photo with her phone. Moving a few steps to avoid getting the large signboard in the picture, she noticed a small wooden sign near the ground, half-hidden by one of the posts holding the main sign.
Clochar na Siúracha Calvary – Convent of the Sisters of Calvary.
The sign pointed away from the main entrance along a narrow path between neatly trimmed shrubs.
She gave a satisfied smile. Forget lunch and shopping, and forget Sister Mary Theresa and her bland excuses. If she could meet with Sister Augusta at the convent, maybe she wouldn't have to write off today's visit as a complete waste of time.
* * * * * *
Ryan reached the hotel near Wolfe Tone Bridge, handed his car key to the parking valet, and entered the lobby. Ignoring the people waiting for the elevator, he took the stairs two at a time, and knocked on the door of Room 116.
A key turned in the lock, and Chief Superintendent Enya Quinn opened the door. In her late forties, tall and auburn-haired, and immaculate as always in a mid-grey trouser suit, she crossed to the two leather bucket chairs near the window.
"Help yourself to a sandwich and a drink, and update me, Ryan. You said you had a possible lead."
Ryan picked up a chicken sandwich and bottle of water from a tray on the low table between the chairs, took a quick slurp, and flipped open his notebook. "Not before time, after doing this taxi job for a month and getting nowhere. Spent the first couple of weeks checking the computer records whenever no one was in the office, and made a note of all the regular bookings."
"How many?" Enya asked.
He counted up. "Ten, but most of them were local, mainly hotel staff going home at midnight or two a.m. Only two were going further afield, one to Oughterard every Thursday evening at seven, and one to Roscommon every Monday morning at eight."
"Have you discovered anything more about either of them?"
"Drove Mr. Gould to Oughterard a week last Thursday, and got his life story. He owns three gift shops, Clifden, Westport, and Oughterard. Spends two days at each every week, but lost his licence end of last year. Drunk driving. Wife and three kids live in Oughterard. Sounded genuine."
"And the other one?"
Ryan grinned. "This is where things get interesting. According to the computer, Tom Wild has done the Roscommon run with a Patrick Walsh since February. Last week, Tom was full of a cold, sneezing and coughing like a seal, so I offered to do the run, and nearly got my head bitten off. I do that run , he said, so keep your freakin' nose out . He apologised later, and said he didn't mean to be rude, but he was feeling rough."
Enya shrugged. "Sounds reasonable."
"Aye, except somehow he overdid the apology thing, and kept telling me to forget what he said that morning."
"Okay. What next?"
"Two things. Last Sunday night, I dropped a group of women off at Mist Na Mara Arts Centre about eleven o'clock, and I reached the gate just as Tom Wild's car passed, going down the lane to the Leary farm. Didn't think much about it until I got back to the office five minutes later, and the receptionist was on the radio to him, asking if he could do a pickup at eleven-thirty from Oliver's Bar in Cleggan. His reply was, It'll take me at least forty minutes to get to Cleggan. Ask someone else to go. Obviously a lie, as I'd just seen him, and it would only take him about ten minutes, fifteen at the most, to get from the Leary farm to Cleggan."
Enya pursed her lips. "Could be any number of reasons for that. Maybe he didn't want to drive up to Cleggan, or he stopped for a cup of tea at the farm."
"I'd agree, except Eve, the receptionist, looked very puzzled, and said she thought his last fare was to Beckfield Lodge. That's a guest house on Westport Road, about a mile north of Clifden, and on the route to Cleggan."
"Interesting. Certainly seems like he may have been lying, for whatever reason. You said two things. What was the other?"
"I'd already seen Patrick Walsh's name on the list
Clochar na Siúracha Calvary – Convent of the Sisters of Calvary.
The sign pointed away from the main entrance along a narrow path between neatly trimmed shrubs.
She gave a satisfied smile. Forget lunch and shopping, and forget Sister Mary Theresa and her bland excuses. If she could meet with Sister Augusta at the convent, maybe she wouldn't have to write off today's visit as a complete waste of time.
* * * * * *
Ryan reached the hotel near Wolfe Tone Bridge, handed his car key to the parking valet, and entered the lobby. Ignoring the people waiting for the elevator, he took the stairs two at a time, and knocked on the door of Room 116.
A key turned in the lock, and Chief Superintendent Enya Quinn opened the door. In her late forties, tall and auburn-haired, and immaculate as always in a mid-grey trouser suit, she crossed to the two leather bucket chairs near the window.
"Help yourself to a sandwich and a drink, and update me, Ryan. You said you had a possible lead."
Ryan picked up a chicken sandwich and bottle of water from a tray on the low table between the chairs, took a quick slurp, and flipped open his notebook. "Not before time, after doing this taxi job for a month and getting nowhere. Spent the first couple of weeks checking the computer records whenever no one was in the office, and made a note of all the regular bookings."
"How many?" Enya asked.
He counted up. "Ten, but most of them were local, mainly hotel staff going home at midnight or two a.m. Only two were going further afield, one to Oughterard every Thursday evening at seven, and one to Roscommon every Monday morning at eight."
"Have you discovered anything more about either of them?"
"Drove Mr. Gould to Oughterard a week last Thursday, and got his life story. He owns three gift shops, Clifden, Westport, and Oughterard. Spends two days at each every week, but lost his licence end of last year. Drunk driving. Wife and three kids live in Oughterard. Sounded genuine."
"And the other one?"
Ryan grinned. "This is where things get interesting. According to the computer, Tom Wild has done the Roscommon run with a Patrick Walsh since February. Last week, Tom was full of a cold, sneezing and coughing like a seal, so I offered to do the run, and nearly got my head bitten off. I do that run , he said, so keep your freakin' nose out . He apologised later, and said he didn't mean to be rude, but he was feeling rough."
Enya shrugged. "Sounds reasonable."
"Aye, except somehow he overdid the apology thing, and kept telling me to forget what he said that morning."
"Okay. What next?"
"Two things. Last Sunday night, I dropped a group of women off at Mist Na Mara Arts Centre about eleven o'clock, and I reached the gate just as Tom Wild's car passed, going down the lane to the Leary farm. Didn't think much about it until I got back to the office five minutes later, and the receptionist was on the radio to him, asking if he could do a pickup at eleven-thirty from Oliver's Bar in Cleggan. His reply was, It'll take me at least forty minutes to get to Cleggan. Ask someone else to go. Obviously a lie, as I'd just seen him, and it would only take him about ten minutes, fifteen at the most, to get from the Leary farm to Cleggan."
Enya pursed her lips. "Could be any number of reasons for that. Maybe he didn't want to drive up to Cleggan, or he stopped for a cup of tea at the farm."
"I'd agree, except Eve, the receptionist, looked very puzzled, and said she thought his last fare was to Beckfield Lodge. That's a guest house on Westport Road, about a mile north of Clifden, and on the route to Cleggan."
"Interesting. Certainly seems like he may have been lying, for whatever reason. You said two things. What was the other?"
"I'd already seen Patrick Walsh's name on the list
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