The case conference that morning had been short and bitter. Superintendent Quigley had allowed her to present what they knew so far, which, to be honest, was fuck all. She and Flynn had pieced together a few more facts about the victim, but nothing particularly interesting. James Mannion hadn’t worked as a teacher since leaving Rathoban. In fact, officially, although he’d still been in his mid thirties when he arrived in Dublin, he’d never worked again. He had drawn the dole for a while, and supplemented it with nixers, mostly as a painter and decorator. The house on Darcy Terrace wasn’t his, but he’d secured a long-term lease decades ago and his landlord, a man of a similar age who owned multiple properties around the city, had been happy to let him stay there. And that was hardly a selfless act of charity, Claire realised. The place hadn’t had so much as a lick of paint since Mannion moved in and the kitchen was a health hazard, even before the tenant crawled in there to die. There had been practically nothing of value in the place, either, just an ancient radio, Mannion’s books and, of course, the milk cartons. Claire still didn’t know what to think about them. Were they evidence that Mannion was a hoarder, maybe? That he’d feared being trapped in his house, running low of supplies? She would never know. The dead man’s GP hadn’t been much use to them either, telling them merely that Mannion had been an infrequent visitor to the surgery. Dr Coughlan, a busy, freckled man in his early fifties, had confirmed that Mannion had complained of stomach pain in recent months and that he’d referred him to the hospital where a cancer diagnosis had been made. He was a nice man, he’d mumbled, looking up from his notes for a moment, a little eccentric but sure that was hardly a crime, was it?
He hadn’t looked particularly upset at the news of Mannion’s passing, but that was doctors for you, Claire supposed. They had to get used to their patients dying in the end – occupational hazard. In fact, as far as Claire knew, Tom Carthy’s were the only tears that had been shed at James Mannion’s death. Siobhán O’Doheny, who had been sent with Flynn to Tír na nÓg in the aftermath of the killing, had told her that none of the clients from whom they took statements had seemed particularly upset. They hadn’t been particularly chatty either, just came out with the usual guff about how Mannion had been a nice man who had minded his own business. Oh there had been head-nods alright, O’Doheny told Claire. Downward glances and sighs, and here and there a ‘God rest him’ or a ‘Poor oul James’. But no tears. And the assistant Tom Carthy had spoken about, a young woman called Liz, hadn’t been much use to them either. O’Doheny swore she had seen her on TV a couple of times, although Claire had to admit the name wasn’t familiar to her. So, that’s all they had. Shag all. And what was worse was the papers were starting to question the investigation too, and the phone-in radio shows, with one programme devoting an entire hour to the discussion, ‘Why aren’t our elderly safe in their homes?’ One caller had even suggested a vigil be held in the city centre to show solidarity, she said, with old people who live alone, although what good that would do, Claire couldn’t imagine.
Maybe another pint would give her inspiration. She leaned towards Keegan, ready to admit it was her round and head up to the bar – and then noticed that he and the rest of the lads were staring past her left shoulder.
She turned, followed their gaze and realised she’d have to actually turn herself into a pint of Guinness to win back their attention. Most of the lads had made some sort of effort that evening – showered, shaved, run the iron over the best shirt, or got someone else to do it for them. She herself had thrown on a new top for the occasion, and jeans that were Weetabix-free. But Garda Siobhán O’Doheny looked like she was attending a different function entirely. As she paused in the pub doorway and took a slow look around the room, Claire knew she wasn’t the only cop there dying to wolf-whistle; except, the others would have been deadly serious. O’Doheny’s long blond hair looked fuller than usual – she must have been to the hairdresser’s – and her white sleeveless top showed off arms that would make Michelle Obama jealous. As she turned around in a further effort to find her friends, Claire noticed an arse that could only be described as peachy.
Peachy. Claire snorted. She must be a bit pissed. Well, a lot pissed. Fuck it, it was Saturday tomorrow; she’d handle the hangover.
Finally spotting the rest of the cops, O’Doheny glided through the doorway and an even better-looking specimen, male this time, walked in close behind her.
‘Whoa! I’d fancy that, meself.’
Keegan nudged Claire and she grinned back at him.
‘Well matched, aren’t they?’
Claire took a slug from her pint and then stopped, glass halfway from her lips, when she realised Philip Flynn was standing at the other side of the bar, eyes out on stalks. Poor fucker. There’d been a funny atmosphere between himself and O’Doheny ever since the night of the Miriam Twohy verdict. Claire didn’t know what had happened; Anna had been just six weeks old and she’d only hung around for an hour, anxious to celebrate the victory but knackered and, she admitted to herself, missing her new little girl. But it looked like, whatever had transpired after she left, Flynn had yet to get over it. Feeling suddenly protective, she walked over to where he was standing and edged in beside him.
‘Having a good night?’
He tore his eyes away from O’Doheny and the boyfriend and gave her a weak smile. ‘Yeah, grand. You?’
‘Great!’
He was looking well, Flynn; a decent black shirt on him and the new haircut was a huge improvement. She’d noticed him yapping to a few of the others earlier, as well; it looked like he was finally making friends. Jesus. She caught sight of herself in the mirror behind the bar and grimaced. What was she, his mother? Still, though, if he was going to have his heart broken, she might as well keep him company. But before she could steer the conversation towards something more neutral, the crowd of guards parted and O’Doheny glided over to join them, her fella a few paces behind. Hands were shaken, names exchanged. ‘Diarmaid, lovely to meet you.’ ‘Likewise.’ Blah, blah. Flynn, not the chattiest at the best of times, appeared to have been struck dumb, so Claire decided to give him a hand and smiled at the newcomer.
‘So, how long have you known Siobhán, then?’
Diarmaid looked at her, and grinned. ‘Nearly thirty years?’
Several pints into the night, it took Claire a minute to cop on to why the others were laughing.
‘He’s my brother,’ O’Doheny explained, her eyes wide.
Ah. Feeling the effects of the beer at last, Claire smiled foolishly – then realised she might be in a position to do Flynn a favour, after all. Resisting the urge to do a comedy nudge, she edged towards the lovely Diarmaid, leaving her colleague and O’Doheny wedged together at the bar. Right, Black Beauty, I’ve led you to water, now sup away.
In fairness, though, engaging O’Doheny’s brother in conversation was no great hardship. He was a lovely bloke, Claire realised after a few minutes; no side to him at all, happy to yap away about most things – movies, books, TV. Some of the stuff he mentioned, she only had half a notion about – plays he’d seen and that sort of thing – but he had a lovely way about him, a way of making you feel that whatever you had to say had merit in it. After a while, Siobhán and Flynn joined them and the four of them had the crack. Flynn was looking more at ease as the conversation, and the beer, flowed.
‘Two, three, four!’
Ah, feck it – ‘The Fields of Athenry’. And it was only – Claire checked her watch – twenty past twelve. Later than she thought, actually. Late enough, anyway, for some of the lads to have lapsed into rowdiness. The barman, ostentatiously polishing glasses, gave them a look as if to say, Yiz might be guards, but don’t push me.
Across from her, Siobhán stretched, showing off those sculpted arms to full advantage. ‘I think it’s time for a bit of a bop; who’s coming with me?’
‘Not me.’ Claire’s yawn almost split her face in two and she stumbled a little as she moved away from the bar.
/> ‘Careful!’ Diarmaid grabbed her by the elbow and steadied her. ‘Can I give you a lift home?’
She peered at him, confused, and then remembered he’d been on the mineral water all evening.
‘Ah, no, I’m grand.’
‘Honestly – Shiv’s going on with the rest of them; I’ve room in the car. I can drop you home too, if you like?’ He looked across at Flynn, who nodded.
‘That’d be great, thanks’, he said draining his pint.
‘I’ll leave ye to it, so!’ beamed Siobhán, who looked as sober as the moment she’d walked into the bar. She kissed her brother on the cheek then strode away from them and straight into the centre of a group who were debating the merits of Copper Face Jacks versus Vanilla. Looking at them, faces glowing with drink and excitement, the prospect of a late night and a quiet house in which to sleep it off shimmering before them, Claire felt suddenly old and worn. Part of her wanted to nudge Flynn, to point in O’Doheny’s direction and tell him to enjoy the rest of the evening, but mostly her feet hurt and she wanted to sit down. And if this nice young man wanted to save her the hassle of a taxi queue, what harm?
Minutes later, she found herself in the back of a very large and very clean Audi, Flynn buckling himself in in front. Flynn? That didn’t make sense; sure, he lived over the other side of the city. Maybe he had come to chaperone her, Claire thought, and giggled. Chance would be a fine thing. Nice, though, if he thought she was in danger from Diarmaid, the out-and-out ride. Misguided, but nice. The engine started with a well-tuned purr and she leaned her head back against the seat, suddenly exhausted. Letting someone else take charge for a change – that was lovely, too. Sound man, Diarmaid. Nice voice; she could hear it rising and falling, Flynn replying, the two of them laughing and then it rising again, washing over her as her eyes drooped . . .
‘Claire? We’re here.’
She opened her eyes with a jerk. Jesus, she’d dropped right off. Oh, Gawd, she hoped she hadn’t snored. She wiped her chin, but there was no evidence of drool. It was a good thing Flynn knew her address. Good Lord, she’d been out for the count; that was the downside of having a small baby. She could sleep on a clothes line now, whether she wanted to or not. Her head felt a little clearer, though, and she tapped Diarmaid-the-ride on the shoulder.
‘Thanks a million for the lift.’
‘Not at all! Lovely meeting you. Siobhán’s a big admirer, if you don’t mind me saying.’
Claire grabbed her bag, peeled herself off the seat, considered pecking her chauffeur on the cheek and then shook his outstretched hand instead. She punched Flynn on the shoulder and told him she’d see him Monday. After struggling out of the car, she slammed the door shut and then gave it a quick tap on the roof for good luck before watching it pull away. She scrabbled in her bag for her keys and then cursed loudly when she realised she’d forgotten her jacket. Feck it, it was a nice one too. She turned, and realised with relief that the car hadn’t gone any distance at all; in fact, it had pulled in just a short distance down the street and . . .
Oh.
The street light shining through the window lit up the car. The kiss, when it began, was hesitant, and then, after a moment, not hesitant at all.
Claire kept looking until it dawned on her fuzzy brain that it was rude to stare. But neither Flynn nor Diarmaid were in any position to notice.
Chapter Sixteen
Eugene only really made up his mind when he saw the safe. Up until then, he’d had no real intention of ripping them off. They were sound enough, the crowd at Tír na nÓg. Eejits, obviously, but harmless with it. And they made a decent cup of tea. So, no, he’d no real notion of stealing from them or of doing anything to them, really, until he’d looked into the makey-uppy room they called ‘the office’ and seen the glint of tin in the top drawer. He’d slid it out for a quick look and, sure, it practically leaped up into his arms at that stage. A tin box, for fuck’s sake. You wouldn’t store your communion money in it. It was like they were asking to be robbed.
It was all . . . What was that word the sister’s young fella kept using? Random. It was all totally random, anyway. He shouldn’t even have been in Dublin that week, let alone hanging around their poxy little charity. But he’d got himself into a bit of trouble down home, with the brother and that, and it was a case of either hang around and risk getting his head kicked in, or get the fuck out of Dodge for a while. So Eugene had hopped on the first bus leaving out of Cork and ended up, four hours later, standing on O’Connell Street in the pissings of rain with barely enough money in his pocket for a cup of tea. Hoor of a place, Dublin; he had never liked it, but it was far from home and no fucker was looking for him there, that was the main thing. So it would have to do, for a week or two. Just until things died down.
The first few days, he’d stayed quiet enough, kept his head down, nicked a wallet off a tourist that gave him enough money for a few dinners and a bed in a B & B, and kept to himself the rest of the time. But when that few bob ran out, Eugene hadn’t been sure what to do next. He didn’t know the city well enough to chance too much dipping and, besides, if the cops lifted him, they might find out what had happened at home and that would lead him to a path he definitely didn’t want to go down. So he spent a night in a doorway, and then a second one, and by day three he was sick of it all, tired of being hungry, filthy and bored stupid, and cursing himself for getting into trouble in the first place. In fact, Eugene was actually beginning to think he would have to take his chances back in Cork when this oul one crossed the street and bent down in front of him. He held out his cup to her, hopefully, but, instead of throwing in a few coins, she shoved her face into his.
‘Have you nowhere to go, love?’
Yeah, he wanted to say, it’s just the cleaners are in my penthouse apartment and I wanted to give them a clear run at it.
But he couldn’t be arsed taking the piss and, besides, he was fairly sure the sarcasm would be wasted on her, so he just waggled the cup in front of her face in the hope she’d throw in a few bob or at least get the fuck out of his light.
But she wasn’t going anywhere.
‘There’s no need to be sitting here in the damp; you’ll catch your death. You should head along to that Tír na nÓg place – they’ll sort you out.’
‘Where’s that, then?’ He hadn’t meant to talk to her but it had been three days since he’d said anything to another human being, other than, ‘I’ll have a Coke with that,’ and he was interested, despite himself. ‘What is it?’
‘Oh, it’s a marvellous place.’
She raised herself slowly back up to a standing position, and Eugene squinted up at her. She was the same age as himself, if not older, he realised, and, judging by the cheap plastic raincoat and laddered tights, not much better off, either. She was mad for the chat too, that was obvious, and he began to regret ever having caught her eye. But there was no stopping her now; she was yammering away about what a wonderful resource this Tír na nÓg place was and how it was – how did she put it? – fulfilling a vital role, and wasn’t there this wonderful girl working there who went on the television talking about it and, sure, she should be running the country, not the crowd who got in the last time.
Eugene had to lift his hand in the end to stem the flow. He gave the best approximation he could of a smile and explained that, although it sounded wonderful, he wasn’t long in Dublin himself and hadn’t a clue how to get there.
‘Well, it’s about a forty-five-minute walk from here; you go straight down this road and take a left . . .’
But when she saw his eyes glaze over, she smiled and took an envelope out of her pocket.
‘I’ll write it down for you, love.’
She scribbled something, then tore off a corner of the bit of paper and handed it to him.
‘Now. May you be warm and dry, anyway.’
With another smile, and a ‘God Bless, now,’ she shuffled off, her scuffed shoes making a slapping, squelching sound on the wet pavement
. Didn’t give him a cent, just the bit of paper. Eugene thought about chucking it, but then he felt a drip on his head and realised he was minutes away from another soaking. Feck it. He looked down, squinted, read what she’d written. Tír na nÓg. The old girl had written a bus number as well. Right so. It wasn’t like he’d anything better to do. He could phone home, try and patch things up, but he’d be better off waiting till he got a few bob together to pay Anthony back. It had been his brother’s own fault, really, leaving the money under the mattress like that, and how was Eugene to know his usual supplier had passed his order on to a far less reputable source? But Anthony was funny about that sort of thing, so it was best all round to leave going home until he’d got the cash together. In the meantime, this Tír na nÓg place would have to do.
Less than an hour later, he’d found himself sitting on a scuffed but clean chair and drinking the first of several free cups of tea. Tír na nÓg: the magical, mystical land of Youth. There was no sign of Niamh or a white horse, though, and the whole ‘Óg’ thing was a pile of shite too, because there were only two people in the place under the age of sixty: some bloke called Tom, who seemed to run the place and had that ‘trying to be everyone’s friend’ thing going on, and a young one who made a big show of shaking his hand when he got there and then wrinkled her nose when she thought he wasn’t looking. Cheek of her. Fair enough – Eugene was aware he reeked to high heaven; three days of sleeping in doorways wasn’t exactly conducive to good personal hygiene. But she didn’t have to let on she’d noticed.
Liz, her name was, and Eugene couldn’t figure out why she was there at all, or what was in it for her. Spending her days sitting in a manky office and drinking tea with oul lads like himself. He could only assume she was riding Mr Friendly Tom, or wanted to ride him, or got a kick out of him wanting to ride her, or something. There had to be some excuse. One of the lads, Richard, clearly fancied his chances, and another one of them swore blind to him that she was a hero, a saint of a girleen who had devoted her life to the place and the men and went on television and everything to try to get money for them. But Eugene knew there were few saints in this world.
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