‘Neither do I. It’s the life we choose, isn’t it?’
‘It is. Although with my husband and myself working, we’re not so badly off, and Ireland is a lot cheaper than London.’
‘Is Dervla Buckley at home?’
‘She will be. I’ve phoned to tell her we’re coming.’
Larry could tell that Annie O’Carroll still had a lingering sorrow for Buckley.
Larry had no such sentiment; a crooked police officer had abrogated his right to sympathy and concern.
Dervla Buckley was not in a dressing gown on their second visit. This time, she was dressed in an ankle-length dress, her hair coiffured, her makeup immaculate. She was welcoming to the two police officers.
On a table in the sitting room, a spread of sandwiches, freshly-brewed coffee, and a pot of tea. ‘I thought we’d make ourselves comfortable,’ Mrs Buckley said.
‘Thank you,’ Annie said, ‘but we’ve got a few questions. There are disturbing aspects to your husband’s death.’
‘I don’t miss him if that’s what you expect me to say. I know about Sheila Gaffney.’
‘How?’
‘She came over here to offer her condolences.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I was angry at first. Seamus had died, and although she had been sleeping with Ryan, it just doesn’t seem that important to bear any malice against her.’
‘Have you known her for long?’ Larry asked.
‘A long time, almost as long as I knew Ryan. A good woman, good mother, and before what she admitted to, a loyal wife. It goes to show, doesn’t it? People assumed I’d be the one to stray, not that I did, and humble and sweet Sheila is there, flat on her back, my husband on top of her.’
‘There’s another issue,’ Larry said. ‘We’ve identified the man who probably shot your husband. We believe that Seamus had told Ryan something of value. And that was why Ryan killed Seamus, hoping to grab the money for himself.’
‘I never considered him to be dishonest. He loved being a police officer. I can’t believe that of him.’
‘Inspector O’Carroll would prefer to believe the same, but the facts are indisputable. Your husband died as a result of an order from a foreign crime syndicate. We need to know why it’s important. Is there anything he said to you that seems obscure?’
‘Nothing. We were barely talking, only what was necessary.’
‘I hope you’re telling the truth. Two people have died in Ireland, I don’t want you to be the third,’ Larry said.
‘I don’t know anything, believe me. Ryan’s life insurance is still valid, although I don’t expect his police pension is. I have been left financially secure, at least I can thank Ryan for that.’
On the drive to the airport, Annie spoke. ‘Did you believe her?’
‘The money that Ryan’s life insurance will pay is not going to last indefinitely, no matter what she said. However, I do believe her. Just hope that others are of that opinion,’ Larry said.
Chapter 18
Claude Bateman, the most ruthless of the gang leaders who had enjoyed Nicolae Cojocaru’s hospitality, was the first to leave the house where he and the two others had been wined, dined, bedded, and given the runaround.
He had been spotted in the Wellington Arms. Larry heard of the man’s reappearance through a contact who phoned him from time to time, a fifty pound note, a few drinks given in return as payment.
Bateman was in a corner of the pub when Larry walked in. This time he had brought Wendy, a woman who was also partial to a drink, but the visit was business not social, although Larry ordered a pint of beer for each of them.
‘Over here, Inspector,’ Bateman shouted.
Larry and Wendy sat down at the man’s table. Around him, four men, members of his gang: Tony Hammond, a young man, skinny as a rake. Good with a knife if the word on the street was accurate, six months in prison at twenty for theft. Victor Powell, short, in his thirties, an open-necked shirt with a large medallion proudly showing. Larry hadn’t seen him before and assumed he had been brought in if there was to be violence. The third gang member, Marlon Morris, a surly-looking individual who didn’t like the police under any circumstances, and he had elbowed Wendy when she sat down. She had made a mental note to check him out with Bridget. To her, he looked more than a rank and file hoodlum. The fourth man, good-looking, well-spoken, and polite had shaken the hands of the two police officers, as had Bateman. His name was Colin Ross. Wendy thought he was charming, Larry did not.
‘Where are the other two?’ Larry asked Bateman. A woman came over and put her arms around the man’s shoulder; he pushed her away.
‘One of your admirers?’ Wendy said.
Bateman, not responding to the question, looked over at Larry. ‘The bastards killed Marcus Hearne.’
‘There have been others in the past. Why are you concerned and why are we talking in this pub?’
‘Where else? Either I declare my position or I sit on the fence.’
‘And you intend to work with the police on this?’
‘I intend to survive.’
‘Your men here, what do they reckon?’
‘They’ll do what I say.’
‘Until you’re deposed.’
‘Others have tried.’
‘And died. Isn’t that how you decide who’s in charge?’
‘Inspector, let’s focus on our common position. You don’t want an escalation in violence in the area, nor more drugs coming into the country, correct?’
‘We want no violence and no drugs.’
‘You’re living in cloud cuckoo land,’ Bateman said. ‘This is the real world, crime happens, people take drugs, people get drunk, even you in the past when Rasta Joe was alive.’
‘My habits are not of concern. What do you want from me? What are you going to give in return?’
Bateman turned
