Private Dublin

Chapter 55

Andi drove us away from Lugh Stud. Our visit had left us none the wiser.

“What now?” she asked as she steered the Ford along a narrow country road, zipping past stone cottages and fields of barley and oilseed rape.

“I don’t know,” I replied with a sigh. “Looks like we need to review everything we have again. See if we can’t develop a few new leads.”

“So, we need some thinking time?” Andi asked with more than a hint of mischief in her voice.

I nodded uncertainly.

“In that case, I know the perfect place for us,” she said, before taking the next right off the road to Dublin.

“Where are we going?” I asked, as she steered us down a narrow single-track lane.

She winked at me but said no more. I grinned in bemusement and turned my attention to the hedgerows and expansive green fields that lined our route.

Cows and sheep grazed here and there, and wildflowers flourished on the verges. It felt like the very edge of civilization because we didn’t see another person or vehicle for twenty minutes. When we crested each rise, a new snapshot of Ireland impressed the country’s beauty upon me.

My question about our destination was answered a little over thirty minutes later when we pulled into the car park of a pub called Roches. Located on a quiet country road, the single-story building initially looked underwhelming. It might have been a simple farm cottage once but had been extended over the years and its walls painted cream with bright red trim. If I’d been alone, I’d probably have driven straight past and looked for something architecturally more pleasing, but as we searched for a space in the overflowing car park and I looked at the packed beer garden, I realized that would have been a mistake.

“Looks like lots of people need to do some thinking,” I said to Andi, gesturing at the busy pub.

“They do,” she replied. “Thinking and eating and drinking. The place is known for it. They say Einstein came up with the Theory of Relativity here.”

“I thought that was Bern in Switzerland,” I said.

“No. That’s fake news,” she said as she stopped the engine. “Why in the world would an Irishman have an idea like that in Bern?”

“Einstein was Irish?” I scoffed.

“Of course. All the best people are,” Andi said with a wry smile. “And after the food and drink in this place, you’ll be sworn Irish too, Jack Morgan.”

I laughed, and we got out of the car and went into the pub, which was even more crowded than the beer garden. Servers hurried to and fro, ferrying plates of delicious-looking food to busy tables and clearing away empty dishes. I thought we might struggle to find a table, but Andi spoke to a barman who directed us to one that had just become vacant outside. It was a beautiful spot with a view over the open country to the rear of the pub.

I had a Guinness and some fish and chips, and Andi had Bulmers cider and a crispy chicken baguette. The food was excellent. We cleared our plates.

“Sign me up,” I said.

“So, you’re Irish now?” Andi asked with a grin.

“In all seriousness, I do have some Irish blood in me,” I revealed, “and places like this make it all the more potent.”

She chuckled before her attention was drawn to her phone, which had started to ring.

“It’s Maureen,” she said, handing it to me. “I’m guessing it’s you she wants.”

“Thanks,” I replied, before answering the call. “Go ahead, Mo.”

“Jack, I was looking through Sam Farrell’s case assignments with the Garda and digging into his life when the strangest thing happened. I discovered his personal email was already in the Private system.”

“What?” I asked. “How?”

“He applied for a job at Private London six months ago,” Mo-bot revealed. “The man who put Justine in hospital tried to come and work for you, Jack.”