Page 88 of Road Trip
“Same in Ireland,” Jamie said. “I’m thinking of Sir Walter Scott, who said ‘oh what a tangled web we weave…’”
“‘When first we practice to deceive,’” Maeve said, finishing the verse. “I always got straight A’s in English.”
“My grades weren’t quitethatstellar,” he said. “But, to answer your question, the gang got caught because it turned out that there was a Mrs. Danny Dwyer back in Dublin, and she was fed up with being a single mum while the mister was off with a pretty young thing called Starr. The Rossingtons were offering a nice fat reward for information leading to the arrest of the miscreants who’d victimized them, and Mrs. Dwyer was pleased to let the Gardai know where they could catch up with her cheating husband.”
“Which was where?” Maeve asked.
“Starr and Dwyer and Eddie Keane were holed up in a little rented cottage up in the Wicklow Mountains. The Gardai found the paintings in the boot of the car, hidden under the bed Starr and Dwyer were sleeping in, and in a shed.”
“What about the fourth member of the gang? The lookout?”
“He scarpered at the first sign of trouble but got stopped by the Gardai two days later in a stolen car. Got in a shoot-out and lost.”
“Let me guess. He didn’t have any paintings.”
“He did not.”
“And your mother went to prison?”
“Yes. Believe me, it was quite a scandal.”
Maeve did the math in her head. “When did your mother get out?”
“She was given early release in ’81, because she was pregnant with me. By a friendly prison guard, you might say.”
“Not Dwyer?”
“No. He was sent to the men’s prison. As far as I know, they never spoke again after their trial.”
Jamie recited the fact of his birth, and his parentage, with a perfectly flat affect, Maeve thought. He’d probably told that tale too many times over the years to be embarrassed by it.
“I was raised by my grandmum,” he explained. “They gave me her maiden name, Cooke, because of course the McGahee name was so notorious at the time. But Starr would come for visits on the weekend.”
“You called her Starr?”
“It’s what she preferred. She was more like an aunt, maybe, than a mother. I had what you might call an unusual childhood.”
Maddie was back now, placing a plate with slices of lemon sponge cake with berries and chocolate torte on the table between them. She’d overheard his last remark and leaned in. “But Jamie turned out splendidly, in my opinion, thanks to his gran.”
Her husband beamed. “Thanks, love.”
“His mother wanted to name him Sky, if you can believe it,” Maddie said. “Thank God his gran wasn’t having that for her only grandchild.”
“I’m named Jamie, after my granddad,” he said.
“How did you two meet?” Maeve asked Maddie.
“The usual way. I was doing a graduate course in London, where he was working at the time. I spied him in a pub, sent my girlfriend over to check him out, and when she gave the okay, I flirted with him, relentlessly, until he finally asked for my number.”
“That’s not how I remember it,” Jamie said. “I believe you asked me formynumber.”
“Details,” Maddie said airily. “Go on now, and let Maeve ask her questions.”
“Thank you,” Maeve said. “This is all so helpful. Jamie, did your mother ever talk about… that time?”
“Starr referred to it as ‘the incident.’ As I got older, she talked to me about it a bit. I think she wanted me to understand why she did the things she did.”
Jamie took a forkful of the lemon cake and chewed slowly.
