“Shit.”
Stewart looked down and watched as a large Merc with a motorbike escort pull up to the front gates.
“And now all we’ve got left is the poor sod who killed him.”
Chapter Ten
She took a long, deep breath.
“Mr Mulhare, I want you to know that I am a competent, confident and committed lawyer. Rest assured that here at Greevy and Co Solicitors our number one priority is you, the client. You are more than just a customer to us. To us, you’re family.”
“Great,” said Paul. “My second name is actually Mulchrone.”
“I knew that…” she responded quickly. “Just a little lawyer joke there, trying to lighten the mood and – oh my God, will you stop kicking me in the vagina!”
The last part of the statement was not directed at Paul. It was directed at her own immense belly because Nora Stokes was pregnant. Heavily pregnant. She’d not actually said so but Paul had picked up on the signs. The laboured breathing, the obvious discomfort, the fact she was currently occupying what felt like more than half of the available space in the unpleasantly clammy office. Paul had had very limited experience of pregnant women but he was discovering that he found them incredibly intimidating. The whole conversation felt like a game of verbal Buckaroo. As if him saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, might result in her giving birth right there and then, just to spite him.
“Sorry,” said Nora, “that remark wasn’t meant for you,” as she repositioned herself in her chair and winced slightly. “The little fella has incredible aim. Every time he… never mind. You’re here, you’ve got a problem – you don’t want to hear about my v...” She put out her hand as if to physically stop herself talking. “Sorry, sorry, you were saying?”
Paul looked at her across the desk. She was perspiring, her blonde hair was matted to the side of her face and, he didn’t want to say anything but, her left breast appeared to be leaking. There was a small patch on her pale blue maternity dress that was getting steadily larger. He was unsure of the etiquette in this situation.
Nora Stokes appeared to be the entirety of the co in Greevy and co solicitors. They had never spoken before. Paul had always dealt with her boss. It wasn’t like he actually liked Shane Greevy, the lawyer tasked with administering his great-aunt’s will, quite the opposite in fact. Their relationship was built on mutual loathing, but there was an odd kind of comfort in it. Paul knew Greevy was going to try and use his current predicament, vis-à-vis being a potential murder suspect, to say Paul had broken the terms of the will. He had a carefully constructed argument lined up in his head to try and stop Greevy in his tracks before he started. He couldn’t argue his case if his opponent had, for the first time in seven years, declined to show up. Greevy was reliable and ever-present; as far as Paul was concerned, it was his only redeeming feature.
“Just to recap,” said Paul. “Mr Greevy is definitely 100% unavailable?”
“Correct,” said Nora.
“Is there any way we can…”
“Not going to happen.”
“But…”
“No way, no how.”
“It’s just…”
“Alright, look, Mr…” She gave him an impatient look, indicating he should fill in the blank for her.
“Mulchrone.”
“Mulchrone,” she repeated. “Here’s the situation. Shane Greevy is not here. He is in Italy with his wife, trying to save the empty shell that is their marriage.”
“I see,” said Paul.
“It’s pointless, but whatever.”
“Could we…”
“He doesn’t love her!” said Nora. “He’s just scared to leave her.”
“You see,” said Paul, “he’s been my lawyer for seven years now and he’s fully briefed on…”
“It’s the money.” She interrupted. “He can’t stand the idea of how much she’d get in a divorce. He’s a cheap bastard, always has been. That’s why a heavily pregnant woman is here, holding down the fort, on her own, while he is off in Milan wining and dining that sour-faced bitch.”
“Right,” said Paul.
“Now,” said Nora, “before I ran to the toilet you mentioned you thought you were about to be arrested. Can I ask what for?”
“Murder,” said Paul.
“Oh for fuck sake!”
“Was that the baby again?” asked Paul.
“No,” said Nora, “No. That was all you.”
Nora picked up her handbag.
“It is all a big misunderstanding,” said Paul.
“Of course,” said Nora, “I believe you.”
“In which case, would you mind taking your hand off the can of mace you’re currently holding in your bag?”
She stared across the table at him. “Excellent. Good. Those powers of observation will serve us well in mounting a vigorous defence of your innocence.”
“Yeah,” said Paul, “you’re still holding it.”
“I’m going to be honest with you mister…”
“Mulchrone,” said Paul.
Mulchrone,” she repeated, “because I think we need to build a relationship based on trust. I’d like to put the mace down, I really would, but I’m not in charge of my own body right now. I’m being swept along by a tidal wave of raging hormones and, apparently, they want me to hold onto the mace. OK? ”
“OK,” said Paul.
“Don’t be offended,” said Nora, “I’m not in control. Yesterday – peed myself in the supermarket. The baby head-butted me right in the bladder. Did you know they could do that? Oh yeah – they keep that one quiet.”
“Oh,” said Paul, because he felt something was expected.
“My point is…”
Nora looked around for a point she’d long since misplaced. The moment of silence stretched out. Weirdly, it didn’t feel awkward. Nora gave Paul a sad little smile that managed to be both strong and brittle at the same time. “OK, look,” she said. “We’re both in a tricky spot right now but, if we work together, I think we can get through this. Alright?”
“Alright.”
“Good.” Said Nora. She smiled at him again. “I’m not supposed to ask this but – did you do it?”
“Absolutely not,” said Paul.
“Good. I believe you.”
“Phew!” said Paul, “Now if we could just convince everyone else of that.”
Nora felt suddenly compelled to straighten some of the paperwork on the desk.
“Seeing as we’re being honest,” said Nora. “This… is Greevy’s baby.”
“Oh,” said Paul, because he felt something was expected.
Chapter Eleven
Tyrion 4.12.AX4 – Secure server software
Initialising private peer-to-peer communication
Please wait………….. Initialised.
RoyTheBoy07: We Have two jobs that require your services.
CerburusAX: OK. when?
RoyTheBoy07: ASAP.
CerburusAX: U give details, I will check out and come back to u with schedule.
RoyTheBoy07: We have a schedule. You’ve got until 2PM today.
CerburusAX: not possible.
RoyTheBoy07: Double your normal fee.
CerburusAX: U can triple, not matter. We not work like that.
RoyTheBoy07: It is an emergency.
CerburusAX: Ur emergency, not ours.
RoyTheBoy07: It must be done.
CerburusAX: We r surgeons, for this u need butcher.
RoyTheBoy07: My employer wants you.
CerburusAX: No
RoyTheBoy07: Time is running out.
CerburusAX: I recommend people
RoyTheBoy07: He wants you.
CerburusAX: No. Final word. U r wasting u time.
RoyTheBoy07: As you wish. Your name is Draco Dangash.
CerburusAX: LOL. No.
RoyTheBoy07: Your partner is your brother Gregor.
CerburusAX: This bullshit. Goodbye
RoyTheBoy07: Your
niece…
RoyTheBoy07: Draco?
CerburusAX: Yes?
RoyTheBoy07: She will be returned safely to you, once the job is completed. You have our word.
CerburusAX: Funny man. I have no niece.
RoyTheBoy07: Theresa. 13. She has not come home from school yet. feel free to check.
CerburusAX: She is fine, is right here.
RoyTheBoy07: Don’t bluff Draco. Time is running out.
CerburusAX: U hurt her, we fucking come for u!!!
RoyTheBoy07: We don’t want to. Do not force our hand. Do the job – easy targets I assure you. She is safe, you will get quadruple the normal fee.
CerburusAX: Send Details.
RoyTheBoy07: Sending…
Chapter Twelve
Paul slumped into his armchair, causing a stinging pain to run from his wounded shoulder down his arm. He’d have to be a little more careful with his slumping for a while. He was in a thoroughly bad mood. Today, if anything, was turning out worse than yesterday, and seeing as it had ended with him being stabbed by a homicidal octogenarian that was really saying something. He should probably try and get some sleep but he was too annoyed right now. Instead, he sat in his careworn and ragged throne and surveyed his kingdom.
When the bloke had come around last year to install the water meter, he’d asked Paul if he was one of those survivalist nutjobs. He had to admit, it was an understandable mistake to make. In one corner of his sitting room stood a tower of toilet rolls, in the other, a tower of tinned goods. It wasn’t just that Paul loved a bargain, the paltry amount the monthly stipend provided meant that he relied on bargains for survival. He had become an expert forager in the urban jungle. The tinned goods were from one of the cut-price German supermarkets. He checked the three within walking distance every Wednesday. He still had 98 cans of peas that he’d managed to get for 5 cents a throw thanks to a printing error on the label. They were absolutely fine once you got by the ‘pees’ thing. The loo roll was a batch from an office building that was closing down; five euros for literally as much as he could carry. Sure, he’d got some funny looks walking back through town but it had been worth it. He hit Moore Street markets every Saturday and Tuesday afternoon just as the stalls were closing up, looking for any fruit and veg that was taking a turn for the cheap. The stallholders called him the Dumpster, not entirely out of affection. Last month, one of them had taken the hump with his haggling so much that she’d elected to use the browning bananas he was negotiating over as projectiles instead. She got really annoyed when Paul had calmly picked them up off the cobbled street and put them in his bag. God, he missed the horsemeat scandal. That had been a blessed few months. He had eaten liken a king!
Paul shivered. He’d removed his coat and jumper as soon as he got home and he was starting to feel the cold now. He was training himself to get used to not having the heating on. The electricity company had raised the rates yet again. He’d taken the jumper off so he could hold it in reserve for later on when the temperatures really took a tumble. He was still wearing the ‘I Beat Cancer’ T-shirt that Dr Sinha had given him. Normally, he was delighted with any freebies but this one didn’t have many happy memories associated with it.
Paul’s mobile vibrated on the counter again. He pointedly ignored it. He had come out of the meeting with Nora Stokes to find six missed calls from Paschal Clarke, a manager at St Joseph’s, the hospital he visited on Monday’s.
“Hi, eh, Mr Mulchrone… Paul. This is Paschal Clarke here. Just wanted to say that there’s no need for you to come and visit next Monday or… no need really. We appreciate you popping by but, we’ve changed the visiting rules to be relatives only because of… over-crowding and… We hope you’re OK and… probably, probably best not to mention Mountainview in any… y’know because…. Y’know… and… yeah, so…” BEEP.
Overcrowding? That was a laugh. Last time he’d been there the oldies had been so desperate for conversation, a queue had formed.
He’d not returned the call. There didn’t seem any point in pleading his case. Inexpertly though it was delivered, the message was all too clear. It seemed getting stabbed by a lunatic was going to be very bad, if not fatal, for the granny whispering business. He’d have to find some other charity work. Work he could do with a banjaxed shoulder. Fingers-crossed some old dear had died and one of the charity shops might have an opening.
On the upside, today was Friday, which meant it was treat night i.e. dinner and a movie. The dinner would consist of a takeaway from The Oriental Palace, the second cheapest takeaway in all of Dublin. Paul wondered if there was any way he could find out Mickey’s second name in casual conversation.
The movie would be a DVD. Paul didn’t own a TV license for obvious reasons. On the floor surrounding the TV were piles and piles of DVDs, 427 on the last count. They’d all been bought for a Euro or less. That was the rule, any movie was a bargain for under a quid. While he found the occasional cinematic classic in a charity shop, he proudly considered himself a connoisseur of the arse-end of Hollywood. He took a perverse delight in watching dreadful straight-to-DVD, bargain bin stuffers. Last Sunday had been entirely filled up with a Steven Segal marathon. Watched in chronological order, the man’s career was a damning indictment of punching as a cardiovascular exercise to aid weight-loss.
In addition to dinner and a movie, he had a six pack of truly awful unpronounceable Eastern European beer that had been on a very special offer. After tasting one, Paul had understood why. Still, after two, you couldn’t taste anything so he could comfortably get pissed on it. If the government ever did pass that minimum unit price for alcohol, it’d be a toss-up between giving up booze or having to take cold showers.
The front room was light on traditional decoration. Above the mantelpiece hung the picture of Aunt Fidelma that had been there when he’d moved in. What kind of warped individual had a portrait of themselves hanging above their own fireplace? Paul left it there to warm the cockles of his hatred on the coldest nights. Three framed photographs that did belong to him sat on the mantelpiece. The one on the left contained a family photo; a dark-haired father with his slightly-too-hot-for-him wife, and their three blonde haired, blue-eyed kids, frolicking around in the park. Their Yorkshire terrier leapt about, orgasmically delighted just to be involved in the whole thing. The picture had come with the frame, which he’d found in EuroWorld. He’d often wondered if those people really were a family, or just models hired for a job. He hoped it was the former. It’d be nice to know such things existed. When drunk on sour tasting beer, he’d occasionally considered going on a quest to track them down and see if he could join. Even if they weren’t a real family, maybe he could convince them all they should be. It could work.
The picture in the right-hand frame had also come with it. It was of a boat. He’d no strong feelings either way about boats.
The large central frame contained a team photo of the St Jude’s under 12s hurling team that he’d been a part of. Paul stood up and moved closer to it. He looked at the faces, lingering on his own. There he was, sitting just left of centre on the front row of a squad of 27 young fellas, all grinning back at the lens, full of hope and devilment. He remembered being happy at the time, proud to belong. It bothered him that, looking at it now, his smile looked forced. Like, even then, he’d lived with a perpetual wince, always waiting for the other shoe to drop. At the end of the line stood their coach, one eye on the camera, the other looking for any little bowsers daring to try and sneak a cheeky V sign into his picture. Bunny McGarry, the mad-eyed missionary, bringing hurling to the soccer loving heathens of inner-city Dublin, whether they liked it or not.
He was disturbed from his revelry by his phone vibrating yet again. Right, that was it! Paschal Clarke was about to get both bloody barrels. Paul walked across and snatched his mobile up from the counter. Unknown number.
“Hello”
“Paulie?”
“Yeah.”
“Run!”
Paul
had been mentally gearing himself up to give a middle management busybody a piece of his mind, and now he was having trouble resetting himself.
“Who is…”
“There’s no time. If you want to live, RUN!”
“But? What?”
The phone went dead.
“Hello? Hel…”
Two thoughts occurred to Paul in quick succession. Firstly, he realised with a jolt who the voice was. On reflex, he looked back to the team picture on the mantelpiece. There he was, a lanky bundle of ill-fitting limbs, gurning in the back row, 16 years and a world away. It’d taken a while to process as it had been a few years since they’d spoken. In the brief gap between thoughts, several complicated emotions welled up, before being washed away when the second thought hit.
That wasn’t complicated at all.
He had to run.
Chapter Thirteen
“Who else knows about this?”
DI Jimmy Stewart stared calmly across the table at Veronica Doyle and didn’t answer her question. She held some unspecified position at the Ministry for Justice. Early 30s, Black hair tied up in a bun, long neck, pert little nose. In general, Stewart was a sucker for a woman with a cute nose. The long-suffering Mrs Stewart had a beauty. Every night before he went to sleep, regardless of what time he got in, she’d wake to ask how he was. He’d always say fine, and then kiss her on the forehead, the lips and then on that cute little button nose. It was the kind of tiny private ritual that made up a 36-year marriage. The thought gave him a little smile in an otherwise crappy day.
He didn’t like Veronica Doyle’s nose so much, however, mainly because she was trying to stick it into his business.
“Do I need to repeat the question?” she asked.
“I’d certainly like you to take a run at asking it more politely,” Stewart responded. Beside him, he could feel Wilson shifting in his seat, as if trying to distance himself. The young fella might not have been the brightest, but even he’d been smart enough to keep his mouth shut in this meeting.
A Man With One of Those Faces (The Dublin Trilogy Book 1) Page 7