Love and Shamrocks: Ballybeg, Book 5 (14 page)

“Beheaded?” The word fell from Brian’s mouth in a horrified gape.

“That’s what I said. They found her body the next morning, over by the woods.” Peig’s eyes narrowed. “The head was put into my son’s bed.”

“Jaysus,” said Brian, awestruck. “Just like
The Godfather.
”

Peig shot him a look of confusion. “The what?”

“You know, the film.”

A blank stare.

“Never mind.” Brian’s feigned resignation failed to conceal his contempt for Peig, her home, and her lifestyle. If the lad had any ambition to rise in the police force, he’d need to work on his body language.

“You have no idea who could be behind these attacks?” Seán scrutinized her as he spoke, hoping for a flicker of emotion or an involuntary twitch. “Anyone from Ballybeg been particularly nasty to your people?”

Peig’s right cheek spasmed, and she shifted her attention to her mug of fortified tea. When her eyes rose to meet his, her expression was impassive. “No one I can think of.”

No one she was prepared to name. Seán opened his mouth to press her further, but the caravan door hit him in the back. He jerked around.

A swarthy man stood in the doorway, dark eyes flashing, hands clenched in hairy-knuckled fists.

A silent nod passed between the newcomer and Peig.

If the swish of a blade through the air was any indication, their meeting was at an end.

THE KNIFE LANDED in the wall. It held a moment, suspended and vibrating, before falling to the ground with a clatter.

Seán’s hand flew to his utility belt. No SIG.
Damn
. Now that he was demoted to uniform, a baton was his only weapon.

The dark-haired man strode past them, retrieved the knife, and began peeling an apple. It should have been an awkward task with a blade so big, but he had no difficulties.

“Blackie,” Peig commanded. “Sit down and stop showing off.”

Blackie glowered at Seán and Brian but lumbered toward the last remaining seat at Peig’s small table. He lowered himself into it, large, threatening, and stinking of dog.

“My son,” Peig said by way of introduction.

“What are the Guards doing here?” Blackie bit into his apple, spraying flesh all over his thick beard.

“They’ve come to ask about young Jimmy.”

“Oh, aye?” An irritating sneer stretched across Blackie’s face. “Found something out?”

Seán pinned the man in place with a hard stare. “Do you know who attacked him?”

Blackie shrugged. “No. Even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”

“Intending to take the law into your own hands?” Brian leaned closer. “If so, have a rethink. I don’t care for having knives thrown at me.” The words “especially not by a Tinker” hovered in the air—unspoken but implicit.

“All I did was show off my knife-throwing skills, officer.” Blackie’s tone was deceptively innocent. “I threw it at the wall, not you.”

“Garda Glenn.” Seán’s voice held a note of warning.

Brian sat back down, a belligerent tilt to his jaw.

Blackie’s grin grew wider, displaying tobacco-stained teeth. “Garda Glenn…the name is familiar. I do believe you arrested me once.”

“I do believe I arrested you more than once, Mr. Murphy.”

“Enough with the macho grandstanding,” Seán said. “Let’s focus on Jimmy’s attack. How can no one at the caravan park have seen anything? Someone must know something. You’re all adamant it was an outsider. You must have a reason for this suspicion.”

Blackie poured himself a shot of whiskey, knocked it back in one, and slammed the glass onto the table. “No one saw anything because it’s never wise to see anything, Garda Mackey.”

“Sergeant Mackey.” Murphy was winding him up deliberately. “It’s never wise to take matters into your own hands. Tell us what we need to know, and we’ll do our best to see justice is done.”

Blackie sneered. “Sure, you don’t believe that, man. Justice? What a bloody joke. You can’t even stamp out corruption in your own ranks. If you’re really interested in finding out who hurt a Traveller, you’re the first Guard I’ve met to pay more than lip service to justice.”

Seán rose to his feet. “We won’t take up more of your time.” He tossed his card on the table and looked from one to the other, ensuring he had their full attention. “If you think of anything relating to the attacks, anything at all, give me a call. Day or night.”

Blackie drew snot up his nostrils. Peig’s nose twitched. Neither made a move to pocket the card.

“That was a total waste of time,” Brian muttered while they were trudging back through the mud to the police car.

“Not entirely.” Seán’s paused to collect his thoughts. “We suspected the Travellers were hiding something about the attacks. Now we
know
they know more than they’re saying. The person behind the attacks has to be someone with clout.”

Brian slid him a curious look. “How do you work that out? There are a lot of people in Ballybeg who’d prefer the Travellers gone.”

Seán slid the car key from his pocket and rapped it against his knuckles thoughtfully. “If it was an eejit like my…like John-Joe Fitzgerald or Buck MacCarthy, the Travellers would take care of it themselves. Whoever’s doing this has got them scared shitless. It takes a lot to intimidate the Travellers.”

“Are you thinking a vigilante group?” Brian asked, opening the car door.

Their eyes met across the roof of the car. “That’s exactly what I’m thinking.”

Seán slid behind the wheel and started the ignition. He eased the vehicle off the halting site and down the bumpy track through the woods.

“If a vigilante group is responsible for the attacks,” Brian said, furrowing his brow in thought, “then who’s organizing it?”

Seán gave a wry laugh. “That, my friend, is the million-euro question.”

They’d reached the main road when his phone started to buzz. He hit speakerphone.

“Seán?” The sound of the super’s raspy voice echoed through the car speakers. “Where the hell are you?”

“We’re driving back from the halting site.”

His boss’s dismissive harrumph grated on Seán’s nerves. “I told you to escort Helen Havelin shopping this afternoon,” the super snapped. “Why aren’t you at Clonmore House?”

“Sir, after the attack last night, I judged questioning the Travellers to be the priority. I sent Reserve Garda Doyle round to Clonmore House.”

The older man gave a derisive snort. “That fool? He never showed. Ms. Havelin is understandably upset.”

“Understandably.” Seán’s voice dripped sarcasm.

“Get your arse over to Clonmore House right now.”

His hands tensed around the steering wheel. “What about Jimmy Murphy?”

“Who?”

“The Traveller boy who was attacked,” Seán said through gritted teeth.

“Oh, him. Never mind the Tinker. It was probably one of their own.”

“That’s not an attitude befitting a member of
An Garda Síochána
. Sir,” he added belatedly. This being-demoted business was a pain.

Superintendent O’Riordan was not impressed. “Are you telling me how to do my job?”

“No, sir, I—”

“Then get your arse over to Clonmore House right now, Mackey. I decide which cases take priority, and I judge the threat to Helen Havelin’s safety to be of paramount concern. Let young Garda Glenn deal with the Tinkers.”

“Yes, sir.” Seán exhaled through clenched teeth. “Flaming Helen Havelin,” he said to Brian after the super had disconnected. He threw his phone up on the dashboard with force.

“What do you make of Helen’s story?” Brian asked. “I’m inclined to think the deranged stalker is a load of bollocks.”

“I don’t know. She seems genuinely jumpy to me.” He scowled. “Whatever the truth of the matter is, Helen is used to having her diva demands met. I resent her showing up here and commandeering police time when she could hire bodyguards, especially when we’re stretched thin as it is.”

“The super is smitten. Seems to think Helen is the greatest thing ever to grace the town of Ballybeg,” his partner said with a grin. “What’s that saying? No fool like an old fool? Ah, well. Let him have his fun.”

“He should have his fun on his own time, and not at the expense of our meager police resources.” Seán slapped the steering wheel. “This is insane. We have a serious assault on a member of a minority group, yet we’re supposed to give precedence to the alleged stalker of an alleged celebrity? In what world is that fair?”

Brian sighed. “Look, I agree with you, but Helen is only in Ballybeg a couple of days a week. We have the rest of the time to concentrate on the Travellers case.”

“What about everything else that needs to be done?” The road forked before him, and Seán swerved right toward the coast and Clonmore House. “McGarry’s no slouch, but Reserve Garda Doyle is a disgrace. We can’t leave this case to them.”

Brian pinched the bridge of his nose. “I know you think I don’t have the experience, and you’re probably right, but you’re going to have to trust me. I’ll help you to track down whoever is responsible for the attack on Jimmy Murphy, even if it means working unofficial overtime. Deal?”

“I can’t ask you to do that. It’s against regulations, and you have your university coursework.”

“I’ve handed in all my assignments, and my thesis is almost finished. I can juggle the time.”

“How will Sharon feel about you spending extra time at work?”

The mention of his new girlfriend brought a wide smile to Brian’s lips. “Sharon’s cool. She’ll understand this case is important.”

“All right, then,” Seán said reluctantly, “but take no unnecessary risks. We’ll divide the unofficial investigation time between us and try to do as much together as possible.”

“Fair enough.”

Seán grimaced. “Now that we’ve sorted that out, I’d better go and play chauffeur to a diva.

“I’M OFFERING TO BUY you new clothes. What possible objection can you have to the idea of a new wardrobe free of charge?”

Clio tensed her fingers around the handle of the duster. She placed a statuette of Venus back in its place on the display table. “Nothing’s free of charge, Mother. Not with you.”

Helen was reclining on the chaise longue, watching while Clio cleaned and adding what she referred to as “helpful criticism” at regular intervals. “Don’t be cynical. You’re my daughter. I simply want you to look your best.”

“In other words, you don’t want me to embarrass you.”

“That’s ridiculous. I don’t want you to embarrass yourself. Your clothes are a disaster.” Her mother gestured to Clio’s worn jeans and frayed pullover. “How can any woman wish to walk around looking like a homeless person? As for your makeup…” Helen shuddered. “How can any daughter of mine not know how to apply eye shadow?”

“I don’t
wear
eye shadow, therefore I don’t need to know how to apply it.”
Besides, how hard can it be, right?

“If you knew how to apply eye shadow, you’d wear it.”

Clio sighed. There was no arguing with Helen’s logic, or lack thereof. She was determined to transform her daughter into her clone and seemed impervious to the fact that this was never going to happen.

“Don’t you want to look your best?” Helen opened her cosmetics bag, extracted a powder compact from its depths, and flipped open her portable makeup mirror. “I always feel better when I make an effort with my appearance.”

“Your idea of ‘making an effort’ and mine are a little different,” Clio said in a dry tone. “I feel good with a swipe of mascara and comfortable shoes.”

Her gaze dropped to her mother’s feet. Helen had on her signature towering heels. Clio’s toes were still recovering from those silly red stilettos. The idea of wearing shoes like that all day, every day, was horrifying.

Her mother slid the powder compact back into her makeup case, stretched, and stood. “You’ve done a good job with the unpacking,” she said, trailing a fingertip over the freshly dusted mantelpiece. “The house is almost perfect.”

Clio cupped her ear. “Is that praise I hear escaping your lips? Are you feeling unwell?”

“Don’t be cheeky.” A small frown threatened the smooth perfection of Helen’s forehead. “Have I been such an ogre?”

Did her mother want the unvarnished truth or a bland platitude? “Put it this way,” she began, searching for the diplomatic approach, “I’m pretty sure I’d find your picture next to the dictionary definition of ‘perfectionist.’”

“I’m sorry, dear. I do like things to be just right.” Her mother bit her lip. “I want the three of us living together to work out, especially come the summer.”

The duster hovered over a selection of porcelain figurines. “Why? What’s happening in the summer?”

Helen blinked, her lips parting in a small O of surprise. “My retirement, of course.”

“What?” Clio felt as though the air was being forcibly removed from her lungs with suction force. “You’re retiring? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I assumed you knew. It was all over the news. Everyone knows this is my last season doing the show.”

“Clearly ‘everyone’ does not know. I certainly didn’t.” If Emma had heard about Helen’s plans, she would have mentioned it before the move to Ballybeg.

Her mother sighed and tilted her head to one side. “That’s what you get for watching British TV and international streaming services. If you paid more attention to Irish television and current affairs, you couldn’t have missed the announcement.”

A sinking suspicion weighed in Clio’s stomach. “After you retire, where will you live?”

“Why, here, of course. That was the entire point of buying this house. I’d always planned to move back to Cork when I retired. Once I realized my days at the station were numbered, I began house hunting.” Helen’s slim shoulders stiffened, and her expression grew strained. “I assumed you were aware of this before you moved into Clonmore House. Is it going to be a problem?”

Yes!
a voice in Clio’s head screamed. “When I agreed to live here and act as your housekeeper, it was on the understanding that you’d be away during the week.”

“I’ll be away Monday to Friday. Until I retire.”

She gripped the handle of the duster so tight she was sure it would snap. “I can’t imagine you giving up work. How will you cope?” Without the limelight, Helen would wilt.