Poor eejit, though – Felim, that fella’s name was – if it cheered him up to believe in living saints then Eugene wasn’t going to disappoint him. He wasn’t one of the worst ones, anyway; at least you could have a chat with him or play a game of cards. Some of the other oul fellas were half mad, gone loo-lah after years spent living on what the ponces on the telly called the ‘margins of society’. But, what matter? At the end of the day, the centre was warm and dry, and there was usually tea in the pot and a pack of cards on the go. It would do. In fact, as far as hideaways went, Tír na nÓg had a lot going for it.
So, no, Eugene had no intention of ripping them off – not initially, anyway. But he’d had a really shitty day. He’d been too late for a hostel bed the night before and had ended up dossing down in a shop doorway where he’d slept fitfully until some junkie skanger had turned up at three a.m. and insisted it was his spot. Eugene had considered arguing the point with him – the fella might have been younger than him, but he was thin and fierce unhealthy looking – but then decided against it. You couldn’t take your chances with druggies, in case they were carrying needles. So he’d sloped off instead and walked around the town until Tír na nÓg opened. A crap way to spend a night, no matter how you looked at it.
The lack of sleep had put him into a bad mood for the day, and then there had been that whole business with the weirdo at the door. Eugene had only answered the bell because he’d been sitting on his hole all day and was bored, and, when your man asked him if ‘Elizabeth’ was in, he’d been polite, just told him truthfully that he hadn’t seen her around.
But then your man had looked up at him like he’d seen a ghost or something and legged it back down the garden. It was so weird and unexpected that Eugene had followed him, just to find out what was going on. Got a bit worried, actually – worried that maybe the brother had sent someone up to put the frighteners on him. So he’d followed him out on to the road. Your man was practically running by the time he got to the gate and ran straight into a woman carrying a load of shopping bags. Her stuff went flying but it was like he didn’t even notice, just stood there, winded, with this kind of frightened look on his face. Eugene grabbed him by the arm then, asked him if the brother had sent him, but your man just kept muttering under his breath about Elizabeth and how he needed to speak to her, and other shite too, stuff that didn’t make sense at all. The whole thing was really fucking unsettling and made Eugene’s mind up for him. It was time to go home – leave Tír na bleedin’ nÓg and head back to where he belonged. He’d a few bob put by, not everything he owed the brother, not by a long shot, but hopefully it would be enough. He could catch the last bus, turn up at the flat with a ten spot and a few cans and persuade Anthony there were no hard feelings. He’d been gone long enough; surely things would have calmed down by now.
And that’s when he saw the box. Tom was in the sitting room playing cards with Felim, so when Eugene asked him to lend him a bus timetable he told him to go into the office and help himself. They might as well have stuck a sign on the door: Money In Here. Eugene was well sick of being a good client at that stage, so he shoved the tin box down his trousers and walked out the door. Thanks, Tom, and goodnight from me.
He even knew how much was likely to be in it. That’s how much of a feckin’ tool your man, Tom, was. Eugene had overheard him, two days previously, talking to Lady Liz about a donation that had been slipped in through the door.
‘Five hundred euro!’
The two of them had been in the office, but the dodgy dividing wall meant Eugene, in the sitting room, could hear every word.
‘An anonymous donation! You see, Liz, I told you it would be worthwhile doing all those interviews! That’s the heating bill looked after till well into the new year.’
And then the rattle of the box as it was locked and put in the drawer. Anyone that thick deserved to be stolen from.
Eugene usually left the centre via the main road, but this time his head was down, all his energy concentrated on keeping the tin box tucked inside his pants, so he took a left instead of a right and ended up in a little cul-de-sac of red-brick houses he’d never seen before. Next to them was a brick wall and a door and, walking through it, Eugene found himself on the bank of the Royal Canal. Just the job. He checked his watch: three hours to kill before the Cork bus left. That would give him plenty of time to check out the contents of the box and then walk into town. Nice one. There’d surely be enough in there to pay his brother back, and keep a few bob for himself too, even. All in all, a very good day.
The grass was damp under his feet and, as Eugene walked along the canal, he realised he only had an angry-looking swan and a couple of ducks for company. That was perfect too. By day, this place got pretty busy – you’d get the odd jogger, young ones pushing buggies, or office workers carrying poncy cups of coffee and thinking they lived in New York or somewhere. But come night-time, the only drinks consumed around here tended to be out of brown paper bags. This evening, however, it looked like walkers and boozers alike had all been scared away by the bad weather – which suited Eugene just fine. Great weather for ducks. And fellas looking for a bit of privacy.
Turning his collar up, Eugene quickened his pace and walked briskly until he came to a large patch of shrubbery about thirty feet away from the door in the wall. In front of him, the water glistened blackly and, across the canal, a high stone wall divided the waterway from a seldom-used railway line. Eugene took the box out of his pants, hitched up his trousers and dropped to his hunkers. He reached out, grabbed a sharp pebble and gave the lock a quick tap. Just as he’d anticipated, it sprang open immediately. Jesus, the innocence of it; they couldn’t have made it any easier for him. And then he took a proper look inside.
‘What in the . . .?’
A fiver. One tattered five-euro note, anchored to the bottom of the box by a few coppers. But that didn’t make any sense. It was only yesterday Tom had been blathering on about how many donations they were after getting and how he’d have to do a bank run . . .
The tip of the blade skimmed over his collar and stopped at the nape of his neck.
‘Shuffle forwards on your arse. Don’t turn around. Don’t make a fucking sound.’
There was something familiar about the voice. Instinctively, Eugene tried to turn his head but immediately the knife poked deeper and he could feel a trickle of warm blood mix with the rain on his skin.
‘I said, don’t fucking move.’
It’s only a fiver, he wanted to say. Five quid. You can have it, if you like. But as he felt himself being pressed forward, feet scrabbling for purchase on the wet grass, he realised this wasn’t about the money. He was on his knees now, gravel drawing blood from the palms of his hands as he found himself being steered towards a thicker clump of bushes, the knife pressing ever closer, hot breath mixing with the blood that was soaking into his collar.
I’ll give it back, was what he wanted to say, but the words dried in his mouth as he felt his shoulders being pushed roughly downwards. He was sitting by the side of the water now, hidden from the road by the bushes, and the knife was tickling away at him, but surely that was the wrong word – it was being lifted and then pressed against him. Pressed and then pushed and then there was a jabbing motion and it was in, it was all the way in and he could feel it, the heat of it, the hot tearing pain of it, and he could feel the blade ripping its way across his throat and the blood spurting and the pain and the red and the hot and the pain. And it was only a fiver. Nothing more.
Chapter Seventeen
I’ll be there in ten.
Claire sent the text without further embellishment. It was ten past six in the morning; she was freezing, grumpy and more than a little hungover. She’d dragged herself from her bed when Flynn had called. He’d have to live without politeness.
‘Early start, love?’
‘Umph.’
There should be penalty points, Claire decided, for taxi drivers who tried to engage their customers in
conversation at this horrendous hour of the morning, and anyone who called her ‘love’ deserved to be put off the road altogether. Replacing her phone in her pocket, she turned her head in a deliberate movement and stared out of the window. The taxi driver shrugged and pumped up the volume on the radio, sending a nasal whine out into the pine-scented fug. Fantastic, thought his passenger. A phone-in show. What was the topic this time? ‘Cops, and how useless they are.’ Oldie but goodie. Old men were being murdered in their beds and nothing was being done about it, apparently. The guards hadn’t a clue what was going on. Claire sighed. James Mannion had died in his kitchen, rather than his bed, but, other than that, she couldn’t actually disagree with the caller, this time. At least the radio show was occupying the taxi driver and stopping him from talking to her. Talking would have been far too much to take.
The night before, heart warmed by the unexpected romance she’d accidently spied on through the rear windscreen, Claire had treated herself to a nightcap once she’d got her key in the door and couldn’t quite remember what time she’d eventually fallen into bed. She had a vague memory of hearing the baby crying at some stage and Matt’s groans as he went out to settle her. And an even more vague memory of plunging back into sleep again. But what she could remember, very clearly, was the sound of the phone as it rang at six a.m. and the rounded hunch of her husband’s shoulder as Flynn’s voice knocked on her fuzzy brain.
‘I’ll only be an hour – two, at most.’
Matt hadn’t bothered to respond, which was a good thing, because she knew she was probably lying. The truth was she didn’t know how long she’d be gone, and Matt’s day off, his quid pro quo for her night with the boys, would have to be postponed. But, hangover banging in her temples, Claire hadn’t the energy to go into that sort of laborious explanation, and just muttered, ‘Work – will give you a shout when I know the story,’ and tiptoed out of the house as quietly as she could. Not quietly enough, unfortunately. Just before she pulled the door tight behind her, Claire could hear the little bleating noise that meant Anna was minutes away from rising for the day. Poor Matt. She’d try to give him the evening off. Hopefully. Or a few hours the next day.
The taxi driver rounded a corner, too quickly, and Claire tried to give a warning cough, but her tongue was glued to the roof of her mouth and the sound came out more like a burp. Bleaurgh. God, she’d murder a can of Diet Coke, or, better still, a cup of tea – with two sugars, served in bed. That’s where she should be right now, she told herself: tucked up in bed with a cup of tea by her side and the promise of a full Irish in about an hour’s time. Maybe she’d make it home in time for lunch – that would be something.
The car drew up at a set of traffic lights and, beside her, another taxi’s engine idled, its back seat crammed with a gang of girls who looked like they had yet to make it home after their night out. By the side of the road, an older woman stood forlornly at a bus stop, stuck on an early shift on this cold and miserable November morning, but other than that Dublin’s streets were deserted. The lights turned green again and, as the car began its climb up Dorset Street, Claire saw a blue light flash, a beacon indicating where she needed to go. These streets wouldn’t stay quiet for long.
Her phone buzzed and she checked the caller I.D. – Dean Evans. That was quick. The young journalist had first interviewed her almost two years ago, during the guards’ annual Christmas drink-driving campaign, when Quigley had insisted a woman be found to go in front of the TV cameras. Claire had been shitting herself at the thought of being interviewed, but your man, Evans, had been sound enough to deal with and, at the end of the interview, she’d found herself giving him her personal mobile number in case he had any follow-up queries. In fairness to him, he hadn’t abused the privilege, just called her a couple of times a year when he had a question the press office couldn’t, or wouldn’t, answer for him, and he’d never dragged her name into it when quoting ‘sources’ in his reports. He’d done her a couple of favours too since he’d started working for Ireland 24, including running a ‘Gardaí seeking information’ story about an elderly woman who’d gone missing, when none of the other hacks wanted to bother. Nice enough fella, really. A chancer, but, sure, they all were. The driver was fiddling with his radio now and they were still a few minutes from the crime scene, so she pressed the green button.
‘Morning, detective; you’re up early.’
‘Ah, you know me, Dean; I’m mad for work – you can’t keep me away from it. How about yourself? Sure, you’re probably only on your way to bed!’
She heard a weary chuckle on the other end. That was the game you played; Claire was used to it by now. You kept the banter going, made out like you were two people shooting the breeze – she, a workaholic cop and he, the feckless young journo, coming home from a night on the tiles. Not a hungover mother who was desperate to get back to bed and a freelance hack who was gagging for a lead that would guarantee him a decent story and employment for another day.
Obligatory banter over, she waited for his question.
‘I’m on an early shift with Ireland 24 today. We got a call about a body?’
‘Did you, now?’ Claire liked Evans, but she wasn’t going to give in that easily. ‘What sort of body?’
‘Down by the canal? Dorset Street end?’
‘Mm hm.’
‘So, um –’ Evans knew it was time to chance it – ‘can you confirm anything?’
‘All the details will be provided by the press office, Dean, you know that.’
From the other end of the phone, a deep sigh. ‘I already rang them and they said they don’t know anything. Just tell me, detective, please – is it worth my while leaving my cosy office and heading down there?’
Claire hesitated, and then decided to take pity on him. North Dublin was starting to wake up and someone was going to notice the white tent soon and tweet a picture of it, or some such nonsense. She might as well give a jump to someone she knew.
‘Yeah. You’re not hearing it from me, but yes. A body was discovered by a member of the public.’
‘Was it an accident? Or—?’
‘Obviously it’s too early to say.’
‘You wouldn’t be up at this hour if it was.’
Claire saw the taxi driver’s shoulders twitch and lowered her voice.
‘Put it this way, I don’t think you’d be wasting your time if you came down, OK?’
‘Cheers, detective. Appreciate it.’
He hung up without another word. Claire appreciated the brevity. Appreciated the use of her title too. One of the local radio hacks had tried calling her Claire once, in a painful ‘all girls together’ type greeting. She hadn’t tried it again. It wasn’t that Claire liked pulling rank, not really, but it was best to keep things on a formal footing. Best for everyone.
‘Just in here is grand, please.’
The taxi pulled up outside a locked and shuttered garage and Claire took out her purse.
‘Receipt?’
The driver had, she noticed, dispensed with the ‘love’. Which possibly meant he had copped on to who she was and where she was going.
‘No, thanks, I’m grand.’
Claire heaved herself out of the back seat and stood in the drizzle as he dug around in an ancient Man United wallet for change. She wasn’t going to claim this one back on expenses. Most people she knew would – in fact, many would have driven themselves in the first place, despite all the warnings about leaving ‘one hour per unit’ since the last drink the previous night. But Claire hadn’t felt like taking the risk, and she hadn’t rung Collins Street looking for a lift, either, not wanting to remind everyone that she’d been on the batter the night before. She had no time for the ‘how’s the head?’ merchants who could be found still gossiping about Friday night on Tuesday afternoon, turning perfectly innocent fun into something vaguely seedy. She’d take the hit on the taxi instead. The price of the rare night out was worth it.
She scooped the pile of fifty-ce
nt pieces the driver finally offered her into her pocket and gave the cab a bang on the roof in lieu of a tip as he drove away. Then she pulled the neck of her coat tight around her. The taxi had been too warm, the smell of air freshener combined with the driver’s takeaway Americano almost nauseating. But here, by the side of the canal, Claire understood why he’d had the heater up to the max. The morning was freezing, a breeze sending needles of cold air through her layers and raising goosebumps on her skin. She shivered, a large rolling shiver like a dog drying itself after a swim, then rubbed her eyes hard and told herself to get over herself. A quick march across the bridge that led to the Royal Canal would get her blood flowing again.
The Royal Canal: a location linked in every Irish person’s mind with the nearby Mountjoy Prison, the very mention of it enough to prompt a chorus of ‘The Auld Triangle’. By day, the area looked fine – attractively urban, even. Claire had brought Anna for a walk here a couple of times while she was on maternity leave. But, at five to seven on a miserable, wet Saturday morning, she could think of few places in Dublin that were less inviting. Crossing from the tarmac on to the grass, she felt something squelch underfoot and suppressed a moan. It was still too dark to see what she’d stood on. Probably just as well.
Across the black water she could see the tent clearly now, and Flynn, standing outside it, gave her a brief wave. Claire shivered again, then gathered her long coat tightly around her and climbed gingerly on to the lock bridge that offered the only access to the far bank. She clung to the handrail as her shoes slid on the rain-spattered wood, and then clambered down, ungracefully but gratefully, on to the other side.
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