A Man With One of Those Faces (The Dublin Trilogy Book 1)

by Caimh McDonnell

  “That doesn’t bother me, Bunny. I’m all but out the door. What bothers me is, I take pride in the job, I always have, and some arsehole somewhere is playing me for a fool. If this is my last go round, I’d like to leave without any more bodies in the ground.”

  “Fair enough. Who got themselves involved?”

  “Who didn’t? I met with O’Rourke, on herself’s behalf.”

  “Jaysus, mammy and daddy.”

  “Yeah. Some PR woman from the Ministry of Justice too, Veronica Doyle.”

  “Which means every little politico in the fecking tree knows, one of which Fallon owns.”

  “At least,” said Stewart. “They’re putting a task force together. I’ve got a meeting as soon as I’m done here. Do you want me to see if they’ll bring you in?”

  “Feck no! I don’t play well with others, just ask your soprano of a partner.”

  “You certainly do know how to make an impression.”

  “Tell you what, Jimmy, you do what you do. Work the case by the book and watch your back.”

  “What’re you going to do?”

  “I’m going to put my hobnailed shit-kicking boots on and have myself a wee rat hunt. Will you keep me in the loop?”

  “As much as I can.”

  “Can’t say fairer than that.”

  Bunny extended his hand and they shook.

  “Don’t be a stranger.”

  Bunny turned, belched loudly and departed, hugging his sheepskin coat to himself as he headed off into the chill November night. Stewart watched him go.

  In the distance, he heard the percussive pop of a controlled explosion, followed by a cheer.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  They walked in silence up Leeson Street before turning right to follow the Grand Canal. There was a feeling of impending rain in the air. Brigit considered trying to strike up some conversation about how Paul’s house was only a couple of miles down the canal in the opposite direction, but she doubted he was in the mood. Nobody wants to hear what a small world it is when they’re trying to find somewhere to hide in it. The shock, the adrenalin, the sense of absurdity to the whole thing had worn off. All that was left now was the cold hard reality. The police could not be trusted and whatever unseen forces were after them were deadly serious. Brigit didn’t know where they were going, but she didn’t want to ask. They both needed to feel like they were heading somewhere. That somehow they still had control.

  They passed a woman who was studiously ignoring the fact that her terrier was taking a dump by cooing ‘C’mon sweetie, finish your wee wee.’ A homeless bloke sitting on a bench looked on in disgust. He caught Brigit’s eye as they passed and shook his head. “Some people!”

  They crossed the road and passed by the Barge pub. Despite the winter chill in the air, the pavement was full of boisterous Friday evening drinkers, pints in hand, fags on the go, lively chatter bubbling around them. A sense of carefree abandon permeating through the air. The endless possibility offered by five o’clock on a Friday. It all just seemed to highlight how outside the ordinary world Brigit and Paul now were.

  Brigit used the silence to run through what few facts they had over and over again in her head. Along with everything else, she felt embarrassed. Normally she figured out the murder by the first ad break. How had she missed what in hindsight seemed blindingly obvious? There was no denying it: the police identifying the deceased Mr Brown as being Grinner McNair had led to this. Paul was right. A woman was dead and it was only by sheer chance that he wasn’t too. The police had a lot of questions to answer.

  Brigit noticed Paul was staring at an old brick maintenance shed on the far bank of the canal. On its water-facing side someone had graffitied in large stylised block capitals the words ‘Only The Rivers Run Free’.

  Paul stopped suddenly, and put his hand on her arm.

  “Look, I’ve been thinking. I appreciate your help but you don’t need to be here. This is getting heavy. Somebody is trying to kill me just because I ‘might’ know something. It’s not safe for you.”

  Brigit spoke softly. “And where am I going to go?”

  “I dunno – just hand yourself into the cops. You’ll be fine, it’s not you they’re after.”

  “No thanks,” she said, trying to sound braver than she felt. “Don’t get me wrong, I’d dump your annoying arse in a second if I could, but you’ve not thought it through. Like you said, somebody is trying to kill you just because you ‘might’ know something.”

  “So?”

  “So I drove you home from the hospital, I’m with you now – both of those facts the Gardai know…”

  “Oh crap,” said Paul, “which means so does whoever is — ”

  “Exactly,” said Brigit. “If you’re a loose end, then I’m one too. They’ll assume I know whatever you do.”

  Paul sighed. “I wouldn’t mind so much if we actually did know something.”

  “Too right,” said Brigit. “Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. So, where are we heading?”

  “We’re going to see a man about a balloon.”

  “Right.”

  “Sure you don’t want to make a run for it?”

  “Nope. And besides, don’t think you’re making off with that sweet jumper.”

  “Ah shucks,’ he said, looking down. “The only upside to this cyclone of shite was all the free stuff.”

  “Speaking of which, Fingers McGraw, any chance I can get my phone back, please? Cheeky sod.”

  “Ah – I’ve been thinking about that. Thing is…”

  Brigit glanced over at the doors of The Portabello pub as they passed it on their left hand side. Her eyes ran straight into those of a man who was exiting. They saw each other dead-on, in the kind of way that neither side could pretend they hadn’t.

  “You have got to be kidding me,” said Brigit.

  Paul turned around, subconsciously crouching, looking for the source of danger.

  “What is it? Hitman? Cops?”

  “Worse. Fiancé.”

  Paul’s head snapped back around to gawp at her.

  “Ex-fiancé,” she corrected.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “Bridgie – hi!”

  Paul turned to look at the source of the voice. It was a guy of about 5-foot-8 with the kind of grin that gave Cheshire cats a bad name.

  “Duncan – Hi!”

  Brigit’s voice took on the saccharine lilt of a sixteen-year-old preppy American teenager. It shouldn’t be possible but Paul felt her left ear was glaring at him, daring him to mention it.

  “Fancy meeting you here!” Duncan spoke in the kind of accent that came from a whole different Dublin to the one Paul had grown up in. His was a Dublin of leafy suburbs and private schools. The Dublin where drinking a bottle of vodka and then chundering in the back seat of a taxi made you a ‘legend’. Paul came from the other Dublin. The same one as the poor bastard who had to clean the taxi.

  “Small world!” said Brigit.

  Paul gave Duncan an assessing look. On closer inspection, it appeared his blonde quiff had been surgically implanted. It was a good job but that was exactly the point. You could always spot a plastic pitch by how smooth it was. This guy’s head was pure artificial turf. Paul had always wanted to know where that hair came from. A donor? A dog? The patient’s own arse? He figured now was probably not a good time to ask.

  Duncan looked in his mid-thirties, a bit jowly around the face, with a smart suit that, like the hair, looked tailor made. He didn’t seem Brigit’s type at all. Mind you, thought Paul, how on earth did he think he knew her type? They’d hardly spoken until last night. With all that had happened since, it seemed like a lifetime ago.

  Duncan and Brigit hugged quickly then stepped back. It was time for the introductions. Only now did Paul realise the woman standing beside Duncan was with him. If Duncan and Brigit seemed an odd combination, it had nothing on these two. She looked about twenty, and was attractive in that way that said, ‘this took an
awful long time, I hope you appreciate it.’ Tall, blonde, skinny. Breasts that looked so impossibly pert, they reminded Paul of intensely interested meercats.

  Paul considered himself a feminist. Which meant, in practical terms, the voice in his head wasn’t allowed even to think the word bimbo. Not until a woman said it first. Judging people by their looks was wrong. He knew this.

  “This is Keeley,” said Duncan.

  “Hiya!” she trilled.

  Paul discovered in that moment that he was, however, totally fine with judging people by the sound of their voice.

  “She works in the office,” said Duncan. “I’m just giving her a lift home.”

  Funny how they are both holding shopping bags from the same stores thought Paul.

  “And,” said Brigit, “this is Paul.”

  Duncan looked him up and down.

  “Nice jumper.”

  It took every ounce of restraint Paul possessed not to issue a hair-based response.

  Duncan extended his hand. Paul had to shake with his left.

  “Oops,” said Duncan. “What’d you do to the arm?”

  “Ahhh – windsurfing.”

  And why not? Paul had always fancied it. In fact, he’d read two-thirds of a book about it that he had got for 50 cents from a charity shop.

  “So how do you two know each other?”

  “Friends,” said Brigit.

  “Patient,” said Paul at the same time.

  Duncan smiled. “Ah Bridgie – taking your work home with you?”

  Brigit smiled back. “You can talk.”

  Duncan winced slightly. Paul stored that one away to ask about later.

  “Well,” said Duncan, “supes to see you. We should get cracking. I’m dropping Keeley home. It’s on my way.”

  Keeley, God love her, actually looked pleasantly surprised by this. Like she honestly believed there’d been a change of plans and she’d got out of doing something she didn’t want to.

  “Yes,” said Paul. “We’ve to crack on too. We’re being pursued by a deadly criminal conspiracy of indeterminate reach.”

  “Terrific, enjoy that.”

  And then they were gone, leaving behind a fond memory and the overly sweet cinnamon smell of Keeley’s perfume hanging in the early evening air.

  “Don’t say a word,” hissed Brigit.

  She was now power walking in the direction they’d been going, keen to get as far away from the embarrassing scene as possible.

  “She seemed nice,” said Paul.

  Brigit mumbled something under her breath that Paul didn’t quite catch, but he was 95% sure it involved the word bimbo.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  DI Jimmy Stewart was annoyed.

  Annoyed with damn near everyone and everything, not least himself. As he’d feared, the circumstances around the death of the artist formerly known as Martin Brown had gone from unusual, past awkward, through complicated and all the way to clusterfuck. Brown was Grinner McNair, McNair’s daughter was now dead and the last two people to see him alive, Nurse Brigit Conroy and Paul Mulchrone, were in the wind. If Stewart had been allowed to do his job without interference, Pauline McNair might still be alive. Instead, she had lived a life where the only thing she had got from her absent father was his unwitting role in her death.

  Stewart had just come from the first meeting of the McNair task force, under the leadership of DI Kearns. Kearns was a political animal and the whole thing stank to high heaven as far as Stewart was concerned. He’d been debriefed beforehand and then Kearns had taken control of the situation, leaving Stewart and Wilson standing there like a couple of spare pricks. Kearns had then explained to the assembled posse how damn near nothing had been done all day. Never mind that he and Wilson had discovered a bomb that could’ve taken out half a street. The earlier unofficial chat with Assistant Commissioner O’Rourke was of course not mentioned either, nor was it ever going to be. Stewart could feel himself being manoeuvred under the gunge tank for the inevitable internal inquiry. They were not yet officially linking the deaths of Pauline McNair with the bomb found under Mulchrone’s car as ‘all angles were to be examined’. A brief rundown of McNair’s history was given, although it was more noteworthy for what was not said. DI Kearns had managed to give an account of the kidnapping of Sarah-Jane Cranston without ever mentioning the word Rapunzel. Even 30 years on, those eight letters were still toxic as far as the Garda Síochána were concerned.

  Tasks had been assigned to everyone on the team bar himself and Wilson. They’d been told in patronising tones that they could head off home if they liked. Kearns had cracked on that Stewart must be tired, having been in since 7:30AM. Smart-arsed little so’n’so. As it happened, Stewart was a little tired, but he was a lot angry and that was more than enough to keep him going. He was also angry enough to change the habits of a lifetime and cut a few corners in the interests of justice. Who said you couldn’t teach and old dog new tricks?

  He turned the corner to the IT services area. He was in luck: it was 7:30PM and Freddie Quinn was still at his desk. He was a short, pudgy man who couldn’t grow a beard but was trying anyway. He was undoubtedly going for rugged and manly, but he’d ended up with IT geek who’d been lost at sea. The beard looked even more out-of-place than normal; thanks to the smart suit Quinn was wearing. This was the first time Stewart had ever seen him in one. He looked about as natural as those monkeys in the old PG Tips adverts when they were carrying pianos up stairs.

  “Freddie, how are you fella?” asked Stewart, leaning against the partition beside Quinn’s desk.

  “I’m not here,” Quinn replied, not even looking up from his screen, as his fingers danced across the keyboard sitting on his lap.

  “It looks like you are.”

  “Your eyesight has gone old man. I was out the door fifteen minutes ago. I’m currently on my way to an anniversary dinner with my lovely wife.”

  “Ah, isn’t that sweet. How’s the wife’s sister by the way? You remember, the one who got caught in possession of some waccy-baccy a couple of years ago and you asked for my help in making the charge disappear.”

  Quinn stopped typing and glared up at him.

  “I do remember that. I particularly remember how you not only refused to help, but also gave me a long speech about how Guards pulling stunts like that was what got us such a bad reputation.”

  “I did say that, didn’t I? Anyway, you know the request that Kearns just put in to get a location trace on the mobile phones of Brigit Conroy and Paul Mulchrone?”

  “It’s gone in but it’ll take a while.”

  “Yeah. I need it right now.”

  Quinn barked a laugh.

  “Well, Jimmy, seeing as you love rules so much, I refer you to the 2011 Communication Act, section 6-1.” Quinn grinned up at the ceiling as he recited it from memory. “A member of the Garda Síochána not below the rank of Chief Superintendent may request a service provider to disclose to that member data retained by the service provider in accordance with section 3 where that member is satisfied that the data is required for—

  A – the prevention, detection, investigation or prosecution of a serious offence,

  B – the safeguarding of the security of the State, or

  C – the saving of human life.” Finished with the memory section of the test, Quinn leaned forward and started typing again. “So, I’m afraid you’re going to have to wait for sign off from up the chain, then wait for the phone company to get around to pinging their phones, and you could not pick a worse time to ask for that than a Friday night by the way, and then, maybe, you’ll get what you need. Aren’t rules fun?” Quinn beamed a smile full of sneer up at Stewart. He was disconcerted to see Stewart smiling calmly smiling back at him.

  “Yes, rules are fun, and now, you’re going to break every one of them.”

  “Am I fuck.”

  Stewart picked up a folder and used it to nudge aside some empty Coke cans and sandwich wrappers on Quinn’s desk. H
e created just enough space to lean himself against it, to the younger man’s clear irritation. Stewart casually took the keyboard off Quinn’s lap and placed it on the desk, so he had his undivided attention.

  “You try and come the heavy, Jimmy, and I’ll have HR on your arse in a flash.”

  “Relax, Quinn, I’m not gonna touch you. We’re just two work colleagues shooting the breeze,” said Stewart, as Quinn glared up at him through bitter beady eyes. “Have I ever told you how, when you find yourself at my stage in life, what’s the best way to put this, a trip to the loo can take a bit of time?”

  Quinn wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Why the hell do I…”

  Stewart ignored him and kept talking. “You know that American expression for it – ‘dropping the kids off at the pool?’ Well, as you go on in life, a dump takes so long it feels like you’ve got to walk the little tykes there one at a time.” Stewart gave a light-hearted chuckle.

  “Does this have a point, Jimmy? I’ve somewhere I need to be.”

  “I was merely pointing out how I happened to be sitting quietly in a cubicle up in the fourth floor Gents a couple of months ago, when you and Detective Sergeant Ryan were having a chat in there, in the mistaken assumption you were alone.”

  Quinn’s face dropped like Wiley Coyote when he’s just run out of cliff.

  “I heard you telling him how you getting a location on his ex-wife’s phone for him was a big no no and he said, and I think I’m quoting him accurately here, ‘I sorted out your beeping sister-in-law’s beeping drugs bust so you can beeping shut the beeping hell up and get me the beeping location’. He does have quite a mouth on him, doesn’t he, that Detective Sergeant Ryan?”

  “Now, Jimmy, let’s not…”

  Stewart picked up an action figure from Quinn’s desk and casually moved its arms about. “After a bit of back’n’forth,” Stewart continued, “you said there was some other naughty ways you could use to find her location. At which point, Detective Sergeant Ryan assured you that he’d never mention you if it came back to haunt him. Fair play to Detective Sergeant Ryan: far as I know, he’s never spoken your name to anybody. I suppose we can still call him Detective Sergeant Ryan, can we? Although, I know he is currently suspended, awaiting the results of that inquiry into his harassment of the former Mrs Ryan.”