The Trust Read online

  “Who says I’m not from around here? I’m an Irishman.”

  “Go on about you,” she said with a squint and a smile that dared you to test her.

  “I am in truth an Irishman,” I said with my hand on my heart. “But I’ve been away.”

  She flashed her infectious smile at me. “Well then, Mr. Irishman, will you have the Irish breakfast today?”

  “Why not?”

  I knew why not when she brought it to the table. Healthy portions of bacon, sausage, black and white pudding, eggs, potatoes and Irish soda bread served on three plates. I stared wide-eyed, mouth open, and she giggled.

  “As I suspected, you’re not from around here. Nor are you up to eating a hardy man’s breakfast, are you now?”

  I shook my head. “I’ll not argue with you.”

  “Around here we say, ‘You eat your breakfast like a king, your lunch like a prince and your dinner like a pauper.’”

  “I think I’ll just be a minor administrative assistant today.”

  I ate my eggs and soda bread, drank my tea, tipped her most generously, for which she was demonstratively grateful, and left to attend the funeral of my beloved uncle.

  “I don’t think you and I have anything more to say to each other, Liam. You best be off now.”

  * * *

  ST. MICHAEL’S, A FIVE-HUNDRED-YEAR-OLD GOTHIC church, sat perched on a hill beside a river named Sixmilewater. The car park was nearly full when I arrived and the moment I pulled in I saw Janie. She was standing alongside her car in a black jersey dress, having a smoke. When she saw me she flipped her cigarette, walked quickly over and threw her arms around me.

  “So glad you’re here, Liam.” She slipped her hand in the crook of my elbow and led me toward the church. “Everyone will be so pleased to see you.”

  “Maybe not everyone.”

  “Anyone who’s not will have to answer to Janie,” she said forcefully.

  We walked into the vestibule where the congregants had quietly gathered around my uncle’s casket waiting to follow him into the nave. My aunt Deirdre, a black veil covering her head, held her hand firmly on the casket. She would hold on as long as she could to the man she’d loved for so many years.

  My arrival turned a few heads and some acknowledged me with a nod. We stood off to the right, next to my uncle Robert, Janie’s father. Normally, he was the jovial Taggart, with cherry cheeks, a generous paunch and a beer in his fist. Today he had dark circles under his eyes. He warmly shook my hand. “Welcome back, Liam. It’s good to see you.”

  “Good to see you as well,” I answered. “I just wish it weren’t under these circumstances.”

  “As do we all.”

  I leaned my head sideways and whispered to Janie, “How did he die, Janie? What did you mean we’d talk about it?”

  “He was killed, Liam. Murdered in cold blood.”

  Somehow I knew that was coming, but all the same, her statement resonated in my bones. I wanted more information but then the organ sounded its somber chords and the pure white pall was draped over the coffin. A soloist began a wistful rendition of “Danny Boy” and we silently filed into the church, taking my uncle to his final repose.

  Once in our seats, I whispered to Janie, “How? By whom?”

  “He was shot in the chest. And we have not a clue.”

  “No suspects? What do the police think?”

  “Who knows? There’s no love lost between Uncle Fergus and the local gendarmes and we don’t expect much effort to solve the crime.” Then the mass started and she put her finger to her lips.

  So that’s what Janie meant when she said the family needs me. She could just as well have said, “Let’s put aside your past transgressions, Liam, we need your skills. The Police Service of Northern Ireland, the PSNI, cannot be counted on to bring the murderer to justice. You may have been a turncoat, but we want your investigative experience to solve the crime.” I hoped not. I hoped she wanted me here because she considered me family.

  The mass turned out to be rather lengthy, with many taking to the pulpit to say a kind word. Fergus had lived in County Antrim for over forty years and owned a pleasant patch of farmland south of Antrim town. Within his Catholic community, he was well respected, notwithstanding the animus they probably held for me, and they praised his memory. There were also Protestants, friends of Fergus’s, business associates and town leaders, who came to pay their respects and honor him. But the most poignant eulogy was delivered by his brother, Uncle Robert.

  When it was Robert’s turn to speak, he walked slowly to the pulpit, his head bowed. In his right hand he carried a handkerchief and he used it often to blot the tears. In his left, he held a handful of notes that he never consulted. It took him a few moments to get himself together.

  “I thank all of you for coming and joining me in taking my brother to his eternal rest. And here we gather in this church, as we’ve done so many times before, to bury yet another precious soul, yet another good man, yet another victim of our country’s violent, sectarian hate. And you have to ask yourselves, why is this still going on? Didn’t we sign a peace agreement almost twenty years ago? Didn’t we lay down our arms in 2005? Fergus has led a peaceful life for decades,” he said, pronouncing my uncle’s name in Irish dialect as Fearghus. From time to time Robert’s voice would catch and he’d stop to compose himself, but he delivered his address with resolve and grace.

  “A man of peace he was, even back in times of discord and hostility. He always counseled peace. Some may say he was deeply involved with the IRA, and to that we’ll not argue, but his was the voice of peace. I can still see him as a young man on the corner of Divis trying to calm the angry ones and separate those who were there to fight.”

  Uncle Robert stopped and wiped his eyes. “We all know that my brother lost his darling Margaret to an Ulster mob when she was only twenty-four, leaving him with two wee lads. Did he have cause for a lifetime of retribution and retaliation? Did he have justification? Aye, that he did.” He nodded solemnly. “But that was forty-five years ago. Those were the so-called bloody days when retribution and retaliation were the daily news. Not now. It’s not supposed to be happening now. We’re at peace.

  “My brother was able to put those days behind him; why can’t others? Why can’t the devil who did this?” Robert paused and his voice quavered. “I’m sorry. My brother only wanted to live out his days in peace. And now, with deep sadness, those of us who loved him so, gather in this church to wish him the peace that eluded him on earth.” He took a step down from the platform, stopped and said in a faltering voice, “Are we never to be done with those days?”

  In silence, we all watched Robert slowly take his seat in the pew beside us, and the silence continued for several minutes before the eulogies resumed. But the words “retribution” and “retaliation” lingered in my mind. Had a long-dormant seed now germinated? Did a deeply rooted retaliation choose this time to burgeon? Were we truly not done with those days?

  I’m sure that many other good things were said about Fergus during that morning service, but my thoughts were otherwise engaged. The professional side of me wanted to know when the murder happened, where it happened, what happened the day before, the month before and who were the possible suspects? Was this a dispute leftover from the Troubles? Was this a latent payback for an old IRA attack? I didn’t think that Fergus had much money or property, a common motive to kill an elderly relative. Why did someone want to murder my uncle?

  My distracted state must have been apparent because Janie patted my arm and whispered, “There’s a meeting tonight. The family will all be there and we’ll talk about what should be done.”

  Following the service, Janie walked me down the hill to the cemetery. It was there that Uncle Fergus was laid to rest. Several of us stood in the misty rain. Robert wrapped his arms around Deirdre and the two of them sobbed heavily. Other than the liturgical prayers offered at the graveside, very little else was said.

  THREE
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  THE GATHERING OF FAMILY members was held at Doogan’s, a small stone public house on High Street. I knew it to be one of my uncles’ haunts. Doogan closed the bar for us, and depending on one’s preference, he’d pour a pint of Guinness or a tumbler of Jameson. Or both. On the house.

  Doogan tapped the bar and raised his glass, “May that dear old rascal Fearghus be safe in the arms of heaven before the devil learns he’s gone. Sláinte.”

  “Sláinte,” was the echo.

  “Aye,” said Robert. “And here’s to me brother. To live in the hearts we leave behind is never to die.”

  The family was strewn about at several tables and booths. Janie and I had been the last to arrive and she made the introductions. “For those of you too young to remember, this is your cousin Liam from Chicago. He lives in America now, but he’s an Irish Taggart through and through.”

  “Bah,” I heard someone say under his breath.

  True to her word, Janie snapped back. “There’ll be none of that. We’re all here for the same reason, and we’ll not disrespect Uncle Fergus’s memory.” She raised her voice and a tumbler of whiskey. “And we will unearth the bastard that committed this heartless act and bring him to justice.”

  “Hear, hear,” echoed the room.

  She continued. “It was me that called Liam, and it was me that insisted that he come, though I’m sure he would have anyway. If any of you are disturbed by his presence, blame me. But I have this to say, the past is past. I know two things for sure: one, Uncle Fergus loved Liam like a son, and two, Liam Taggart is the finest private investigator in America. We’d be fools not to ask for his guidance in helping us find the murderer.”

  There were nods and grunts of approval, but I heard grumbles as well.

  I stood and shook my head. “Look, I’m not America’s finest anything. I came here to join my family and say farewell to Uncle Fergus. I didn’t come here to be a detective. I’m happy to give you my two cents, but I’m afraid it’ll hardly be worth any more than that.”

  Robert took center stage to lead the discussion, but his words were often sent in my direction. “Deirdre found him in the field on the side of the house. When he didn’t come in for lunch, she went after him and saw him lying out there. At first she thought he’d passed out from the sun, but when she got closer and saw the blood, she called me right off.”

  Robert conveyed the scant facts that were known and those that weren’t. The medical examiner confirmed the time of death at 10:30 a.m. Fergus was found lying faceup. There was a powder burn on his shirt, indicating he was shot from very close range. No weapon was found, there were no witnesses, and as of late, there were no suspects. The local police said the investigation would be ongoing and they’d appreciate any tips. Robert’s tone was soft and somber, and he added, “I stand with Janie in welcoming my nephew Liam from America and in asking for his help to find the foul demon who killed me brother.”

  I turned and faced my family. “I know I’ve been gone a long time and some of you may harbor ill feelings, and I don’t blame you. I’ll give you what help I can, but I live three thousand miles away with a wife and a child and a business. I can’t spend that much time here. I appreciate the confidence, but you don’t want me to take the responsibility of leading an investigation. That should be left to the police.”

  “Well, we’re truly grateful for whatever time you can spare, Liam,” Robert said. “We hope you can find it in your schedule to give us a few days, because, you see, we don’t have a lot of confidence in the constabulary.”

  Constabulary, PSNI, Gardaí, guard or coppers, call it what you will, my family had no use for the Northern Ireland police. Robert’s soft-spoken statement, while I’m sure it was well intentioned, laid a heavy guilt on me. My extended family, all sitting there looking at me, and I’m telling them I’m too busy to help them find my uncle’s killer. I swallowed hard. I had responsibilities at home, but I couldn’t just walk away. I sat at the bar and poured another two fingers of Jameson.

  “What do we know about the murder scene?” I asked.

  Robert nodded. “Fergus was killed with a single shot to his chest, a nine millimeter. There were two sets of footprints, but there were no signs of a struggle. No bruises, no scratches, no defense marks on his body.”

  “Did anybody see a car, hear a noise or see someone running?”

  “No.” Robert was in every sense Fergus’s counterpoint. Where Fergus was strapping, Robert was round and chubby. Where Fergus was a power, Robert was a thinker—the contemplative brother. His cheeks were plump and they bunched up when he smiled. His laugh was hearty and true. He displayed a perpetual warm smile and the deep lines around his eyes and mouth were there to prove it. Yet today, his eyes were bloodshot and bore testimony to the depth of his bereavement.

  Doogan’s was filled with my relatives. Fergus’s older brother, Eamon, who I remembered from my childhood as robust, sagacious and a bit cranky, sat off in the corner. His beard was thinner now and he showed the frailty of age. As far as I knew, Eamon never married and had no children.

  Fergus’s youngest son, Riley, sat an adjoining table. When I was young and sent off to live on Uncle Fergus’s farm, Riley became my best friend. Though a year younger than me, we were as close as twin brothers. In fact, Riley was closer to me than he was to his older brother, Conor. When I was back here in the nineties, Riley was living in Dublin working for some banking firm. Janie told me that he now worked for an investment house in Belfast in one of the downtown commercial buildings.

  Some of my younger cousins, who were now in their twenties and thirties, were only brief acquaintances during my service years. I recalled them only as boys and I wouldn’t have recognized them without an introduction.

  “Is it possible this was a random killing?” I asked. “A robbery? Does anybody know of any motives?”

  Robert answered with a flick of his hand. “’Twasn’t random or a robbery, that’s for certain. My brother was found with cash in his pocket, his watch on his arm and his wallet in his pants pocket with all of his cards.”

  Riley agreed. “Shit, Liam, my father was lying on his back with his mouth wide open.” His voice cracked. “The police took crime scene photos. Maybe they’ll let you see them.”

  “Were there any recent threats? Known enemies?”

  “Ha!” Uncle Eamon said, standing to make his point. “A million enemies and then some. But nothing in the last twenty years. God knows, my brother was a marked man during the Troubles. You yourself were rattin’ on him, Liam. You oughta know.”

  I hung my head. I knew this was coming. Time to face it. “Can we clear the air on our past differences, if for no other reason than to turn the page?” I said quietly. “We all know I was working with the CIA. We all know the Agency was supporting the peace process, and—”

  “Aah, the bullshit,” Conor snapped. “You were a foockin’ rat, Liam Taggart. Ya cannot deny it.”

  Janie bounced to her feet and pointed. “He doesn’t have to deny anything, Conor. Didn’t you just hear him? He acknowledges he was with the CIA, he doesn’t deny a damn thing. I begged him to come and he’s here, ain’t he? You want to find out who killed your father, Liam’s our best bet. You want to leave it to the PSNI? Half of ’em are former RUC. How anxious do you think the Ulster Protestants are going to be when it comes to finding Uncle Fergus’s killer? Hell, they probably wish they did it themselves, and maybe they did. They’ll make an official report that’ll say, ‘Killed by his own IRA. Good riddance.’ And then they’ll close their files. Myself, I’m counting on Liam.”

  Eamon shook his head. “Conor’s not wrong, Janie. He did snoop on us.”

  That was enough for me. “I own up to it. Okay? I was a professional spy. Everybody happy now? I worked for the CIA and I used information I got from you and everybody else to save lives and help bring the goddamn war to an end. I’m not proud I lied to you, but what I did was right. If that pisses you off, I’m sorry. I’ll take the
next plane back.”

  “What’s past is past,” Robert said quietly. “Let it go, Conor.”

  “Uncle Robert’s right,” Riley said. “Liam’s offered to help and I for one am going to accept his offer.”

  Eamon nodded sharply, looked around the room and stepped to the bar. The stiffness in his eighty-year-old joints made his gait unsteady. “I’ll take your hand, son. I can’t forget, but I will forgive.” His grip was firm.

  “Thank you, Uncle Eamon. That means a lot to me. I’m sorry I haven’t stayed in touch. I should have, I should have taken the initiative, but I didn’t and that’s on me. The sixteen years I could have connected with my family are lost to me. I regret it deeply.” Turning to the group, I said, “You all knew Uncle Fergus well, and spent time with him. To the extent I can provide any help, please let me know if any ideas, motives or suspects come to mind.”

  A tall, young man, in a red T-shirt raised his hand. “I don’t know if you remember me, Cousin Liam, my name is Sean. I’m Conor’s son.”

  I smiled. The last time I saw Sean he was a freckled-faced boy. “Sure I do. You were a little smaller back then.”

  “If we come up with something we think might be important, I mean any of us, what are we supposed to do? When you’re in America, who’s going to coordinate this? Are we supposed to give it to the police?”

  “Good question. It’s never a bad idea to give information to the police, but among yourselves, I leave it up you. Janie might be a good choice.”

  Janie shrugged her shoulders and nodded.

  While we talked, I kept an eye on Conor, sitting off in a booth by himself. He was maybe forty-eight now, with an athletic build and trendy clothes. A pricey bracelet hung on his wrist. From time to time he’d curl his lip in disgust like all this was leaving a sour taste in his mouth. Although I hadn’t seen him since 1999, I remember Fergus’s oldest son as an unpleasant, arrogant pain in the ass. We never really got along. In fact, I’d witnessed many a heated, gloves-off argument between Conor and his father. Now he started shaking his head. I decided to flush him out. “What’s on your mind, Conor?”