The Death of an Irish Lover by Bartholomew Gill Read Free Book Online Page B

happened down in the bar, or because he had been dealing with the Carsons of the country for too long—McGarr said through his teeth, “You think so? I’ll show you my business.”
    McGarr seized Carson under the arm and rushed him toward the door behind which the two corpses lay. Still powerfully built in spite of his fifty-plus years, McGarr threw open the door and shoved Carson in, grabbing a handful of the man’s graying hair and pulling him across the carpet.
    At the bed he yanked the head down hard, so it was nearly touching Ellen Finn’s mortally wounded head that was lying on Pascal Burke’s dead chest.
    “There’s me business, you gobshite. And the double murder of two cops has you written all over it.” McGarr jerked up the head, then kicked Carson’s legs from under him. The man came down hard on the carpet but in a sitting position.
    Bending so his mouth was next to Carson’s ear, McGarr whispered, “I could wrap this up right here and now. Not a judge in the country would think twice about putting you away for good this time. And one other thing. Never—ever—threaten me or anybody in my hearing again, or I’ll put you down. Permanently.”
    Carson’s blue and clear eyes darted up to McGarr’s.
    “My promise.”
    “And mine—you lay hands on me again, and I’ll have you up on charges. I have a cast-iron alibi—three people—who’ll tell you I only ever left the bar to piss, Friday noon to Friday midnight.”
    Flicking his hand, McGarr sent the man sprawling.
    He reached for the cell phone in a jacket pocket; a function key dialed his office in Dublin. While waiting for it to ring, McGarr realized that the brewing storm outside had struck—wind was whining through the eaves of the large building, and a heavy rain raked the windows.
    “Get me the sheet from the North on Benny Carson,” he said when a voice answered. And to Carson, “Is it Benny or Ben E.?”
    But Carson, who had straightened himself up, was staring at the two bodies on the bed, and…could it be? Tears were streaming from his eyes.
    “Don’t have to,” said the voice on the other end of the phone, “didn’t I grow up with the yoke?” It was Bernie McKeon, McGarr’s chief of staff, who was from County Monaghan, like McGarr’s own father and his father before him.
    “I thought he was from the North.” Technically, Monaghan was part of Ulster, which was thought of as the north of Ireland by traditionalists and Republicans. But like Cavan and Donegal, Monaghan was firmly part of the twenty-six counties that now made up the Irish Republic.
    “I think he always wanted to be,” McKeon replied. “Relatives in Portadown. You know. Republican background. And he spoke that way—with the full Scots burr even as kids. Like he was really from there.
    “And he carried it off, being a bit of a thespian. A great lad for skits and jokes. Tell you the truth, I liked him well enough, until he shot those two R.U.C. cops. But, sure, there were those who said he didn’t, being too smart for something so…direct. There’s that too—with his mates he was known as a backroom man, a planner.
    “He with you?”
    “Yah.”
    “And you’re thinking he just shot two more?”
    McGarr let silence carry the thought.
    “I’ll get the details. But there’s this too: he’s still a local hero up there—the whole IRA thing and his record in solitary. He was in on one of the hunger strikes, too. Takes a hard man to have lasted that.”
    McGarr glanced down at Carson, who looked anything but.
    “When he got out, it was said by some he’d had enough. And he retired from active service. But me Uncle Mick, who’s friendly with the family, said they’re awash in cash from time to time. A new pricey car. They gussied up the old house. Mod cons, that class of thing. All from ‘Benny B’y,’ they call him over jars, though he’s seldom seen.
    “And then I think he’s wanted again in the North.”
    “Check that.”
    “Something to