By Bartholomew Gill
The lifeless girl is an enigma –– a neighborhood lass who emigrated to the United States a few years again, now perched atop a seven–hundred–foot cliff excessive above the pounding Irish surf . . . with passports, a pistol, and $27,000 U.S. cash in her coat pocket. The brutality of may well Quirk's homicide –– in addition to the accompanying loss of life of her unborn baby –– haunts leader Superintendent Peter McGarr of the specified Crimes Unit. What was once it that introduced her domestic to County Clare to die? McGarr is decided to determine, as his research contains him into the twisted center of a dangerous conspiracy headquartered round funds, insanity, and deadly politics . . . and leads him faraway from his own residence to a depressing position the place a committed Irish policeman is straightforward prey.
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Additional resources for The Death of an Irish Lass (Peter McGarr Mysteries)
Sample text
When McGarr got back into the pub he found that Michael Daly had bought him another whiskey. ” McGarr had underestimated the farmer. ” The bartender and several patrons nearby had pricked up their ears. ” Daly nodded, then glanced at the others. “Peter McGarr,” he said in a loud voice, as though he had announced a race winner. Talk had quieted considerably in the pub now. McGarr was well known to most of his countrymen, the reputation he had developed while working for Interpol and, earlier, Criminal Justice in Paris having preceded him to Ireland.
The room was filled with two stuffed chairs, a divan, and a thick rug, all in some red color, and a sideboard with Waterford crystal on top. The mantel of the glazed-brick fireplace held an eight-day clock made in Japan and a gilded-frame picture of their only and now 38 Bartholomew Gill dead daughter, May. But something else on the sideboard caught McGarr’s eye—a half-empty, open bottle of Canadian Club. Superintendent O’Malley seemed lost, both in the immensity of the divan and in his own thoughts.
Certainly there was a hot demand for the products 36 Bartholomew Gill such a country could supply on a grand scale, given certain improvements in farming methods. Many of the Continental countries even now couldn’t feed their populations. But Clare was another story. Clare was rock, albeit picturesque rock. ” “I’ll take a gander out back, then,” said McGarr. An old man was standing in the doorway now. ” he asked O’Malley. O’Malley removed his blue Garda cap. “Maybe we better go inside, John. ” McGarr walked around the outbuildings: an old barn in which cows were once kept before the new house was built, a three-bay hayrick, the old house, in the main room of which a Massey-Ferguson tractor now sat—and stopped at the garden.