Free The Death of an Irish Tradition by Bartholomew Gill

streaked—again the booze—the way he was sweating and breathing heavily even here in the cool lower room, uncomfortable, impatient and squirming in the chair, his body bulging in the expensive, pin-striped suit. O’Shaughnessy would treat the man fairly, but he did not have to like him. Many years ago he had realized it was perhaps the only prerogative granted a policeman and he guarded it jealously.
    “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