Nothing but Trouble_ A Kevin Kerney Novel - Michael Mcgarrity [67]
From her window seat she watched the coastline of Ireland appear in the early-morning glare of the rising sun. Soon the plane was flying over rocky cliffs, windswept mountains, and stretches of farmland that rolled down to rivers and lakes. On the approach to the Dublin Airport the plane turned and banked over the Irish Sea, revealing the busy harbor filled with ships. The city spread out along the coast, cut by the River Liffey and buffered by green inland hills.
Sara had been to Ireland once before, on her honeymoon with Kerney. But they’d flown into Shannon and spent all their time in Connemara on the rugged western shore of the Atlantic Ocean, so Dublin was new to her. Against the backdrop of the bay and the hills the city looked intriguing, with its magnificent old buildings, beautiful squares, and stunning coastline.
Her diplomatic passport in hand, Sara quickly cleared customs and was met by Hugh Fitzmaurice, the Garda detective who was heading up the hunt for George Spalding. A middle-aged man with a full head of raven-black hair, blue eyes, and a long, broad nose, Fitzmaurice greeted her with an easy smile and hearty handshake.
“Welcome to the Republic of Ireland, Colonel,” he said. “Is this your first visit?”
“It is to Dublin,” Sara replied. “But I’ve spent some time in Connemara.”
“ ’Tis beautiful there, no doubt. Shall we stop at your hotel first or go straight to my office?”
“Why don’t you brief me on the way to the hotel?”
Fitzmaurice nodded. “As you wish.”
As he drove toward the city in the slow-moving traffic, Fitzmaurice filled her in on the status of the investigation. Garda were shadowing Joséphine Paquette everywhere she went, and the officers were keeping their eyes open for Spalding. Each person Paquette met, interviewed, or socialized with was being carefully checked for a link to Spalding. Her phone calls were being traced, her mail intercepted, and her credit card transactions monitored.
“We know from the French that Spalding didn’t alter his appearance,” Fitzmaurice added, “so we’ve shown his photograph around at banks, brokerage firms, area hotels, and guesthouses. He’s not been seen.”
“I’ve studied the Interpol file,” Sara said. “He’s cautious, but he has made some mistakes. Keeping his given name and using a slightly altered birth date for his new identity was a misstep. Making a phone call to Paquette from his Paris apartment was another slipup. I think he’s eager to come out of hiding and may have discarded the Bruneau alias and taken on a new identity.”
Stuck behind a lorry on a busy street, Fitzmaurice sounded the car horn. “Perhaps it’s time to bring Paquette in and have a go at her.”
“Not yet,” Sara said. “It could alert Spalding that we’re hunting him. Is there anything going on with Paquette that looks promising?”
“Tomorrow she’s to meet a builder at the house she bought with Spalding’s money. The estate agent who sold her the property told us she wants to refurbish it while it’s still vacant.”
“Would she do that without consulting Spalding?” Sara asked.
Fitzmaurice eased around the lorry. “If she did consult him, it happened before we started our surveillance.”
They were approaching the heart of the city along a wide boulevard jammed with traffic, headed toward a bridge that crossed a river. People hurried along the sidewalks past old storefront buildings, giving the street scene a vibrant air.
“Let’s pay a visit to the builder after Paquette meets him,” Sara said.
Fitzmaurice nodded. “And do you have any plans for today?”
“I’d like to review your case file and get an up-close look at Paquette.”
“The file is waiting for you at my office,” Fitzmaurice said as they crossed the bridge. He turned onto the quay and parked in front of Sara’s hotel, a four-story Victorian building that looked out on the river.
“Would it be an imposition to have