Irish Secrets

By Paula Martin

While working at Mist Na Mara Arts Centre, Kara Stewart embarks on a search for her mother’s birth parents; she’d been adopted in the 1960s by an American couple. Kara soon realises the task is not as simple as she’d anticipated when she’s meet with a wall of secrecy surrounding Irish baby adoptions.

Ryan Brady is hiding the secret of his real identity, but when he offers to help Kara trace her Irish family, his attraction to her is undeniable.

As the mystery unravels, secrets drive a wedge, not only between Kara and her mother, but also between Kara and Ryan.

Can Kara and Ryan find a way to heal the rifts created by all these secrets and find love?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tirgearr Publishing
• Release date: Nov 13, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370916429

Paula Martin

Paula Martin lives near Manchester in North West England and has two daughters and two grandsons. She had some early publishing success with four romance novels and several short stories, but then had a break from writing while she brought up a young family and also pursued her career as a history teacher for twenty-five years. She has recently returned to writing fiction, after retiring from teaching, and is thrilled to have found publishing success again with her contemporary romances. Apart from writing, she enjoys visiting new places. She has travelled extensively in Britain and Ireland, mainland Europe, the Middle East, America and Canada. Her other interests include musical theatre and tracing her family history.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Kara Stewart let out a frustrated huff as she descended the three uneven stone steps from the front door of the Western Adoption Agency. So much for her expectation that someone would open a file and give her all the information she needed. The task she’d set herself was obviously going to prove more difficult than she had anticipated.

She glanced across the street at the coffee shop on the corner. Maybe a large Americano would help her wrap her mind around everything the Agency secretary had told her. After checking to her left for oncoming traffic, she stepped into the road.

A squeal of brakes and the harsh blast from a car horn made her jump. Turning quickly, she clapped her hand to her mouth. She’d come within inches of being hit by a dark blue taxi.

The driver jumped out. ‘What the—? Are you trying to commit suicide or something?’

‘I’m so sorry! I looked the wrong wa—’ Her thudding heart jerked as she recognised him. He’d driven them several times from Mist Na Mara into Clifden. ‘Oh, it’s you.’

Wide-eyed surprise replaced the man’s frown. ‘Kara? I didn’t expect to see you here in Galway.’

‘I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking, and forgot to look right instead of left.’

‘No harm done, fortunately.’ He took a step nearer her. ‘Are you okay? You look a bit shaken.’

‘I’m good.’ Her pulse still galloped but she nodded toward his car. ‘I’m just grateful for your good brakes.’

‘Reflex action, but I’ll admit you gave me a scare.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said again.

‘Where are you heading? Can I give you a lift?’

Momentarily, she considered asking him to take her to Salthill, but the need for coffee prevailed, if only to calm her nerves after the near miss. ‘Actually, I was aiming for the café across the road.’

‘Sounds like a good plan. Mind if I join you?’

Surprised, but with a tickle of pleasure scuttling through her veins, she nodded. ‘Sure, but only if you let me buy you a coffee. My way of thanking you for not knocking me down.’

‘Okay, if you insist. I’ll park up and join you there.’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘Road’s clear for you to cross now without giving anyone else a heart attack.’

Kara crossed, walked a few yards along the street to the door of the coffee shop, and waited while he reversed into a space between two parked cars.

She allowed herself a small smile. What were the odds of meeting Ryan Brady here in Galway? But it had happened, and now she was about to have coffee with him.

Her friend Liz’s words echoed in her mind: Tried to flirt with him once, but got no response. Probably means he’s married with half a dozen kids.

Perhaps she was about to find out if that was true.

‘What do you want to drink?’ she asked, as they entered the small, crowded café.’

‘I’ll get them. See if you can find a spare table.’

‘Okay, but let me pay.’ She handed him a twenty euro note. ‘A large Americano for me, and whatever you want.’

She found an empty table near the window and watched him as he crossed to the counter. Tall – over six foot, she guessed – with broad shoulders encased in a mid-blue polo shirt. His biceps and forearms were firm, not too hairy, but definitely masculine. Her glance slid down to where his shirt was tucked into well-fitting black pants. The words nice ass came into her mind, and she suppressed a smile. She didn’t usually survey men’s bodies, but Ryan Brady’s certainly ticked all the right boxes.

When he turned and rolled his eyes at the slowness of the service, she grinned. He smiled back, revealing small dimples in his cheeks which added to his good looks. Not movie-heartthrob gorgeous, but still attractive, even though she wasn’t usually a fan of men with beards. At least his was short and neatly trimmed, unlike his thick and somewhat unruly dark hair. His outstanding feature, though, was his Irish blue eyes. She’d noticed those the first time she saw him a few weeks ago. Beautiful eyes, the colour of a spring sky.

It was several minutes before he brought a tray across to the table, placed the mug of coffee in front of her, and offloaded a teacup, stainless steel teapot, and small jug of milk. ‘Sorry for the delay,’ he said, as he sat opposite her. ‘There’s a trainee barista behind the counter, and the poor lad hasn’t a clue what he’s doing. Anyhow, have you recovered from your fright?’

‘I think my heartbeat’s returned to normal now.’ That wasn’t true, but she couldn’t tell him why it still beat faster than usual. ‘How about yours?’

‘Oh, I’m used to it in Galway, with eejits stepping into the road without looking.’ He held up his hand. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean you were an eejit.’

She laughed. ‘Yes, I am. By now, I should know to look right before I cross a road, shouldn’t I?’

‘I have the same problem whenever I’m in France. I end up looking both ways half a dozen times before I risk crossing. Anyhow, what brings you to Galway?’

Reluctant to tell him the real reason, she shrugged. ‘Oh, you know, shopping and some sightseeing.’

‘If you head through the park from here to Eyre Square, you’ll see a bronze bust of one of your Presidents. JFK was here in Galway about six months before he was assassinated. And then, if you turn left into William Street, you’ll find plenty of shops there, and that leads straight into Shop Street, which is pedestrianized, by the way, so you won’t need to watch out for the traffic.’

His soft Irish accent was part of the attraction that played havoc with her pulse rate, but she shot an amused glance at him as she stirred her coffee. ‘You’re not gonna let me forget this morning’s error, are you?’

He laughed. ‘Probably not. Did you drive here today?’

‘Whoa, no way! I’ve driven my cousin’s car into Clifden a few times, but I’m not confident enough to drive in a city yet. I came by bus, so I could relax and enjoy the scenery. Connemara is such a wild and beautiful area, with all the hills and lakes.’

‘Loughs,’ he said.

‘Sorry, loughs. Everyone laughed at me at first when I said loffs. I didn’t realise it’s pronounced like the Scottish lochs.’ She raised her coffee mug toward his teacup. ‘Sláinte! At least I’ve learned how to pronounce that correctly.’

Ryan clinked his cup against hers. ‘Sláinte! How long have you been here in Ireland?’

‘Just over four months. I came over here at Christmas.’

‘And I assume you’re working at Mist Na Mara Arts Centre?’

She nodded. ‘I’m part of the Living History group. We do costumed plays in the Victorian part of the house.’

‘You’re an actress?’

‘Not a trained one, no, but I did some drama at school, and I acted in a few plays at college. I enjoy it, but I’m not very good.’

Ryan’s throaty chuckle sent a ripple through her. ‘At least you’re honest, and not claiming you appeared on Broadway or starred in a Hollywood movie before coming to Ireland.’

‘I never had any yearnings in that direction. I majored in chemistry, and worked for the New York Police Department for five years.’

His eyes widened. ‘As a police officer?’

‘No, forensics. You know, all the gory stuff. Analysing DNA, and hair and body fluids, etcetera.’

‘An essential job in any police department. Why did you quit that and join an acting group?’

‘I – um – I wanted a change.’ No need to tell him about Captain Mark Rankin of the NYPD, whom she’d dated for six months before discovering he was married with two kids.

‘A change, is it? Well, forensics to acting is a big change in itself, but to move from America to Ireland is an even bigger change. Why Ireland?’

She hadn’t told anyone her real reason. It was too soon to share any details about her search, when she had no idea whether she would find any answers.

Realising Ryan was waiting for an answer, she gave him a quick smile. ‘My cousin Guy and his wife Jenna own Mist Na Mara House, so I asked them if I could join their team here. I may have slightly exaggerated my acting abilities, but I wanted to visit Ireland anyway.’ She hesitated for a moment. ‘Actually, I think I have some Irish ancestry.’

‘Is that right? Do you know where they came from?’

‘A small town called Ballykane in County Tipperary.’

He nodded. ‘I know it. Driven through it a few times on the way to Nenagh or Roscrea. An ordinary little place, with one main street, a couple of churches, the usual small shops, and half a dozen or more bars. Have you been there yet?’

‘No, but I’m hoping to visit sometime.’ She glanced at his left hand as he raised his teacup to his mouth. No ring on his third finger, but that didn’t mean anything. So far, she’d not really learned anything about him, but she balked at asking him directly if he was married. She took a quick sip of her coffee and decided on a more subtle approach. ‘Do you know anything about your ancestry?’

He shook his head and shrugged. ‘I assume they’re all from Dublin, like me. Jackeens, as everyone here in the west would call us.’

‘How long have you lived in Clifden?’

‘Not long, but I like the town and its surroundings. It has the coast, the mountains, and history, too. Have you ever been out to Derrygimla?’

‘Where’s that?’

‘Couple of miles south of Clifden. The first non-stop transatlantic flight ended there in 1919. They thought they were landing in a green field, and instead they pitched nose-down into a good old Irish bog.’

‘Oh yes, there are some old newspaper articles and photos about that in Murphy’s Bar.’ Aware he’d diverted the conversation away from himself, she went on, ‘I’ve never seen you in Murphy’s. Do you have a favourite bar in Clifden?’

He grinned. ‘I’ve tried them all, but Coyne’s is the nearest to where I live.’

‘Where do you live?’

‘In a flat above a shop on Bridge Street, but don’t be imagining it’s anything like your apartments in the States. The whole of my flat would probably fit into the living room of an American apartment.’

‘Some apartments are very small, you know, especially in the cities.’

‘I was in New York one time, and stayed with an—with a guy who had a huge apartment in Brooklyn. I suppose I imagined all apartments were like his.’

‘One of my friends had a studio apartment in Hoboken that was even smaller than my room at Mist Na Mara.’

Ryan laughed. ‘And here’s me thinking all Americans lived in palatial apartments or huge houses. Have you always lived in New York?’

‘I was born and brought up in New Jersey, but I shared an apartment with a friend on East 33rd Street for a couple of years. What did you think of New York?’

‘I thought Galway traffic was bad, and Dublin even worse, but driving in New York scared the pants off me, with all those impatient cab drivers blasting their horns.’ He drained his cup of tea, and glanced at his watch. ‘Well, it’s been grand to chat, but I must go now. I’m meeting a friend in about ten minutes, but can I give you a lift back to Clifden later? No charge, by the way, because I’ll be heading back there anyway.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Fer sure I’m sure. What time?’

‘Whenever’s convenient for you.’

‘Four o’clock? That’ll give you plenty of time for your shopping, won’t it? There’s a taxi rank on the far side of the park. Wait somewhere near there and I’ll pick you up.’

She flashed him a quick smile. ‘Thanks, Ryan. I really appreciate that. See you later.’

* * *

Garda Detective Ryan O’Neill blew out his breath as he crossed the road to his car.

He’d almost slipped up when he was about to tell Kara he’d stayed with an NYPD officer in Brooklyn, especially as she said she’d worked with the New York police. After a month of undercover work, masquerading as a taxi driver with the assumed name of Ryan Brady, he couldn’t afford to make errors. And definitely not when he’d finally started to piece together some possible evidence about the stolen goods racket that had plagued the Connemara area since the beginning of the year.

His detective instincts, however, had already alerted him to something intriguing. The buses from Clifden to Galway only ran every three hours, which meant Kara must have caught the 9.15 bus and arrived here about 10.45. But this street was less than two minutes’ walk from the bus station, so why had it taken her nearly an hour to reach the place where she stepped out in front of his car? Even if she’d stopped to ask for directions, that didn’t explain the time difference.

As he opened his car door, he glanced around. No shops or other sights to see here, just an ordinary street with a hotel and some office buildings.

It was none of his business, of course, but curiosity gnawed at him as he negotiated Galway’s congested one-way streets. With a quick shrug, he tried to suppress it, along with the pull of attraction he’d been aware of the first time he saw her in Clifden. Although he’d love to get to know her better, this was the wrong time. He couldn’t risk any distractions from his current assignment. The Chief wouldn’t forgive him a second time.

Chapter 2

Kara waited until Ryan had driven away before leaving the coffee shop. She checked the sketch map which Josie Flynn, the secretary at the Adoption Agency, had drawn for her, and followed the directions along the side of the small park to the bus stop. It occurred to her that maybe she should take a look at the bust of President Kennedy, in case Ryan asked her about it later, but the decision was taken out of her hands when the Number 401 bus approached the stop.

During the twenty-minute journey to Salthill – the seaside area of Galway – she tried to formulate the questions she wanted to ask when she reached the Calvary Hospital, but her mind kept drifting to Ryan. Was it her imagination, or had he deliberately steered the conversation away from himself? She gathered together the few crumbs she’d learnt about him: his family came from Dublin; he hadn’t been in Clifden for long, whatever that meant; and he had a small apartment in Bridge Street. Not much to go on, except he said I and not we, even when he mentioned France and New York.

But Mark Rankin had always been careful in the same way. He called his New York apartment his ‘bachelor pad’, and had only given her vague information about his past life. Not for one minute did she suspect he was married, and she’d been naïve enough to accept his excuse of ‘working on a case’ for the weekends he spent away from New York. Until the day Joanne Rankin turned up at HQ on a surprise visit to her husband.

Perhaps she was being paranoid, but no way was she going to make the same mistake again.

She jerked back to the present when the bus reached the promenade at Salthill, and alighted near the Calvary Hospital.

Not that she held out much hope of learning anything from the Sisters of Calvary. According to Josie, they once ran the mother and baby home at Ballykane, and now owned the private hospital here in Galway.

‘Ye’ll have to be very persistent,’ Josie said. ‘It’s difficult to get any information from them, but don’t be fobbed off. Once the scandal about all the baby adoptions was highlighted in the media, the religious orders clammed up. Honourin’ their guarantees of confidentiality, they call it.’

The hospital, a modern two-storey building, was set in spacious, well-maintained grounds, and she followed the signs to the reception area. At the desk, she explained briefly the reason for her visit and asked to speak to someone who might be able to help her.

After about fifteen minutes, a slim nun, not much older than herself, came into reception. She wore a navy suit with a sleeveless jacket over a white blouse, and a matching navy silk headscarf, and beckoned to her. ‘Miss Stewart? I apologise for keeping you waiting, but if you’d like to follow me?’

She led the way down a cream-painted corridor into a large office with wide windows overlooking Galway Bay.

The nun, whose ID tag showed her name as Sister Mary Theresa, indicated the chair in front of her desk and gave her a friendly smile. ‘Now, how can I help you?’

‘Oh, I thought your receptionist might have told you. I gave her the reason for my visit here.’

‘Yes, something to do with donations to our Order, I understand.’

Kara thought of Josie’s indignant comments when she’d mentioned the donations: Fees, you mean, ’cept they weren’t allowed to call them that, ’cause it was illegal to sell babies, but American couples paid hundreds, if not thousands, to adopt Irish babies.

For the moment, however, it was more tactful to keep to the official line.

‘My grandfather made annual donations to the Sisters of Calvary for over fifty years until his death last year, and I believe this was because he and his wife adopted a baby from the mother and baby home in Ballykane in 1960.’

‘We are extremely grateful for all donations, Miss Stewart. We receive no government funding and rely on clients’ payments and on donations to continue our commitment to providing high quality medical care here.’

‘I’m trying to find out more about the baby they adopted, Sister. That baby is my mother, and she knows nothing about her birth mother or the circumstances of her birth.’

The nun nodded. ‘I see. Well, I’m afraid it’s often very difficult to trace the details of all the babies born in the home at Ballykane.’

‘Surely the Sisters kept records of the mothers, and the adoptions?’

‘Unfortunately, we’re talking about a time when there were only paper records. No computers then, of course. And, I regret to say, many of those records have been lost over the years.’

‘Aren’t there any records from the Ballykane home?’

‘Oh yes, several hundred boxes. Sister Augusta, our archivist, is trying to index them. However, I’m sure you understand that we are only permitted to give out non-identifying information.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘We can’t divulge the original name or surname of an adopted child, or the names of his or her birth parents. Such details have to remain confidential.’

Kara frowned. ‘Why?’

‘The mothers have a right to privacy about their past lives, Miss Stewart.’

‘What about the children? Don’t they have the right to know about their birth parents?’

‘Under current legislation, no, not unless the mother consents – and the father, too, if he is named on the birth certificate.’

Kara blinked as she struggled to absorb this information. ‘I see.’ She thought for a couple of seconds. ‘Is there any way I can find out more about my mother’s birth and adoption?’

The nun wrote something on a notepad and handed it to her. ‘Here’s the address for Sister Augusta.’

Kara looked down at the paper, and up again. ‘I wrote to this address about four months ago but didn’t get any reply.’

Sister Mary Theresa gave her an apologetic smile. ‘I’m so sorry about that. We receive a lot of enquiries, and Sister Augusta does her best to deal with them all, but it can take her a long time to search through all the old records.’

When the nun stood, Kara realised the interview was over, despite the million and one questions she still wanted to ask. Recognising that this woman wasn’t going to give her any answers, she stood, too, and forced a smile. ‘Thank you for your time, Sister. I appreciate the information you’ve given me.’

‘Good luck with your search,’ the nun said.

As Kara trekked along the corridor toward the main door of the hospital, Josie’s words came back to her: Don’t be fobbed off. That was exactly what Sister Mary Theresa had been doing. Fobbing her off with vague excuses about missing records and confidentiality, so even if she wrote to Sister Augusta again, what were the chances of any reply?

She pushed open the swing door, and stood for a few moments, gazing out across the grey-blue water of the bay. She was no nearer to finding anything about her mother’s birth than when she first arrived in Ireland, and she had no idea what to do next.

With a discouraged sigh, she headed along the path between manicured lawns and neat flower beds, already colourful with spring anemones. A quick check of her watch showed her it was only one o’clock. She had plenty of time to find somewhere for lunch, and perhaps she’d do some shopping after all before she met Ryan in Eyre Square.

She reached the wide gateway of the hospital grounds and turned to take a photo with her phone. Moving a few steps to avoid getting the large signboard in the picture, she noticed a small wooden sign near the ground, half-hidden by one of the posts holding the main sign.

Clochar na Siúracha Calvaryn – Convent of the Sisters of Calvary

The sign pointed away from the main entrance, along a narrow path between neatly trimmed shrubs.

She gave a satisfied smile. Forget lunch and shopping, and forget Sister Mary Theresa and her bland excuses. If she could meet with Sister Augusta at the convent, maybe she wouldn’t have to write off today’s visit as a complete waste of time.

* * *

Ryan reached the hotel near Wolfe Tone Bridge, handed his car key to the parking valet, and entered the lobby. Ignoring the people waiting for the elevator, he took the stairs two at a time, and knocked on the door of Room 116.

A key turned in the lock, and Chief Superintendent Enya Quinn opened the door. In her late forties, tall and auburn-haired, and immaculate as always in a mid-grey trouser suit, she crossed to the two leather bucket chairs near the window.

‘Help yourself to a sandwich and a drink, and update me, Ryan. You said you had a possible lead.’

Ryan picked up a chicken sandwich and bottle of water from a tray on the low table between the chairs, took a quick slurp, and flipped open his notebook. ‘Not before time, after doing this taxi job for a month and getting nowhere. Spent the first couple of weeks checking the computer records whenever no one was in the office, and made a note of all the regular bookings.’

‘How many?’ Enya asked.

He counted up. ‘Ten, but most of them were local, mainly hotel staff going home at midnight or later. Only two were going further afield – one to Oughterard every Thursday evening at seven, and one to Roscommon every Monday morning at eight.’

‘Have you discovered anything more about either of them?’

‘Drove Mr. Gould to Oughterard a week last Thursday, and got his life story. He owns three gift shops, Clifden, Westport, and Oughterard. Spends two days at each every week, but lost his licence end of last year. Drink driving. Wife and three kids live in Oughterard. Sounded genuine.’

‘And the other one?’

Ryan grinned. ‘This is where things get interesting. According to the computer, Tom Wild has done the Roscommon run with a Patrick Walsh since February. Last week, Tom was full of a cold, sneezing and coughing like a seal, so I offered to do the run, and nearly got my head bitten off. I do that run, he said, so keep your freakin’ nose out. He apologised later, and said he didn’t mean to be rude, but he was feeling rough.’

Enya shrugged. ‘Sounds reasonable.’

‘Aye, except somehow he overdid the apology thing, and kept telling me to forget what he said that morning.’

‘Okay. What next?’

‘Two things. Last Sunday night, I dropped a group of women off at Mist Na Mara Arts Centre about eleven o’clock, and I reached the gate just as Tom Wild’s car passed, going down the lane to the Leary farm. Didn’t think much about it until I got back to the office five minutes later, and the receptionist was on the radio to him, asking if he could do a pickup at eleven-thirty from Oliver’s Bar in Cleggan. His reply was, It’ll take me at least forty minutes to get to Cleggan. Ask someone else to go. Obviously a lie, as I’d just seen him, and it would only take him about ten minutes – fifteen at the most – to get from the Leary farm to Cleggan.’

Enya pursed her lips. ‘Could be any number of reasons for that. Maybe he didn’t want to drive to Cleggan, or he was stopping for a cup of tea at the farm.’

‘I’d agree, except that Eve, the receptionist, looked very puzzled, and said she thought his last fare was to Beckfield Lodge. That’s a guest house on Westport Road, about a mile north of Clifden, and on the route to Cleggan.’

‘Interesting. So, he may have been lying, for whatever reason. You said two things. What was the other?’

‘I’d already seen Patrick Walsh’s name on the list again for Monday morning, so I parked further along the street where I could see the office in my rear-view mirror. Got there about seven-thirty, and bingo – eight o’clock, a white transit van pulls up outside the office, and a man gets out from the passenger side.’ He checked his notebook again. ‘About five feet seven or eight, stocky build, receding mid-brown hair, wearing light blue jeans and a denim jacket. He unloaded a large cardboard box from the van, put it on the back seat of Tom’s car, got in the front with Tom, and off they went. I thought about following them, but decided not to, since Tom would recognise my car. The van had already driven off in the direction of Market Street, but by the time I got to the top of the street, there was no sign of it.’

‘Any name on the van, or did you get the number?’

‘Plain white. Took a couple of photos with my phone, but I think I was too far away to get a clear image of the number plate. I sent the photos to Declan, in the hope he can enlarge them.’

‘Do we have anything on Tom Wild?’

Enya hit some keys on her laptop, but he shook his head. ‘I checked. We don’t have anything on him, or anyone called Patrick Walsh either. Of course, those might not be their real names.’ He chuckled. ‘Which makes three of us working under false names.’

‘Tom Wild’s the owner of the taxi firm, isn’t he?’

‘Yes, he bought the business when the previous owner retired at the end of last year. He’s efficient and organised, and normally quite friendly.’

‘Any family?’

‘Never talks about a wife or kids. He once mentioned he lived in a flat near the harbour, but I’ve never seen him in any of the pubs in Clifden.’

‘Perhaps he doesn’t drink.’

‘Could be, but gut instinct is telling me this weekly trip to Roscommon with a large cardboard box is worth investigating. We know whoever is running the racket has used taxis before to take stolen goods up to Belfast, although I admit that doesn’t necessarily mean Tom Wild is involved. The Belfast taxi driver who was picked up with a stash of stuff last December said he had no idea what was in the boxes.’

Enya gave a cynical laugh. ‘Claimed his boss sent him to a taxi firm over the border in Monaghan to collect them from another driver. The Belfast and Monaghan cops kept close surveillance on both taxi firms without being able to pin anything on either, especially when the one in Monaghan closed down less than a week later.’

‘Which suggests that whoever’s running this racket switches the route once a taxi firm is compromised.’

‘And now they’re going through Roscommon instead of Monaghan? It’s possible. Do we need to haul this Tom Wild in for questioning?’

Ryan hesitated. ‘If he is involved, he’s probably small fry. On the other hand, he might not even know what’s in the boxes Patrick Walsh is taking up to Roscommon. I’m more interested in where Walsh picks up his load. That could be what leads us to Mister Big.’

‘You may be right, because it’s not a small operation. They’re going for the expensive stuff, and somehow they’re getting it across to England or Scotland. The latest info we’ve had is that last week the Manchester police recovered five of the twenty laptops stolen from the school in Skelleen at a shop in one of the suburbs. The week before, the Glasgow police raided an industrial unit and found some of the silverware from the Ballinstone burglary.’

Ryan nodded. ‘At least they found the stuff before it was sold, but it only represents about five percent of what’s gone missing from shops, schools, hotels, cars, etcetera, etcetera, since January, when we saw the upsurge of thefts and burglaries in this area.’

‘I’ll lay bets the other ninety-five percent has also found its way to the UK or even further afield, and we still don’t know who the local fence or fences are, or where the goods are being stored, or how the hell the stuff is getting from here to there.’

‘I’ll see what I can find out about Patrick Walsh, and about the white transit van that brought him to the taxi office.’

‘Okay, but go carefully. If we scare them off,