The Death of an Irish Politician by Bartholomew Gill

the facts. “Was there another copy?”
    “Not in this form. I was going to go over itThursday night one final time before we retyped it and sent it to the Taoseaich. This was the unedited version.”
    “Where was it?”
    “In the sideboard under lock and key, of course.”
    McGarr could have gotten into that sideboard with a toothpick. His glance was more toward the whiskey decanter than the door lock. A person who didn’t drink had no idea of the timing necessary to be a successful host. McGarr imagined one whiskey might last Horrigan an eternity.
    “You see, this is most embarrassing to me. In order to get elected I had to support the violence in the North. Now, when it happens here in my own electorate and I’m in charge of the investigation and it seems like the IRA might get blamed, I suddenly dispose of the report. Or, just as bad, I release only a part of the report and the whole thing then turns up in the press.”
    “So somebody wants to get you and not necessarily the government.”
    “That’s why I called you. It seems to be some sort of private vendetta. I believe firmly that if I were to resign today, the report would either be returned or the parts that this government would doubtless eliminate or obscure will never surface.” McGarr said nothing, only looked at the minister, who added, “But I don’t want to resign voluntarily. I’ve waited adozen years to get here. And where I’m headed I’ve wanted all of my life.”
    “No forced entry. You must suspect somebody and not just the”—he waved his hand—“IRA. Who else knew you had the report with you?”
    “My secretary, my first assistant, and”—Horrigan raised his glass to his mouth; he said over the surface of the liquor—“my wife.” He wet his upper lip. “My secretary is a widow near retirement who lives in Dublin. Both of her brothers died in the Troubles, both with the IRA.”
    “Name?”
    “Neila Monahan, two eighty-three North Circular Road.”
    “Your first assistant?”
    “A literary man. Sometimes submits poems in Irish to the Times .” Horrigan watched McGarr finish the whiskey in his tumbler. “Aren’t you going to take any of this down?”
    “No.” McGarr never took notes, he simply concentrated all his intelligence on the vital details of every case. He could summon from memory the names, addresses, and distinguishing characteristics of all persons he had arrested and many of the others who had figured in his investigations.
    “His name is Carleton Driver and he lives on Fitzwilliam Square.”
    “Age?”
    “Mid-forties.”
    “Married?”
    “To literature and the great Celtic oral tradition, if you know what I mean.”
    “How is his office work?”
    “Phenomenal, when he’s there. If I only had half his brains and he half my sense!”
    “Political leanings?”
    “Definitely left.”
    “Temperamental?”
    “Yes.”
    “Where does he drink?”
    “McDaid’s.”
    “Why do you think your wife stole the report?”
    This took Horrigan by surprise.
    “Would you mind if—” McGarr began to stand. He wanted another drink, even if he had to extort it. He had the feeling that much more information than what the minister had offered was yet to come.
    “Oh, please do. Excuse me.”
    McGarr poured himself a very sufficient drink.
    “Have you people been conducting your own investigation?”
    “No.”
    “Then how—?”
    “Call it a leap of faith.” McGarr offered him a Woodbine.
    Horrigan accepted, saying, “I haven’t had one of these for years.”
    “Don’t make it a habit. They tell me they’rea force more lethal than the IRA. You don’t live together?” In spite of the care taken with the details of the room, there was not one feminine touch anywhere. Everything was too ordered, nothing placed by whimsy.
    Horrigan looked askance at McGarr. “Has another minister asked you to—”
    McGarr shook his head. “You obviously credit me with knowing my profession, otherwise you wouldn’t have