The Death of an Irish Lass Read Online Free

Lovely stuff that is. You know—dramatic.”
    One of the detectives swore. When McAnulty turned, he pretended he had been clearing his throat. McAnulty knew what was best for the Technical Bureau and himself, even if they didn’t.
    When McGarr climbed into his Mini-Cooper, he called the Lahinch Garda barracks and asked Superintendent O’Malley if he would have his men canvass the area, asking local farmers if they were missing a pitchfork.
    “Half of them haven’t looked for one in years, I trust,” said O’Malley. “Hate the sight of them, they do.” He was in a foul mood still. “Hardly more than a dozen of them farm much more than the dole. They put a few cattle out to God and then pray the postman will bring them social insurance from Dublin and the price of a pint from wherever their kids have fled to abroad.”
    “Have you been to see the Quirks yet?”
    “Just going now.”
    “I’m thinking I should be going with you.”
    “Funny they haven’t called me already to report May missing.”
    McGarr now wondered about that too. “I’ll be along shortly. We can go in my car.”

TWO
A Pub Morning in a Market Town
    LAHINCH WAS a bright, crossroads market town that Saturday morning. The streets and sidewalks were thronged with shoppers. Not a door was closed. Some shop owners had carried their wares out into bins on the sidewalks, and street vendors had set up stalls in the square. Rubber boots, summer-weight clothes, a van the back of which was loaded with live chickens were offered, as were pyramids of purple cabbage, tomatoes, blond heads of cauliflower, and the sempiternal potato, the mainstay of the Irish diet. These last were new, with fine pinky skins. McGarr could tell they’d taste sweet with unsalted butter or sour cream. He was getting hungry.
    He found an illegal parking place not far from the square, hesitated to pull down the visor with his Dublin Municipal Police pass on it, and finally, at least ten minutes later, parked the Cooper in a safe, regular spot back the way he had come on the road to the Cliffs of Moher.
    Seeing the yellow-and-green kiosk of a public telephone outside the first pub he came to, McGarr stepped into the bar to get some change. It was so dark in there after the sunlit street that the damp, smoky air felt almost cold on McGarr’s bare arms. The place was packed with men who, in spite of the fine weather, were wearing wool coats over their shirts and even, some of them, vests below. Only one other man in the bar was without a soft cloth cap. McGarr had left his Panama in the car.
    McGarr changed two pounds, ordered a large glass of Canadian Club, and took the glass out to the kiosk. The operator said the lines were jammed and he’d call back. McGarr had the luck of finding an open stool at the end of the bar closest to the street and the kiosk. Another man had meant to have that seat, though, and he said to McGarr, “The drink has no goodness in it today, has it, mister? It’s as weak as sow’s milk. The farmer, sure there’s no contentment for him today. Pleasant weather, wouldn’t you say?”
    McGarr smiled and tilted his head. He took a drink of the Canadian Club. He was trying to keep half an ear to the telephone. He had called his wife, Noreen, since he believed he’d be spending at least several more days out here in Clare and wanted her with him.
    “Well, mister,” the man continued, “g’ luck.” He raised his pint, which was nearly full, and the black, frothy liquid seemed to slip down his throat with nary a swallow. Under his cap the man had the face of a bony steer, all nose and chin. His eyes were brown, soft, and gentle.
    McGarr finished his whiskey and placed the glass on the bar.
    The man said, “I’ve got that,” and laid a fiver on the bar.
    This was, McGarr well knew, extraordinary behavior for a West-country man. Although in recent years Lahinch had become something of a resort town, with a fine golf course and a long, sandy beach,