Nothing but Trouble_ A Kevin Kerney Novel - Michael Mcgarrity [76]
“How did the money come to you?” Sara asked.
“He gave me a bank draft the very next day, along with written authorization to make an offer above the fixed price if necessary.”
“Go on,” Sara said.
“When the contracts were drawn up by the solicitor, Mr. McGuire returned, signed them, and paid the ten-percent deposit after renegotiating the closing date, which he asked to have put off because Ms. Paquette would be unavailable until a later time. Since it was a cash purchase without the need for a secured mortgage, the seller agreed.”
“How did you keep in contact with McGuire?” Sara asked.
“I have his mobile number.” Quinn stood, took an address book from a desk drawer, and read off the number, which didn’t match with the one Sara had discovered in Paquette’s hotel room.
“Where did he stay while he was here?” Sara asked.
“He stayed on his motor yacht at the marina,” Quinn replied as he watched Fitzmaurice dial his mobile phone. “Who are you calling?”
“A detective to come and take your written statement,” Fitzmaurice replied, “which will then be carefully checked for truthfulness.”
Outside Quinn’s office Sara turned to Fitzmaurice. “Do you think he knew Spalding’s money was dirty?”
“He probably suspected it, at the very least,” Fitzmaurice replied, “as we have every reason to believe that Spalding bribed him to remain silent about certain particulars.”
“Well, the one thing we know for certain is that Paquette agreed to Spalding’s scheme long before she rendezvoused with him in Paris. What do you know about boating and motor yachts?”
“Except for a few nautical terms not a blessed thing,” Fitzmaurice answered.
“Nor do I,” Sara said as they walked toward the car park.
The Dún Laoghaire Marina, situated yards away from the ferry terminal to Wales and the rapid-transit rail station to Dublin, was a modern facility catering to all types of leisure boats, from small sailing dinghies to large yachts.
Sailboats and motorboats filled the marina, masts rising from the decks, sails furled, hulls gently knocking against the crisscross pattern of walkways where the boats were moored. In the bay a small regatta of boats in full sail cut through the waves past an old stone pier with a red-domed lighthouse and headed out to sea. In the distance the Holyhead ferry steamed toward Wales, smoke billowing from the stack.
The ferry terminal adjacent to the marina was a stark contemporary structure with a circular upper story that seemed to have been deliberately designed to look like an airport conning tower. It matched perfectly with the steel-and-glass architecture of the nearby rail-station ticket office that spanned the tracks below.
At the marina office a young man named Bobby Doherty, who had the wind-burned face of a sailor and an anchor tattooed on a forearm, searched through recent berthing records.
“I remember him,” Doherty said, as he flipped through papers. “He has a new Spanish-built Rodman Fifty-six, with twin Volvo engines and three cabins. He berthed here two or three times.”
“A very expensive boat that is, then?” Fitzmaurice asked.
“It cost him half a million euros, if it cost him a penny,” Doherty said.
“And you’re sure this is the man,” Fitzmaurice said, poking his finger at the photograph of George Spalding that he’d placed on the counter.
“Yes, Mr. McGuire,” Doherty said, glancing at the photo. “He tied up on the Q berth, where we put the larger visiting boats.”
“Did he sleep onboard his boat while he stayed here?” Sara asked.
“Of that I can’t be sure,” Doherty said as he handed the records to Fitzmaurice. “One of the night-watch crew could better answer that question.”
Fitzmaurice scanned the papers and passed them to Sara. Spalding had berthed his boat, Sapphire, three times at the marina on dates that corresponded nicely with his recent travels to Ireland, and had