A turn for the bad, p.8
A Turn for the Bad, page 8
And who the heck was the other man who’d been hauled out of the water, who was dead? All she knew was that the body was male, was shorter than John Tully, and was clearly dead, and had been for a couple of days. Which meant he’d died right about the same time as John Tully had gone missing. Maybe he’d been in that boat that Eoin said had taken his father away. Maybe John had attacked him, killing him either on purpose or accidentally, and then fled, trusting the tide to take care of the evidence, and been afraid to return home after? Although Eoin hadn’t said anything about a fight.
Maura shook her head. It was late, she was tired, and her brain was foggy. She had too little information to work with. Mick was coming over early to talk about something mysterious and, she hoped, to help her move forward with getting some heat back into the house. She was definitely going to have to buy some more sweaters before winter set in.
* * *
Maura heard noises coming from the kitchen before eight o’clock the next morning and could smell something cooking. It must be Gillian, for burglars didn’t make breakfast for themselves, as far as she knew. She threw on some clothes and wandered down the stairs to find Gillian frying something and juggling a second pan. She half turned when she saw Maura out of the corner of her eye.
“I’m sorry—did I wake you?”
“It was the smell of whatever the heck you’re making that did it. Smells great, by the way. But I thought artists were night owls.”
“Yes and no. I do my best work when the sun is high—the color values are more accurate. But now I guess I have to say ‘did’ since my place isn’t mine any longer. But more than that, in my current state my internal clock is messed up, so I wake with the sun—and I’m starving. All as it should be, the books I’ve been reading tell me. Here, eat this or I’ll have to eat both plates.” Gillian set a plate of food on the table, and Maura sat in front of it and began forking up eggs and sausage.
“I don’t remember buying eggs,” Maura said between bites. What had Gillian done to the eggs? Hers never tasted like this.
“You didn’t. Maura, you’re living like a teenager. You’ve got to look out for yourself, what with the hours you keep.”
Maura shrugged. “I don’t care all that much about food.”
Gillian brought her own plate to the table and sat down. “Did your gran cook? Or should I say, cook well?”
“The food was okay. She never had the time for anything fancy, so she stuck to plain food. You know, what meat she could afford, potatoes, lots of cabbage. Typical Irish cliché, I guess. She was always telling me I was too skinny, but I think that was in my genes.”
“You miss her, don’t you?” Gillian asked softly.
Maura nodded. “She was all the family I had. And if she hadn’t had to work so hard all her life, maybe she’d still be around.”
“You blame yourself for that?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I know if she didn’t have me to worry about, she might have had better chances, more choices.”
“And she chose you,” Gillian said. “I think she did right by you, as well. But if you’re staying on here, you’ve got to look out for yourself.”
“Okay, okay. And I am staying, at least for a while.”
“When did you decide that?”
Maura ate some more eggs before answering. “When I saw what happened with the music at Sullivan’s.”
Gillian cocked her head. “I’ve only heard about it, and I hope to see what it’s like, if you’ll be doing it again. But why did it mean something to you?”
“Well, for a start, it brings in more business and more money. Which we need if I’m going to keep paying Mick and Jimmy and Rose and replace or repair the things that really need it. But”—Maura hesitated, afraid of sounding sappy—“there really was something special about watching the place come back to life. Seeing the musicians playing together, not because of a paycheck but just for the love of it. And the audience eating it up. It made me happy to be a part of it. So I decided I wanted to see if I could keep it going, like that. If it was a onetime thing, I’ll have to rethink it.”
Gillian smiled. “Maura Donovan, I do believe Ireland’s having its way with you.”
“Whatever,” Maura said. Enough sharing or bonding or whatever it was they were doing. “What about you? Things have kind of changed, haven’t they?”
“What with the baby and all? I’d say so.” Gillian’s smile wavered.
“You still haven’t seen Harry?”
“No.” Now her smile was gone.
“Why not?”
Gillian leaned back in her chair. “I suppose because I don’t know in my own mind what I want from him. I’d love to be able to say This is my child and I’ll take care of it, but the reality is, it’s not that easy. If I have to mind a child, I can’t work, except during nap times, and that’s not enough. It’s too dark at night, when the baby would be sleeping. If I hire a childminder or find a creche, that’d eat all the money I make—both cost the earth. But I know how little money Harry has, plus his job keeps him in Dublin, where everything is twice as expensive.”
“So, bottom line is, you don’t know what you’re going to do,” Maura said bluntly.
“Bang on, Maura. I’ve been thinking of little else for two months now, and then my friend pulls the rug out from under me with the studio here, which hasn’t helped matters. And now I’m camping out in your spare room and feeling sorry for myself.”
“You can stay as long as you need,” Maura offered. “It’s not like I’ve got people begging to stay. I never told anyone I was going to Ireland, mainly because there was nobody to tell. Which I guess doesn’t make me look good. No family, no friends, no plan—at least, until now.”
“Ah, stop feeling sorry for yourself. You’re young, you’re healthy, you’ve got a roof over your head and a business of your own. What do you have to whinge about?”
“Not much, if you put it that way.” Maura summoned up a smile. “So, who else knows about this baby?”
“I’ve told no one, other than yourself, and you guessed.”
“It’s going to be hard to hide pretty soon. Although I guess the guys might not notice until you look like a whale.”
“If then. Can’t you see them saying, Give us another pint, luv, and have you put on a bit of weight, if yeh don’t mind me askin’?” Gillian nailed the local country accent, and Maura laughed.
Then she sobered again. “Seriously, you can work at the pub if you want, although I can’t pay you much. Or you can stay here and paint. Have you cleared out your stuff yet? Do you need some help to move it?”
“I’m not sure a barmaid with a big belly is the image you want to give, Maura, but thanks for offering. As for shifting the stuff, I could use a bit of help. I was thinking of asking Mick if he has the time. And on that subject, what’s going on with the two of you?”
Maura was startled by the question. “Nothing,” she said quickly. “Why?” Maura tried to ignore the memory of that one steamy kiss, the night the music had come back. A kiss that hadn’t been repeated or even mentioned.
“I’ve known Mick Nolan most of my life, and he’s different around you.”
“Well, I wouldn’t know about that, since I didn’t know him before. He works for me. If there was something going on, it could get messy.”
“Life is messy, Maura, as you can see.” Gillian looked down at her midsection. “What about Sean Murphy, then?”
“Gillian, what are you, the town gossip? Or are you trying to play matchmaker? Sean and I have been on two dates, and that’s all. He’s a nice guy, and I think it’s a good thing to have a friend who’s a garda when you’re running a pub.” And fighting off the occasional murderer. Gillian had missed a lot in the short time she’d been away in Dublin.
“For Sean Murphy to ask you out at all is huge for the man, Maura. Just tread carefully, will you? He doesn’t deserve to get hurt.”
“Of course I’ll be careful! I don’t want to hurt anyone. I don’t want to be involved with anyone. Not now, and maybe not ever. Nothing’s happening, with Mick or with Sean, or at least, nobody’s told me about it.”
Gillian sighed, a touch dramatically. “Ah, Maura, for a smart woman you’re not too bright.”
Maura still hadn’t come up with a sharp response to that comment when someone rapped at her door. Oh, right, she’d forgotten that Mick was coming over. “That’ll be Mick. He said there was something he wanted to talk about, that didn’t involve the pub. And don’t go jumping to conclusions, Gillian. I asked him about getting my heat back, so it may be that.”
“I’ll make some more coffee,” Gillian said. “He doesn’t know about the baby, does he?”
“Not from me he doesn’t. Tell him or not—that’s up to you.”
Gillian stood up and went over to the stove. Maura went to the door to let Mick in. “Good morning. Come on in.”
Mick walked in and greeted Gillian. “So yer still here?”
“As you can see. Good morning to you too, Mick. Maura’s been kind enough to offer me her spare room while I get my studio sorted out. And I may need your help to shift some of the heavier things, if you don’t mind.”
“Happy to help. What about Harry Townsend?”
“He’s in Dublin,” Gillian said without comment, and turned back to making coffee.
Mick eyed her curiously, but didn’t say anything more.
Maura pointed at another chair at the table. “So, sit. This is your party. You said you wanted to talk?”
“I can leave if you like,” Gillian said without turning around from the stove.
“I’ll wager what I’ll be tellin’ yeh won’t surprise yeh, Gillian. But Maura here, now, most likely hasn’t heard what I want to say.”
“Just spit it out, will you, Mick?” Maura said. “It’s not about Bridget, is it?” she added anxiously.
“No, Bridget’s grand, and I’ll be stopping in to see her when I leave here, if yeh don’t mind opening this morning.”
“No problem. Nobody’s heard anything new about John Tully?”
“Not that I know,” Mick replied.
Gillian brought a clutch of mugs over to the table and set them down. “There, now—help yourselves. What’s on your mind, Mick Nolan?”
“It’d be about the smuggling. I might know something about that.”
Chapter 10
Maura, puzzled, looked at Mick. If she wanted basic information about smuggling in West Cork, she could ask Sean Murphy, and if he didn’t know the answers, he could point her to someone who did. Why would Mick know anything at all? She watched an interesting exchange of silent expressions between Gillian and Mick: Gillian began with raising one eyebrow, with a slight smile. Mick smiled back and nodded once. Gillian then nodded toward Maura and raised both brows.
“Okay, guys, what’s going on?” Maura demanded. “What am I missing?”
Mick rocked back in his chair, avoiding her eyes. “Do yeh know, smugglin’ has a long history in this part of Ireland. Plenty of deserted coves where just about anything can happen, with no one to see it. Too few gardaí to keep watch, or before that, the Irish navy or whoever was in charge at the time. The coast of West Cork is no better than a sieve.”
“So?” Maura said. “What’s it got to do with anything?”
“Nobody’s said as much, but John Tully might’ve run afoul of a group of smugglers who didn’t take kindly to his presence,” Mick said carefully.
That was one thing Maura had never considered. “Wait—you’re saying that John, walking along the beach with his little kid, saw something he shouldn’t have? Someone trying to land something?”
“He might have done.”
“If that’s true, why didn’t they just knock him out right then and go on with their business?”
“To their credit, maybe they were worried about the child.”
“Who got left there alone anyway,” Maura pointed out. “Are you saying because of what he saw that he shouldn’t have, they might have killed John, and it just happens that nobody’s found the body yet? Or they took it away with them and dumped it who knows where?”
“Could be. Although these encounters are seldom violent. Everybody kinda looks the other way, and nobody tells the gardaí or customs. ‘Mind yer own business’ is the order of the day.”
Maura thought about that for a moment—and thought back to her Boston days, where she knew that people bought goods that just happened to have “fallen off the truck,” no questions asked. Was this so different? But a man was missing and another man was dead. “Okay, help me understand this. What gets smuggled?”
“Drugs. Alcohol. Tobacco and cigarettes,” Mick said. “Those are just the high-cost things—there’s plenty of smaller counterfeit stuff that slips through, like perfumes and designer clothes.”
Maura stared at him incredulously. “Are you saying that this is more than a bunch of guys in a boat, sneaking past the . . . well, whoever’s supposed to be on patrol?”
Mick nodded. “Far bigger. We’re talking millions of euros. Per trip. And that’s only the ones who get caught.”
“What’re we talking about around here in West Cork?” Maura demanded.
“Depends,” Mick replied. “Alcohol tends to be the most local—it’s not hard to make and it’s easy to disguise, like puttin’ it in an antifreeze container or some other kind of bottle. There are those who take the empty bottles from a pub and reuse them and just print up new labels. Cigarettes, now, that’s a much bigger business. Some say that as much as forty percent of the cigarettes smoked in this country are illegal. As fer drugs, there’s plenty of cannabis about, but cocaine’s where the big money is. Comes in pure and gets cut when it reaches its destination.”
And she hadn’t been aware of any of this? “Where’s it all come from?”
“Like I said, the alcohol doesn’t travel far. The tobacco? Asia—places like Vietnam. Africa. Those two supply mostly cigarettes, but there’s also trade in loose tobacco, and a lot of that comes by way of Europe. Cocaine? South America, Central America, West Africa, even Spain.”
Maura wondered how she could have been so naive. It had never occurred to her that there might be a black market in cigarettes or liquor, much less anything like a major amount of cocaine. In Boston it wouldn’t have surprised her—and she would have added to the list pharmaceuticals and illegal guns. But West Cork? Simple, peaceful West Cork? But Mick was right: all those tiny, deserted coves and islands offered the perfect settings for shipments and transfers that somebody wanted to keep away from prying eyes. And Sean had told her the gardaí were stretched kind of thin. They couldn’t be everywhere at once, even if crime in general was low.
Something about Mick’s summary seemed off. He rarely talked about serious stuff—not that Sullivan’s was the place for important discussions—but he seemed to know an awful lot about smuggling. And that suggested that he might have some kind of personal experience, which would explain why he’d been kind of secretive about it and asked to meet here rather than at the pub.
Might as well get it out in the open now. “Mick, why do you know so much about this?” Maura asked, although she thought she already knew the answer.
He looked at her briefly, then looked away. “I might have put my hand to it, now and then.”
Maura’s stomach dropped. “What? You’re telling me you’ve smuggled . . . what? Here? When?”
Gillian, who had remained a silent observer so far, said, “Don’t be too quick to judge, Maura. There’s plenty of people hereabouts who make a little on the side, not quite legally.”
Mick ignored her interruption, but took his time in responding. “I wouldn’t touch the drugs—they can destroy people. And the men behind it, they’re dangerous. You must’ve known that, back in Boston.”
“Like Colombian cartels, that kind of thing? Sure, I’ve read about them. They’re here too?” It was a frightening thought, Maura reflected. She’d known something was going on in the cities, after her earlier encounter with a thug from Cork city. But here?
“They are. The alcohol, now—that’s a different question. People drink. I’m not sayin’ there aren’t those who overdo, but most folk like a drink or two of an evening, while watchin’ sports on the telly or sharin’ some craic in the pub. You’ve seen that. But with all the government taxes and such, it’s expensive fer an ordinary man. There’s been little trouble with excess drink at Sullivan’s, am I right?”
“Yes. I’ve certainly seen worse in Boston. You’re saying most people can’t afford more?”
Mick nodded.
“Do you smuggle liquor?” Maura demanded.
Mick shook his head. “I wouldn’t do that. I worked fer Old Mick fer years, and he was good to me, gave me a job when I needed one and treated me fairly. I knew then how much money the place made and how much he needed to keep goin’, even if he didn’t ask fer much. If you think about it you’ll realize that selling liquor off the books takes away from yer own business at the pub. Those who buy outside aren’t buying drinks at Sullivan’s, or not as many.”
“Old Mick didn’t buy under the table to save money?” Maura asked, both horrified and curious.
“There’s too many regulations, too many eyes watchin’, to get away with that. That’s why the pub owners lose out. Mick was honest and he did what he had to do to stay open, if not much more. I wouldn’t have gone behind his back to undercut his business. Though you’ve seen yerself there’s little call for the hard stuff around here.”
Which left . . . “Cigarettes, then.”
Mick nodded. He watched Maura’s face, waiting for her reaction.
