CHAPTER EIGHTTHE CLOCK ON THE WALL of the Tralee Garda Station struck five. Fatigue showed on Inspector O’Leary’s face. He was slowly sipping a cup of coffee while reading a report on the night’s work. The “golf course sniper”, as he had already been dubbed by the press, had barricaded himself behind a wall of silence. The situation seemed deadlocked.
At that exact moment, an anxious Sweeney sprang out of a Garda car and landed in the circle of drowsy Irish policemen.
“Inspector! I’ve got it! I’ve got Sven Olsson’s motive!”
O’Leary was startled out of his lethargy.
“What? What are you talking about, Sweeney? You don’t even know what happened here during the night,” grumbled the Irishman.
“Oh?… Er… Yes, sorry, that’s true… So, what happened?” said the agitated red-bearded inspector, tr
