Chapter 23
A shudder ran through Siobhán. She pointed at Nathan. “Does Book Face list who this man is?”
“He’s not tagged,” Gráinne said. Tagged? Like some kind of wild animal on safari. Or the tag on the end of a cold, dead toe. “Why? Who is he?”
Gráinne didn’t recognize him. At least he hadn’t been hanging around her brood. Gráinne probably filtered out any male who wasn’t young and hot. The less Gráinne knew, the better. Siobhán didn’t answer. Was Rose Foley in danger, or was she involved with Nathan Doyle? Is that how he got the job? Were they having an affair? “Check Rose Foley’s relationship status.”
“Why? We all know she’s married.”
“Humor me.”
Gráinne sighed and clicked to her personal details page. Under RELATIONSHIP the status landed like a slap to the face: single. Gráinne gasped. “How did you know?”
“A hunch.” Siobhán stared at the word. “Is there any way of telling when she changed her status to single?”
Gráinne scrolled through. “Yesterday. So technically she is single. But that’s cold. Don’t you think?”
It was cold, alright. Her husband wasn’t even buried. “It’s something.”
“Do you think she killed him?”
“I don’t think she was physically capable of it. But there certainly wasn’t any love lost.”
“It’s not fair. I would have made a good wife.”
“You are going to find a much classier man than Eamon Foley.”
“I don’t want a classy man. I want a hot man.”
Siobhán sighed. Gráinne was a work in progress. “Can we print photos from here to our printer?”
“I can,” Gráinne said. “I doubt you can.”
“Print that photo out for me, please.” Nathan Doyle has been following Rose and Eamon. Is he a stalker? Now Rose is missing. Is she in danger?
“If this is official business, why not do it at the station?”
Gráinne is sharp. But there was no way Siobhán was going to tell her the real reason why. But she could no longer deny it herself. If she was going to find anything on Nathan Doyle, it wasn’t going to be with Macdara’s help. She never thought she’d find herself thinking this, but there was no denying it. Macdara and Nathan were getting on like a house on fire. She stopped short of calling it a bromance. Whatever this was, she was going to have to do a little digging before she dropped it on him that his man crush just might be a murderer.
* * *
Clementine Hart and Shane Ross agreed to meet her at Sharkey’s. Clementine wandered around the pub, taking in the photos and memorabilia on the walls. The cliché “if these walls could talk” did not apply here, for the walls did speak. Hurling games, and football games, and stained jerseys and trophies, and racehorses, and trad musicians all sang from the walls, along with old advertisements from Guinness with any number of animals drinking pints of the black stuff. Memories gathered like storm clouds, raining down in mismatched frames, marking the craic over the years. You can take a man out of Ireland, but you can’t take him out of the pub.
Pubs opened and pubs closed over the years. Currently they were on an upswing. There were seventeen pubs going now, each as unique as a fingerprint. If menace was going to happen in any of them, it was somewhat fitting it was Sharkey’s. She wondered if somewhere in Donegal, Mikey Finnegan had woken up with an awful twinge. He’d be mortified at what his pub had become and she wished blissful ignorance on him. Or maybe once he left Kilbane, he’d never looked back. Siobhán knew, even if she left one day, she’d always be looking back.
Shane stood in the corner, eyes darting around as if he was a lad in primary school serving out his punishment. The storage room was still cordoned off, but the rest of the pub had been cleared, and soon they’d be setting up for Eamon Foley’s wake. Rory Mack was happy to make Shane and Clementine ham-and-cheese toasties and crisps. Siobhán declined lunch, it wasn’t a good look to conduct an investigation with your mouth full. It was kind of Rory to offer. But she couldn’t help but recall how he’d stormed into O’Rourke’s, demanding he get to host the poker games. Be careful what you wish for.
They sat at a table in the middle of the pub, and Siobhán purposefully kept the conversation light and not stare at them while the pair of them ate.
“Is there news?” Clementine said when they’d finished and pushed back their plates. “Why are we here?”
“Shane said he saw you with a black marker and a deck of cards Friday evening,” Siobhán said. She really wanted to get them talking about Nathan Doyle, but now that they were together, she wanted to see if they would stick to their accusations about each other. Clementine glanced at Shane, who was tracing the tabletop with his index finger. She crossed her arms against her chest.
“It’s true,” he said.
Clementine pinned Shane with her eyes. “Did you see me blacking out a heart or a mouth?”
“No,” Shane said. He shifted in his seat.
Siobhán turned to Clementine. “Why did you have a black marker?”
“To sign autographs,” Clementine said. “People ask me to sign cards all the time.” That sounded plausible. Suddenly Siobhán wanted one, but it wouldn’t be professional to ask. Ciarán would love one too. “What Shane didn’t tell you was that we all do it. Every single one of the players who are in demand carry a Sharpie and a deck of cards. Himself and Eamon included.”
Siobhán stared at Shane. He shrugged. “True.” Something about signing autographs rang a bell in Siobhán. She just wasn’t sure why . . . “Why didn’t you tell me that all of you had markers?”
“Because he was pointing a dirty finger at me,” Clementine said.
Shane didn’t flinch. “Mine was in my pocket all night. I saw her using hers.”
“Because nobody wants the autograph of number three,” Clementine shot back.
Shane crossed his arms and stared at the table. “But you draw little pictures with your autographs,” he said. “Admit it.”
A smile broke out on Clementine’s face. “Mustaches mostly. Sometimes horns.”
Siobhán decided to skip the scenic route and went for the direct path. “Did you mark the cards found on Eamon Foley?”
“I’ve already answered that several times. No.”
“Let’s change the focus for a moment. I want to talk about Nathan Doyle.”
Shane raised an eyebrow, but didn’t speak.
Clementine blew out air. “That pasty bloke. Finally someone is asking the right questions.”
“You said he knows nothing about the game of poker. How did he get this job?”
“It was a bit odd, alright. He shows up and jumps to the front of the line.”
“Who made the decision?”
“It came from the top.”
“Does ’the top’ have a name?”
“If it’s important, I can get you a name,” Clementine said, tapping her chin, drawing Siobhán’s attention to her long red fingernails. They looked like shiny weapons. If she had been the one tugging on Eamon’s ropes, there would probably still be fibers underneath those talons. Would she submit to a voluntary examination?
“How long would it take to get me the name?”
Clementine sighed, scrolled through her phone, as if it was a giant bother, and then finally turned the screen. Anthony Hill. “Give him a ring. He knows everything.”
Siobhán jotted down the name and number. “Thank you.”
“I thought the tournament had been called off?” Shane said. “Is it rescheduled?”
“No. But whenever it is rescheduled, it won’t be held in Kilbane.”
“Do you think Nathan Doyle has something to do with Eamon’s death?”
“No.” Possibly. “We’re following up on everyone.” Did Nathan Doyle plant himself on the team, all the while plotting to murder Eamon? If so, what on earth was his motive? Because he was having an affair with Rose? The father of her baby? How would the two even have met? Siobhán said good-bye to the players, her fingers pressing the numbers for Anthony Hill the second she was out of the pub.
* * *
Siobhán was walking near the medieval walls, taking in the fresh air and soft green hills, when Anthony Hill picked up the phone. She introduced herself and got straight to business.
“It’s funny you mention it,” he said. “I had a strange feeling about that one m’self. He was only appointed because of a tragedy.”
“What tragedy?”
“The official before him was killed in a motor accident.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Aye. Poor lad took a curve too fast on a wet day. You know yourself.” Sadly, she did. Irishmen had a tendency to drive recklessly around curves.
“How did Nathan Doyle come into the picture?”
“He must have connections. Higher up the pole than me.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I’ve been in this business a long time. It was my right to hire and fire. I tried to reject him based on his lack of experience, but me boss said I had no choice.”
Something odd was going on. She was determined to find out what. “Thanks a million.”
“Not a bother. ’Tis a pity what happened to the Octopus. Tell the missus she’s in our thoughts.”
“Will do.” She hung up and took another deep breath. Nathan Doyle had just moved to the top of her suspect list.
* * *
Macdara was standing in the doorway to his office when Siobhán walked in, the photo of Nathan Doyle stalking Rose and Eamon clutched in her hand. “Listen to this,” she said. “I Googled Nathan Doyle.”
“What?” Macdara’s face showed something akin to horror.
“He has no social media presence.”
“Neither do you.”
“Speaking of which . . . nice furniture pics on your Book Page, by the by.” Macdara frowned. “And Nathan Doyle knows nothing of the game of poker—”
“Hold on—”
“There’s more. I just spoke with Anthony Hill, who said he should have had the authority to hire Nathan Doyle—”
“Siobhán—”
“The man who was supposed to officiate the games had a motor accident just days after he was appointed, and someone higher up—”
“Listen to me—”
“He said he had no choice but to hire a man with zero knowledge of the game of poker—”
“Stop!”
What is his problem? “No! Would you shut up and listen to me?” She held up the photograph and thrust it at Macdara.
Macdara stepped forward, closing the door to his office halfway. “What’s that?”
“That,” Siobhán said, pointing to his head in the photo, “is Nathan Doyle lurking behind Eamon and Rose. Stalking them maybe.”
“Enough,” he said, his voice a harsh whisper.
“What is wrong with you? This is good news. Nathan Doyle may be our man.”
“He’s our man, alright.”
Is he agreeing with me? That’s unexpected. “Did you find something on him too?”
“I didn’t mean ’he’s our man’ as in he’s the murderer.” He put his hands on Siobhán’s shoulders. “Nathan Doyle is not our killer.”
Siobhán took a step back. “What is going on with you and that man?”
“Pardon?”
“I don’t begrudge you a little bromance, but—”
“A bromance?” He sounded a tad outraged.
“The pair of you have been getting on like a house on fire, and I think it’s clouding your judgment!” There, she said it.
The door to Macdara’s office swung open. There stood Nathan Doyle. His arms were folded against his chest. But instead of a beer belly, his stomach was flat, it was as if he had dropped a stone overnight. He looked startlingly handsome, a right silver fox. But the most mind-bending bit was that he was wearing a gun. And a badge. That’s what Macdara meant when he said, “He’s our man.” Nathan Doyle was a member of An Garda Síochána.