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 paid in cash. They’d missed him by five days.
“Do you know for certain that Mr. McGuire owns the boat?” Sara asked.
Doherty shrugged. “He could have hired it. Many people do that when they come here on holiday.”
“Who could tell us if it was a hired boat?” Fitzmaurice asked.
“Either the Registrars of Shipping or the Irish Sailing Association,” Doherty said. “Both keep excellent records of ownership, and you may want to ask after Mr. McGuire at the National Yacht Club. On his first visit he asked me to direct him there.”
“What time does the night watch start?” Fitzmaurice asked.
“Johnny Scanlan comes on duty at eighteen hundred hours,” Doherty replied.
Fitzmaurice handed Doherty a business card. “Have him stand by for us at that time.”
Doherty nodded. “Have we had a criminal in our midst?”
“It’s a family emergency,” Sara said. “How do we get to the yacht club from here?”
“Easily done,” Doherty said, and he rattled off directions that took them directly toward the lighthouse with the red dome.
Fitzmaurice parked in front of the National Yacht Club. The entrance consisted of a six-panel double door with a semicircular pediment window above. It was enclosed by a wrought-iron fence and a gate bracketed by two tall, ornate light stanchions. In spite of the Georgian touches the building had the look of a low-slung French chateau. Two polished brass plaques on either side of the door announced that it was indeed the National Yacht Club and that the building had historical significance.
After Fitzmaurice showed his credentials at the reception desk, they explored the public rooms while waiting for a club official to come talk to them. In a large gallery comfortable chairs and couches were arranged to give a view of the bay through a series of tall windows. Oil paintings of sailing ships in hand-carved gilded frames adorned the walls. In the separate dining room the tables were set with crystal stemware and silver flatware. The adjacent bar was an inviting, intimate cove of dark paneling and polished mahogany. There were few people about, but as they returned to the front room, a smiling older man with a neatly trimmed gray beard and mustache, and wide-spaced brown eyes below a bald, round head approached, introduced himself as Diarmuid O’Gorman, the commodore of the club, and asked if he could be of assistance.
Fitzmaurice displayed his Garda credentials and showed O’Gorman Spalding’s photograph. “We’re trying to locate a Mr. George McGuire and we understand he may have visited the club early in the summer.”
O’Gorman nodded. “Yes, I spoke with him myself. He was keenly interested in becoming a member. A very pleasant gentleman. Is he in some sort of difficulty?”
“Not at all,” Fitzmaurice said. “A family matter requires his attention.”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you. He left with a membership application and a promise to return after he settled into a house in Dun Laoghaire. He said it might be some time before he would be ready to put himself forward for admission, and that he would be traveling until then.”
“On his motor yacht?” Sara asked.
“Yes, but he’s planning to purchase a racing dinghy, a sport we’re particularly active in. We’ve hosted two world championships in recent years.”
“Did he say where he might be going after he left Dun Laoghaire?” Sara asked.
“He mentioned wanting to complete the yachtmaster ocean training scheme.”
“What is that, exactly?” Fitzmaurice asked.
“It certifies a skipper to operate a boat beyond coastal and offshore waters,” O’Gorman replied. “The training must be offered by an approved ISA organization.”
“The Irish Sailing Association?” Sara asked.
“Exactly,” O’Gorman said. “They would be able to tell you where and when he completed the course, if indeed he has done so.”
With directions from O’Gorman in hand they left the yacht club and found their way to the headquarters of the Irish Sailing Association. Housed in a mansion along a quiet street, the two-story brick building was surrounded by lush grounds, a wrought-iron fence, and a low ornamental hedge. Set back from the road and partially hidden by large shade trees, the mansion’s entrance was topped by a neoclassical entablature supported by two Greek Revival columns.
Inside they spoke with Mary Kehoe, who managed the daily operations of the association. A pleasant-looking woman in her forties, Kehoe had a small, pointed chin, bluish-green eyes, hair that was as raven black as Fitzmaurice’s, and a gangly figure.
“We’re trying to locate a Mr. George McGuire to inform him of a family emergency,” Fitzmaurice said as he settled into a chair in Kehoe’s office. “He owns or has hired a motor yacht named Sapphire and may have had some recent dealing with your organization.”
“Yes, of course, Mr. McGuire,” Kehoe said, rising from her desk. “We’ve assisted him in a number of ways. Let me get his records.”
When Kehoe left the office, Fitzmaurice flashed a big grin at Sara. “Are you starting to get the scent of our prey?”
“What if he’s on the high seas and staying far away from land?” Sara asked.
Fitzmaurice grimaced. “Well, at least we won’t have to waste our time canvassing every bloody hotel and inn from Dun Laoghaire to Wicklow.”
Kehoe returned with a folder, sat at her desk, put on a pair of reading glasses, and slowly began to page through it. Fitzmaurice’s eyes lit up as though he were a cat about to pounce, and for a moment Sara thought he was getting ready to rip the documents out of the woman’s hands. Instead, he settled back and tried hard not to look impatient.
“We have his completed ISA membership application,” Kehoe said, placing it carefully to one side and studying the next batch of forms. “Also his coastal and offshore certificates of yachtmaster training, both the shore-based and sea-based courses, his international pleasure-boat operator certificate, and his application for a certificate of identity and origin.”
One by one Kehoe neatly arranged the papers to keep everything in order.
“Mr. McGuire owns the Sapphire, then?” Fitzmaurice asked.