Read Death in Dublin - Peter McGarr 16 for Free Online Page B

Noreen’s death.
    But he only nodded and reached for the handle to the back gate of the Sloane residence. McGarr was not used to divulging his feelings, nor did he do that easily.
    The small back garden had been paved with co n crete and fi?lled with sheds from which they could hear pigeons cooing. Planters, some still in bloom, lined a sunny wall.
    McKeon knocked on the back door with a frosted glass window. From the inside, they heard a deep man’s voice say, “Jesus fookin’ Christ, Ma—didn’t I tell yeh to lock the back gate?”
    Then, louder. “Yeah?”
    “Police.”
    “What police?”
    “Murder Squad.”
    “And bloody fookin’ late, yiz are.”
    They heard a lock turn, and the door was jerked open. In it stood a large young man with a kind of si l ver ring through the septum of his nose.
    His head was shaved, and over his broad shoulders he was wearing something like a woolen half-tunic. His trousers were light green and looked more like pajama bottoms. On his feet were sandals.
    Apart from the ring, most noticeable were his bulging biceps that were mottled with patterns of ta t toos. Yet from his long face and beaklike nose, McGarr could see he was Raymond Sloane’s son. Early twe n ties, maybe twenty-fi?ve.
    “Yiz fookin’ cunts—nice of yeh to stop round. We thought you’d taken to informing families of murder victims on the teley. What’s next, E-mail?”
    “Would your mother be at home?” McGarr asked, noting that the nose ring was shaped rather like a Claddagh with azure studs on either end. He wo n dered how it must feel to have something like that there. Always.
    “And now sneaking in through the back.” His eyes, which were dark, played over the two smaller older men assessingly. “Two poncey codger cunts. What’s wrong—gone suddenly camera shy? Or did yiz leave your balls back at Trinity?”
    McGarr glanced at McKeon before pulling out his Garda ID, which he held toward Sloane with his thumb covering his name. “And you are?”
    “Does it fookin’ matter?”
    When Sloane’s eyes fell to the card, McKeon’s hands shot out, one thumb digging into the young man’s neck, the second fi?nding another pressure point on the triceps of his right arm.
    Sloane actually yelped, as McKeon jerked him out of the doorway and over an outstretched knee—d e positing him rather gently on the concrete. Stepping back, he advised, “You. Stay. There.”
    McGarr moved into a low hall that led to what had been a scullery in days gone by but was now used as a kind of closet.
    A small kitchen with a bedroom off it came next, then more narrow hall.
    He found an older woman seated between two ot h ers, who were younger, in a small sitting room that was packed with overstuffed furniture, tables, fl?oor lamps, more potted plants, framed photographs, curios, and even a spinet piano.
    Eyes on McGarr, none said a word.
    “Chief Superintendent McGarr.” He took a step into the room. “I have some questions for you.”
    “Took you long enough,” said one of the younger women.
    From the back, he could hear McKeon. “And don’t even think about getting up.”
    “But it’s me own fookin’ house.”
    “Shut your bloody gob. You think your mother needs you giving out like this?”
    McGarr took a seat opposite the three women.
    With eyes red and swollen, the wife had a fi?stful of photographs in her hand. Her cheeks, which had fallen into loose folds of skin, were streaked with tears. With prominent teeth and a weak chin, she had never been a pretty woman. But somehow she looked older than Sloane himself had in death.
    Her eyes fl?ickered up at him. “I know you know what it’s like. But...”
    McGarr only nodded, his personal tragedy having been played up by the press. Even now, his name was seldom mentioned without reference to the still-unsolved case.
    One of the younger women twitched and opened her mouth to speak. But her mother’s free hand came down on her thigh. “It’s unfortunate how you