By Bartholomew Gill
The robbery of the e-book of Kells -- a ravishing ninth-century amalgam of Christian doctrine and Celtic legend -- from the Trinity university library is, in itself, a so much surprising crime. however it is the brutal slaying of an evening watchman that throws Peter McGarr of the Dublin homicide Squad into the combo. compelled to proportion investigative tasks both with a publicity-hungry co-Chief Superintendent, McGarr is quickly entangled in a twisted net of homicide, thievery, back-biting politics, and darkish pagan rituals. And absolutely extra blood will circulation as secrets and techniques, deceptions, and well-guarded lies come to mild -- forcing an intrepid detective to doubt the loyalties of even his closest compatriots -- in a chilling case that threatens to lead to not anything under the destruction of up to date Irish society.
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Extra info for Death In Dublin
Down the road. ” From the back pocket of her jeans, Bannon drew out a contact card. ” Again, her eyes ﬁxed his. ” McGarr did not offer his hand to take the card. ” Still McGarr did not reach for the card. She stepped in on him, so close her breasts grazed his chest and her breath was hot on his neck. She slid the card into the breast pocket of his jacket. “I’ve been following you for years. I know your story. You don’t know me yet. But you will. I have contacts that you would not believe. ” McGarr stepped back, having known more than a few journalists who for insider access would say or do just about anything.
She’s the diva of Ath Cliath. ” “She just got herself into the crime scene here. ” There was a pause. With cell phone to ear, McGarr was weaving through a stream of students. “Let’s see—I still have my last ID in the glove box of the car. But maybe four or ﬁve years ago, I lost another when my purse was nicked at a pub in Enniskillen where we were staking out Eva Morrisey. ” He did. Bresnahan had been undercover, trying to get a lead on an IRA squad leader who had murdered her lover in Donegal.
The victim had been seated in the chair, which lay on its side, when he had been sapped from behind. Bright orange chalk indicated the position in which he had been found. “What d’yiz think, Chief? ” a voice asked, startling him. McGarr swung round on a young woman. Late thirties, pixieish; her black curly hair was pulled back and woven into a long braid. She was wearing a navy blue ﬂeece jacket and jeans. McGarr had seen her before, but he couldn’t place where. ” She held out her hand. He only stared down at it.