The Death of an Irish Tradition (Peter McGarr Mysteries) by Bartholomew Gill

By Bartholomew Gill

The Dublin Horse convey is without doubt one of the city's proudest traditions -- a grand establishment tarnished this 12 months through the homicide of aged Margaret Caughey. leader Inspector Peter McGarr is wondered via the unusual dying of a doubtless risk free outdated lady whose condo includes now not a hint of her prior lifestyles -- and by way of the heinous crime's obvious hyperlinks to the impending equestrian occasion. approximately everybody linked to the unlucky sufferer has connections to the pony exhibit to boot, from dowdy Margaret's racetrack gadfly brother, to her unusually based daughter who is scheduled to compete . . . to an ex-IRA agreement killer. And with race day speedily impending, McGarr is aware he needs to paintings speedy to untangle this knotted skein of lethal secrets and techniques. For if he falters, the tireless detective fears that extra blood could be spilt -- even perhaps his personal -- earlier than the riders go away the gate.

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But he needed something else to complete the image. What was it? A cigarette, like a prop, in his left hand. He would talk with it, swirling it around demonstratively. A . . Gauloise. Sure. Ward didn’t THE DEATH OF AN IRISH TRADITION 29 smoke, but he thought he’d give it a try. If nothing else, the girl was chic, and that Murray fellow she was keeping company with, well—. He took three large strides into the kitchen area of the loft and switched off the blender. He tossed the cover at the sink.

Flynn only looked down into his cup and shook his head. “Now you really do owe me one. ” McGarr only stared at him, his gray eyes clear and unblinking. ” “Something about wanting to correct his style in the saddle. ” Already McGarr was out in the hall of the modern building, moving quickly toward the door. ” “Wait, wait. Jesus! ” Moments later, McGarr was pushing through the glass doors that opened on the parking lot, Flynn right behind him. A gust of wind, hot and wet, struck them. On the eastern horizon a bank of clouds, a storm front, had passed in front of the sun and shone like hot, bur- THE DEATH OF AN IRISH TRADITION 39 nished silver.

Repeat that you’re a buyer. They won’t mind a bit. And who’s a good man to talk to? ” McGarr opened one eye to see if McKeon had caught it. He had. “Now—who we’re looking for is a certain older fellow, name J. J. Keegan. He’s the one on the video tape you’ll be seeing. Pounds to pence he won’t be using his real name. Small, dark, sallow skin. Cloth cap, dark suit, about sixty-five, maybe seventy. Galway. Leenane. Could be—” it occurred to McGarr, “—a native Irish speaker. ” McGarr knew what McKeon meant: Keegan fit the description of thousands of older Irishmen and he wondered just how much the grainy picture on the R.

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