RoyTheBoy07: And now you’ve got the attention of half the police in Dublin, thanks to your incompetence!
CerburusAX: I told U – too short a time frame. We got one of two.
RoyTheBoy07: You shot a housewife, well done.
CerburusAX: You gave bad information.
RoyTheBoy07: We don’t want excuses, we want results.
CerburusAX: I want proof niece is OK.
RoyTheBoy07: And I want you to do your job.
CerburusAX: No proof, no job.
RoyTheBoy07: Very well. your niece is dead.
CerburusAX: don’t threaten us.
RoyTheBoy07: Then don’t threaten me. Work to reacquire target. We will also attempt to establish whereabouts.
CerburusAX: We want proof of life.
RoyTheBoy07: I am told she keeps asking for tatu? What is that?
CerburusAX: Means daddy. You are scum.
RoyTheBoy07: Sticks and stones Draco. You are a hired killer, do your job.
Chapter Nineteen
“Keep those people back behind the barriers.”
Detective Wilson raised his voice so the uniformed guards manning the barricades could hear him clearly. It was important in this kind of stressful situation that people knew who was in charge, especially as it was him. At least it was until Stewart got back. The old duffer was currently off interviewing the residents of Richmond Gardens in an effort to get a description of the man who’d planted the bomb. The two uniformed guards looked at Wilson, then briefly at each other, before returning their gazes to the crowd that was already standing behind the barrier.
There was quite a crowd gathering. Every house within a two street radius of Richmond Gardens had been evacuated and most of those people were now standing about, waiting for something exciting to happen. Others had been steadily joining them since the barriers went up, quite a few of the crowd now had pints on the go. Dubs love nothing more than a bit of free entertainment. The Gardai had been forced to close part of the North Circular Road to the South and Summerhill Parade to the East, two of the main arteries out of the city. Wilson could hear traffic honking and growling in the distance, enraged by whatever was making Friday evening’s gridlock even worse than usual. An enterprising ice-cream van had pulled up just down the road and was doing a roaring trade. It was the wrong time of year but, judging by the queue, location appeared to be trumping seasonal trends. Wilson could hear snippets of conversation over the background hum of traffic noise and chatter.
“Is it Bono?”
“What’re ye talking about?”
“It’s somebody famous, yeah? It better not be some fecking politician, unless it’s the Clintons or something.”
“It’s a bomb.”
“Feck off. Who’d be planting a bomb around here? Sure if it went off, ye’d barely notice.”
“I’m telling ye, it’s a bomb. Do you think I’d have evacuated my gaff for an unexploded Bono?”
“It’s probably the Muslims.”
“What Muslims?”
“The terrorist Muslims. Your Isis and that.”
“Isis me hole. It’ll be the Protestants.”
“Why would it be the Protestants? There’s been a ceasefire for ages.”
“And besides, the prods can’t do bombs – everybody knows that.”
The most serious risk of anyone breaking the cordon came from the photographers. The location of the barriers meant they couldn’t quite manage to get the bomb disposal boys and Croke Park in the same shot and it was killing them. The army bomb squad had turned up about 20 minutes ago, closely followed by an RTE outside broadcast van. Wilson was secretly hoping it would be that redheaded one who does the news in Irish. He fancied the arse off her. Siobhan O’Sinard or something, wasn’t it? Siobhan O’Sexy – that’s what Gareth had called her. Gareth had been his flatmate since uni and, while he was a top man, it occurred to Wilson that he really should get his own place. He couldn’t be bringing Siobhan back to the apartment he shared with Gar and his unacceptable foot odour.
In an ideal world, Wilson would give a statement on the situation – firm, masterful. Women went mental for that sort of thing. He just had to hope that Stewart stayed out of the way, and the chances of that weren’t great. Who wouldn’t want to be on the telly? The old duffer would probably want to wave to his wife. Luckily the bomb squad didn’t give statements to the press. There was no way he could have competed with them. “I diffuse bombs” – those three words had to make panties drop. Lucky sods.
Wilson was distracted from his thoughts by an insistently raised voice.
“Here, you. You, Guard!”
He turned to see a large man in his 40s, with a receding hairline and an expanding gut, leaning over the crowd control barriers. His belly was so large, it was technically breaking the cordon. He wore a Dublin football jersey, two years out of date and two sizes too small. He pointed a chubby finger at Wilson.
“Yeah, you. Come ’ere.”
Wilson stepped over towards him.
“Yes, sir?”
“Is this the Muslims or the prods?”
“The Garda Siochana cannot comment on an on-going security situation.”
“Do you not know, son?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Wilson caught one of the uniforms smirking.
“We are unable to comment at this time.”
The large man glanced back around at the crowd surrounding him and raised his voice.
“He doesn’t know.”
“We aren’t allowed to divulge…”
“Yeah, yeah, yez don’t know. I’ll wait for one of the proper coppers to turn up.”
“We cannot, at this time…”
The large man cut across him, mimicking Wilson with an effeminate high-pitched voice. “We, the Garda Siochana, cannot, at this present moment in time, find our arse with the application of both hands, but we are phoning for additional resources to assist in this matter. Please hold, your call is important to us.”
Several people in the crowd laughed. Wilson gave a tight smile, trying to give the impression he was enjoying the banter.
He leaned towards the guard to his left.
“I’m going to liaise with the bomb squad. You know where I am if you need me.”
The guard gave a perfect parade ground turn and snapped off a sharp salute, complete with heel click.
“Yes, sir!”
Wilson retreated and took out his phone, trying to pretend that the gales of laughter didn’t bother him.
The bomb squad’s three vans blocked off most of the view of Richmond Gardens. Stewart and Wilson’s unmarked black Ford Mondeo sat about twenty feet behind them. It was a prime spot, right in the line of sight of the TV cameras that he could now see had finished setting up. Christ – was that Siobhan he could see deep in conversation with some guy in a high-vis jacket? How was her red hair so bright on a grim day? It was like there was a sun shining just on her. She was shorter than he expected, which was good. He was only five eight himself and he didn’t like women towering over him in heels. He needed to text Gar to see if he could Sky+ the news. Ideally Wilson would’ve loved to be captured by the cameras in deep discussion with the bomb squad, but the head army guy had made it very clear early doors that his input was not required. The selfish prick was clearly after all the glory for himself. Unprofessional.
Wilson glanced in the direction of the bomb boys. They seemed to spend a lot of time talking. He supposed the job required a cautious approach, unless you wanted to be brought home in a KFC bargain bucket.
Wilson stopped suddenly and did a double-take. A large man in an ill-fitting sheepskin coat and a black suit was casually leaning against their unmarked car, watching the bomb squad work while calmly licking an ice-cream cone. There was supposed to be a strict cordon. Wilson would have somebody’s arse for this. He hurried over.
As he got closer, Wilson could see the ice-cream was a 99. The man had positioned the flake bang in the centre and
he was systematically licking around it, like a dog avoiding medication.
“This is a restricted area. Who are you?”
The man turned his head slowly and gave Wilson a quizzical look, the kind you’d get off a woman in a bar who was trying to decide if she’d let you buy her a drink or not. Then he turned back to continue watching the show. He took an uncomfortably long lick of his ice-cream, before responding in a strong Cork accent: “Who the feck are you?”
Wilson took his wallet from inside his coat and flipped it open in one practised motion, which he had in fact practised.
“Detective Wilson, National Bureau of Criminal Investigation.”
The man’s eyes stayed fixed on the entrance to Richmond Gardens.
“Well, I’ll be the one-eyed son of a cock-eyed Suzie.”
Wilson snapped his wallet closed again. He’d no idea what that meant but this man was starting to really irritate him.
“And you are?” asked Wilson.
“Detective Sergeant Bunny McGarry, Summerhill. I’d shake your hand but ...”
He indicated his ice-cream, leaving Wilson in no doubt as to his relative importance in relation to it.
The man who was claiming to be Bunny McGarry turned his ice-cream cone through ninety degrees with careful precision, and continued his systematic licking.
“I need to see some ID.”
“You could whip yours out and look at it again if you’d like?”
Wilson could feel his cheeks redden. “ID now!”
“What’s the magic word?”
“What?”
“You heard me. I’m not enjoying your tone.”
“This is a closed scene. Even if you are who you say you are, you’re not supposed to be here without permission. Now ID or I’m going to place you under arrest, and we’ll see how you like my tone then.”
McGarry smiled. “Well, look at the big balls on the new lad. I’m not going to lie, your sheer fecking manliness has got me a teeny bit aroused.”
“Less of the bullshit,” said Wilson.
“I couldn’t agree more,” responded McGarry.
The bomb squad were now moving about the vans, as if preparing to do something.
“Do you reckon they have one of them robots?” continued Bunny. ”I always wanted to see one of them in action.”
Wilson knew what this was. For the last couple of weeks, he’d been putting up with Stewart’s ribbing. This was the next stage in the process of testing the new guy. He couldn’t back down.
He moved to stand in front of the man that was calling himself Bunny McGarry, blocking his view of proceedings. “Do I have your undivided attention now?”
The man carefully rotated his cone again. He spoke without taking his eyes off it.
“Sonny, trust me when I say – you don’t want my undivided attention.”
Then Bunny looked up and they locked eyes, or at least Wilson tried to. The man’s left eye was lazy, which left Wilson unsure of exactly where to look.
Bunny waited for Wilson to look away before he spoke again. “I’m here to see Jimmy Stewart. I’ve a personal interest in proceedings.”
“I don’t give a shit if that’s your car that’s about to be blown up. Get back behind the barriers.”
“Consider this your second and final warning on the tone.”
As if acting under its own volition, Wilson’s hand snapped out and slapped the ice-cream cone from Bunny’s hands. Before it’d hit the ground, Bunny’s left hand had grabbed Wilson’s testicles in a vicelike grip. Wilson tried to react as the pain surged through his lower body but McGarry moved much faster than Wilson would ever have expected for a man his size. His body was spun around in one fluid motion that left him leaning up against the car. Bunny’s left shoulder pushed against Wilson’s to hold him upright, leaving his mouth only inches from Wilson’s ear.
“Scream like a little girl and I’ll fecking make you into one.”
Bunny raised his left hand slightly, forcing the younger man to stand on his tippy-toes.
“You…” a subtle increase in the firmness of Bunny’s grip caused the rest of the words to die in Wilson’s throat.
“Hush now,” whispered Bunny. “We’ve had enough talking from you I reckon. Let’s not make a scene for the TV cameras. No sudden movements or you’ll be singing soprano in the Garda choir.”
Wilson looked at Bunny as he casually scanned the crowd behind them. It seemed the car had sufficiently blocked their view. Nobody appeared to have noticed anything unusual about the two policemen having a cosy little chat. The location of Bunny’s left hand had gone entirely unnoticed, except by Wilson, who could think of little else.
“Now, ye little hairy-arsed goat humper. You and I are going to have a little talk about respect.” Bunny glanced quickly at Wilson’s face. “At some point, ye might want to start breathing again.”
Wilson realised he had been holding his breath and slowly expelled the air in his lungs. His could barely see through the tears in his eyes.
Bunny looked down at the ice-cream lying forlornly on the ground. “I was enjoying that. Do you not know children are starving in Africa?”
Wilson went to speak but was again stopped by another firm squeeze on his gonads.
“That was a test. You’re done yapping remember.”
“Hello, Bunny.”
Both men looked up to see Jimmy Stewart, a Styrofoam cup in each hand, standing beside the bonnet of the car.
“Jimmy,” said Bunny with a nod.
“I see you’ve met Wilson.”
“Yes,” said Bunny, returning to glaring at the side of Wilson’s head. “He showed me his ID and everything.”
Wilson shot Stewart a pleading look. Stewart shook his head slowly and turned his eyes to heaven.
“We’re currently having an engaging conversation about the importance of manners,” said Bunny. “Manners, and cooperation between departments.”
“I can see that. I can also see you’ve got quite a firm grip on his bollocks there.”
“I do.”
“While I’ve no great desire to see him breeding in the future either, I’d still ask you to show a little restraint. His voice is irritating enough without going up two octaves.“
“Well, a quick twist of the wrist and he’ll have a permanent reminder of how to deal with a request from a fellow officer.”
Stewart glanced between the two men.
“I think he’s already learned that lesson. I’ll be happy to help you with your enquiries. Can I ask your interest?”
Bunny looked directly at Stewart, ignoring the whimpering Wilson beside him.
“Paulie Mulchrone is one of my boys.”
“Ah – I see.”
“What’s he got himself into?”
“I’m not sure. He might just have been in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Stewart nodded towards Richmond Gardens. “He certainly seems to have pissed off somebody, best guess Gerry Fallon.”
Bunny whistled. “Feck sake. The little eejit must have a death wish. It’s all this hipity hopity music the young fellas are listening to I reckon.”
Bunny scowled at Wilson again, like this was somehow his fault.
“I’ve been trying to get hold of Mr Mulchrone,” said Stewart, “assuming he’s still alive of course. No luck so far. Maybe you could help me with that?”
Bunny shifted uneasily. It was hard to tell through the tears forming in his eyes, but Wilson thought for one second that he actually looked embarrassed.
“Can’t help you there. Myself and himself aren’t getting on the best these days. Bit of a sensitive situation.”
“I see. Speaking of which...” Stewart inclined his head towards Wilson.
“He owes me one euro eighty,” said Bunny.
“What?”
Wilson and Stewart both followed Bunny’s eyes down to the 99 on the ground.
“Ah, I see,” said Stewart. ”Wilson – give the man one euro eighty.”
/> Wilson looked at Stewart, who gave him an insistent nod. He reached into his right pocket very slowly and felt around his change. He pulled out a two-euro coin and held it out.
Bunny looked at it, then released his grip on the Wilson family jewels and took the coin from his hand. Wilson slid down the side of the car, gasping in ragged breaths of urgency, as if he’d just surfaced from an unforgiving sea.
Bunny took some change from his own pocket and looked at it. He picked out a twenty-cent coin and dropped it on the ground in front of Wilson.
“There’s your change. Never let it be said Bunny McGarry isn’t a fair man.”
“Course not. May I have a moment with my associate please, Bunny?” asked Stewart. “How about you go grab your ice-cream, and then you and I will have a chat?”
“Happy days.”
Bunny ruffled Wilson’s hair and then quickly stepped away, heading for the ice-cream van, whistling tunelessly to himself.
Wilson looked up at Stewart, tears of outrage glistening in his eyes.
“I’m going to…”
“No.” Stewart raised his voice to cut him off dead. “You’ll do absolutely nothing.”
He bent down slightly and handed Wilson the luke-warm cup of tea, which he took gingerly.
“Bunny McGarry,” Stewart began, “is a legend. He’s a tad… let’s call it rough around the edges, but he’s a good copper.”
Wilson went to speak but a stern look from Stewart convinced him silence was the better option.
“He has his own unconventional brand of community policing. He runs the St Jude’s hurling club. Every young fella around here goes through it at some point, whether he likes it or not. Bunny knows everybody, and everybody knows him. He clears more cases than damn near anybody on the force and this is his patch. You will show some respect for that. As the man says, if you want to get on, you’ve got to get along.”
Wilson couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “He assaulted me!”
“Do you have any witnesses to that fact?”
Wilson looked at Stewart as he casually drained the remains of his tea.
“Have you ever seen the film LA Confidential?” asked Stewart.
Wilson shook his head. Stewart sighed. “Course you haven’t.”
A Man With One of Those Faces (The Dublin Trilogy Book 1) Page 11