The Death of an Irish Tinker by Bartholomew Gill

Author:Bartholomew Gill [Gill, Bartholomew]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Mystery
ISBN: 9780727852656
Publisher: Avon
Published: 1990-09-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 11

Victim

NEXT MORNING PETER McGarr bumped through the swinging door of the Murder Squad office and made straight for his cubicle.

Twelve years had changed him little. Although short by the measure of younger generations at five feet ten and a half, McGarr still looked somewhat youthful. The hair that could be seen under a stylish trilby was brilliant orange and curly, and his eyes were clear and gray.

All that was different, really, were his posture, which was a bit stooped now, and his gait, which had become more distinct. Called the Dublin trudge by his wife, McGarr’s way of perambulating was distinctive. With hands plunged in his trouser pockets and hat still on his head, he traversed the office leaning forward. His steps were quick, seemingly purposeful, but also a bit harried, as though “carrying the weight of an improbable universe” on his shoulders. Her quote.

Which assessment was accurate at least this morning. McGarr’s “form” was in no way good. Not more than a half hour earlier he had read an editorial in one of the morning papers that had made him angry. It contended that whereas Ireland could boast of one of the lowest per capita murder rates in Europe—lower, in fact, than Japan and Singapore, which were considered two of the safest countries in the world—the country’s conviction rate was deplorable. Significantly below those two countries.

Granted, it was nitpicking at its worst, but the editorial went on to call for an inquiry into “Garda investigation priorities, techniques, and relevant personnel.” Only in passing were government barristers mentioned, as though winning or losing in court depended solely on Garda evidence and not on the capabilities of prosecutors.

Nor was any mention made of the fact that a significant portion of Ireland’s murders were political in nature and not pursued for political reasons. Or that those murders were generally not assigned to McGarr’s squad or were taken away from him the moment progress was made.

Drug-related murders were another area that many politicians and even some of the police wished to play down. Probably a decade ago McGarr had heard a high-ranking guard say, “Why make an issue of them? Let the scuts kill each other off. And fair play to them.”

Hands still in pockets, hat still on head, McGarr sat at his desk, beside which Detective Superintendent Hugh Ward was now sitting. He had replaced Liam O’Shaughnessy, who had long since retired.

With arms spread, Ward was reading a newspaper. “Gobshites, shooting from the lip,” he said. “It’s easy. A few pints of courage and a word processor. He’s probably all the chat among his own kind. But safe, knowing we can’t respond.” Since it was Garda policy not to.

And they—the others in the journalist’s profession, such as it was—would know that, McGarr told himself. But not the general public. Nor McGarr’s superiors, who hated criticism of any sort. Nor his wife or young daughter and their relatives, who would take it personally. McGarr was in a foul mood.

A gracefully shaped hand

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