Free Death in Dublin - Peter McGarr 16 by Bartholomew Gill Page A

steadily but without passion for perhaps a half hour, before he heard the back door open.
    “Peter—is that you out there?” Nuala asked, squin t ing into the darkness. “I thought I saw you. Put that down now. And come in. Your tea is ready.”
    Climbing the back stairs, he caught the aroma of baking plaice with black olives and mild peppers, some fresh tarragon, and butter. Less apparent were the odors of parsleyed potatoes and hot bread.
    Like her daughter had been, Nuala was an excellent cook. And yet he who had eaten next to nothing the day long had little appetite for the food. He reached for a glass of wine, which was white, cold, and calming, he hoped.
    “Maddie tells me you were on the teley today.”
    McGarr nodded and glanced over at Maddie, who had brought a book to the table in spite of his having asked her not to do so some weeks earlier.
    But he could hardly blame her, dinner conversation usually taking the form of “How was your day?” “Grand.” “And yours?” A nod. “The same.” This, in spite of Nuala’s having once been accounted as one of the notable conversationalists in Dublin society.
    “The Kells affair, now—will you catch the blighters who killed that poor watchman?”
    Eating the dinner if only to respect the effort, Mc-Garr glanced up at Nuala. In all but coloring she r e sembled Noreen—dark where Noreen had been fair. But now in her early seventies, she was gray; her skin had grown slack and her hips wide.
    “Yes. Surely. We will. Eventually, I suppose.” There would be money involved, which always left a trail in some way or other.
    “But will you get the books back?”
    “Yah. It’s why they were stolen.”
    “For a ransom.”
    “Yah.”
    Maddie’s head came up from the book. “How much?”
    “We haven’t heard from them yet.” Unless, of course, Jack Sheard had, and McGarr and the Murder Squad were being kept out of the loop.
    He thought of the taoiseach’s press conference, the commissioner’s note, and he placed his fork on the plate. He knew why Sheard brought out all his insecurities and fears.
    Younger, taller, handsome, well-spoken, with the picture-perfect family and legal background, Sheard was the future of the Garda.
    As for McGarr ...well, he had no university d e grees, no other training, and apart from Maddie and Nuala, his work was all he had in life. All he knew.
    “But how much do you think?”
    Pushing back his chair, he stood and moved toward the pantry where he kept the malt. “Millions, I’m ce r tain. Why murder for less?”
    “How many?” Nuala paused. “What’s wrong— don’t you fancy your dinner?”
    “It’s grand. I’ll be right out.” Pouring himself a stiff drink and then adding to it, McGarr knocked it back, set down the glass, considered another but instead corked the bottle and returned to the table.
    “I’ve no idea how many millions,” he continued when he could, as though he had not left. Through his watering eyes, Maddie’s image was distorted. “But they’re obviously professional thieves.” And killers, he did not add. “So the sum could be high.”
    “Millions and millions?”
    He nodded and again reached for the wineglass that he drank from, rather like a chaser.
    Nuala’s jet eyes, now a bit rheumy with age, moved from the glass to his face, and then back down at the glass. “Have you heard from them?”
    “Not that I know.”
    Later, up in Maddie’s room, he said good night to her rather early, as she continued to read the book in bed.
    “The bit on the television—it bothered you?”
    Eyes in the book, she only shook her head.
    “Bernie was assaulted by the dead man’s son, who let the press in. Seven stitches in his pate. I had to do something. I was going after the son. The others just got in the way, letting him escape.”
    “Peter—don’t you think I know that?”
    It might be necessary for her friends to know that as well, however. “Well”—he bent and kissed her for e