning the questionnaire that McGarr had foolishly filled out truthfully. “Do you really drink this much every day? What hour do you begin?”
    Reaching for the butter, his eyes shied toward the pantry where the liquor was kept.
    “Allow me to remove that from your sight,” Noreen said, her hand whisking the butter dish off the table.
    Not in the best of moods before breakfast under normal circumstances, McGarr only glared at her. Earlier, when looking in the mirror to shave, he had been shocked at how swollen his face was, and he could scarcely tie his shoes, his left wrist was so sore.
    “Shall I begin?” McKeon asked,