Private Dublin

Chapter 37

He led us along a path that bisected the ornamental gardens to the west of the house. We were surrounded by perfectly trimmed hedges and summer flowers in beds bursting with color.

“Quite the place,” Andi observed.

“Isn’t it?” Lawrence replied. “I never expected to own anything like this when I was growing up in Carran out on the west coast, but I’m not going to complain about life blessing me so.”

The two of them were walking ahead of me and Jackson, who wore a frown that seemed so natural to him that he could have been born with it.

“You don’t seem happy to have us here,” I remarked.

“I’m not,” Jackson confessed. “It means I didn’t do my job properly. I’m supposed to be able to spot threats and this eejit was a serious threat to Mr. Finch.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, Jackson,” his boss told him.

“I can’t be hard enough,” his security head countered. “Once the Garda and LAPD get their acts together, this place will be crawling with cops, which will be unavoidable, so I’m going to remain unhappy about the presence of Mr. Morgan and what it says about my performance.”

Experience had taught me how insidious a betrayal of trust could be and I knew the toll it exacted. I’d trusted Father Vito, the priest in Rome who’d helped me resolve some questions about my faith, only to discover he’d been lying about his identity and was at the heart of the crime I was investigating. If someone could betray you without you being aware, what other threats were you blind to? It was corrosive to one’s self-confidence and that was a serious problem in this line of work.

“We all make mistakes,” I responded.

He nodded, but the frown never left his face.

Finch took us across a walled garden to the old stable block, four rows of loose boxes set around a cobblestone courtyard. Lawrence led us through the archway into the courtyard and gestured at the two-story blocks that surrounded us.

“These used to be the stables for the house. Horses, grand carriages... that sort of thing. They’re a bit basic for stables now, so we converted them into staff accommodation. This was Sam’s.”

Finch seemed impervious to the scale of priorities that remark indicated. He nodded at Jackson, who stepped toward a green door marked with a brass number 5. He produced a key and opened the door, before leading us inside.

I’d been expecting a tiny studio apartment, but instead we entered a vaulted living room. The conversion made use of the double height of the building. The hay loft had been turned into a sleeping area and there was a bathroom and kitchen located at the back of the property beneath the loft floor.

The place was furnished like a hotel, clean and new, with a hint of style but not much soul. Sam Farrell’s personal effects were dotted around the place: bills, books, an iPad, running kit on the back of a chair, muddy trail shoes on the hardwood floor nearby.

“What can you tell us about him?” I asked.

“Joined three months ago. Exemplary record with the Garda. Serious crime unit. Well liked here. Quiet. Enjoyed a run and the occasional beer with the lads. Not much else to say,” Jackson replied. “He was a typical ex-cop. Certainly raised no red flags or gave any hint that we’d hired a killer.”

“I don’t think anyone could have spotted this,” Finch remarked. “What possessed him?”

“Do you mind if we look around?” Andi asked.

“Will it interfere with the police investigation?” Finch asked.

“We’ll be careful,” I assured him.

“Then please go ahead,” he responded. “That’s why you’re here. To find out why he did this and where he is.”

“Thanks,” Andi said.

“We’ll leave you,” he went on. “Come up to the main house when you’re finished or if you need anything.”

“Thank you, Mr. Finch,” I responded, and he nodded an acknowledgment and left with Jackson trailing him.

Andi and I spent three hours in Sam Farrell’s small home, conducting a meticulous fingertip search, looking for anything that might give us a clue to his connections or motivations. We found nothing. I managed to unlock the iPad and found old movies and music. There wasn’t any search history and no messages or emails. He was clearly careful about his digital footprint. The absence of evidence wasn’t helpful and at the end of our search, out of ideas or physical space to investigate, Andi placed her hands on her hips and looked at me.

“I think this is a dead end,” she said.

“I agree,” I replied, making no attempt to hide my disappointment. “Whatever secrets this guy has, he doesn’t keep them here.”