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

by Caimh McDonnell

  Quinn had turned so pale by this point, Stewart was worried he might be about to hurl on his shoes. “OK, look.”

  Stewart leaned forward suddenly, putting his hands on either arm of Quinn’s chair and his face close enough to smell the Monster Munch on his breath. “There’s only one thing I want to hear from you.”

  “I can’t guarantee anything,” said Quinn. “It depends on what type of phones, their security settings, which network they’re on —”

  “I don’t want excuses Quinn, just results.”

  “OK, look – I’ll do my best. I’ll be back here straight after my dinner and —”

  “Now.”

  “Ah, come on, Jimmy, be reasonable! What am I supposed to tell the wife?”

  “Tell her it could be worse. Tell her she could be married to Detective Sergeant Ryan.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Paul and Brigit rounded the corner onto Clanbrassil Street.

  “Right, here we are.”

  “The Thai Massage place?” asked Brigit.

  “What? No, don’t be daft.”

  Paul glanced at it as they walked by. In the window was a handwritten sign on a piece of cardboard that read ‘seriously, NOT that kind of massage.’ Clearly, somebody had had enough of people expecting a little bit more.

  Paul stopped one door along. He looked at his watch and then at the opening times printed on the shop’s door. 5:54PM, six minutes to spare.

  “Hang on – this is it? This is where we were going?” said Brigit.

  “Yeah,” said Paul, pointing up at the rather worn and faded sign featuring the name The Balloon Man, alongside a grinning clown. Clowns struck Paul as creepy at the best of times, but the devil horns and goatee the local kids had added did nothing to help the situation.

  “But… ” said Brigit, “I thought when you said ‘we’re going to see a man about a balloon’ you meant…”

  “What?”

  “Well, I dunno. I thought it was some kind of street slang.”

  “For what?”

  Brigit rolled her eyes and puffed out her cheeks.

  “How the hell would I know? I’m a nurse from Leitrim. I’m not au-fait with the patois of the Dublin criminal underground.”

  “And I am?”

  Brigit blushed slightly at this.

  “Well… you are from Dublin.”

  “And all dubs are criminals?”

  “That’s not…” Brigit folded her arms. “You know that’s not what I meant. Is now really the time for us to be having this conversation?”

  “Fair point,” said Paul. “I’m going in. You stay here or you’ll make him nervous.”

  “Why would I make the balloon man nervous?”

  “Well, he’s a criminal.”

  Paul flashed Brigit a cheeky smile and then pushed the door open with his good hand.

  The bell chimed as Paul entered the shop. The gangly six foot six frame of Phil Nellis turned to look at him, a half-deflated balloon held to his lips and a guilty expression on his face, like a dog who’d just been discovered chewing on his owner’s favourite slippers. Then recognition flashed in his eyes and his expression changed to one of horror. Unfortunately, the helium in his lungs rather undercut the anger in his words, turning them into a plaintive high-pitched squeal. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  “Nice to see you too, Mickey Mouse.”

  Phil’s face reddened and he took a quick slurp from the can of Red Bull on the counter, before coughing to further clear his throat. “What are you doing here?” he repeated, if not in his normal voice, at least one that was coming in for a landing.

  “You rang me, Phil.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Yeah, you did. You told me I was in danger and I had to run.”

  “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I recognised your voice.” That wasn’t technically a lie, Paul had recognised his voice. Once he’d mentally recalled the very short list of people he knew who would ring him to tell him his life was in danger, it had been depressingly easy to figure out.

  “You couldn’t have recognised my voice,” said Phil triumphantly, “I disguised it.”

  Paul could see Phil mentally replaying what he’d just said, before his face reddened and he shook his head in silent self-admonishment. Whilst Phil was a criminal, he’d never been accused of being a particularly good one. Still, God loved a trier, as did the criminal justice system. Phil had done wonders for conviction statistics. He released the grip his fingers held on the mouth of the balloon and it flew to the floor with a resigned sounding raspberry. He collapsed into the chair behind the counter. It was an odd feature of the Phil Nellis physiology that, while he was very tall, it was all limbs. Once he sat down, he went from being the tallest fella in the room to the shortest. He’d been that way for as long as Paul had known him. It had gotten him the nickname daddy-long-legs. Other kids had shouted it as they regularly threw objects at his head. Children could be so cruel, although in Phil’s case, thanks to his fundamentally flawed design, it was fair to say God had started it.

  “Look,” said Paul, “ I really appreciate the warning, but I need some serious help here.”

  “You shouldn’t even be here! I said run, not run here!”

  “Well,” said Paul, “I am here and…” He drew in a deep breath: “I’m calling in that favour.”

  Phil looked aghast. “What? No! The warning was the favour.”

  “Nope, that’s not how it works. I’m owed a favour, I get to say what it is. That’s how the favour system works. You can’t have people arbitrarily deciding when favours are paid off, there’d be chaos.”

  “But… no, I… ah, come on, be fair!” Phil pleaded.

  “Fair? People are trying to kill me, Phil!”

  Phil looked around in alarm. “Keep your voice down for Christ’s sake, somebody will…”

  Phil stopped talking. Paul could actually see the impact as a thought suddenly struck him.

  “Are you wearing a wire?” asked Phil.

  “Why would I be wearing a wire?”

  “Entrapment!” Phil said it with a gleeful look in his eyes. Like he’d finally got the upper hand on someone, for possibly the first time in his life.

  “You have to tell me if you’re wearing a wire, don’t you?” said Phil.

  “Do I?” said Paul.

  “Yeah – if I ask, I think. Or that might be just in America.”

  “OK.” Paul spoke loudly, “for the record, I am not wearing a wire.”

  “Record? What record? Who is keeping a record?!”

  Paul sighed, exasperated. “For Christ sake, it’s an expression, Phil.”

  “Ah no, I’m not getting caught out again. People are always playing me for a gobshite. Like that time with that woman who said she was a stripper dressed as a guard, but she turned out to be a guard dressed as a guard.”

  “Focus, Phil!” said Paul. “Relax, OK – it’s me. I promise you, I’m not wearing a wire.”

  Phil clicked his fingers.

  “Take your clothes off!”

  “I’m not going to....”

  “Strip – now!” said Phil, slapping the counter with his hand to emphasise the point.

  “By any chance, is that what you said to the guard who turned out to be a guard?”

  Phil squeezed his lips tightly together and folded his arms.

  Paul looked at him for a long moment.

  “You’re not seriously going to make me…”

  Paul shook his head in disbelief but the one thing he knew with Phil, he had always been very loyal, both to people and ideas. Once one had taken hold, Phil wasn’t dropping it without a fight. They’d been inseparable back in the day. They’d even played on the St Jude’s team together. Phil hadn’t been very good, but what he lacked in coordination, he made up for in a willingness to get hit. A lot. He figured it was going to happen anyway, might as well happen playing sports.

  �
�Alright, fine,’ said Paul.

  He removed his sling and then slowly slid the Christmas jumper over his injured arm.

  “Nice jersey by the way.”

  “Shut up.”

  Paul dropped the jumper on the floor, revealing the “I beat Cancer” t-shirt beneath.

  “Seriously, are you in fancy dress or something?”

  Paul flicked the Vs at Phil with his good hand, before repeating the process to remove the yellow t-shirt. Once completed, he stood in the shop, semi-naked and feeling very exposed.

  Phil motioned his hand in a circle.

  “And the rest.”

  “Feck off. Before you ask, I’m not giving you a lap dance either.”

  “Have you got something to hide?”

  “Nothing you didn’t see in PE.”

  Paul starred into Phil’s eyes for a very long moment, weighing things up. Like it or not, he desperately needed help. This lanky idiot was pretty close to being his last hope. He looked around to confirm that nobody could see in from outside. The last thing he wanted was Brigit witnessing this. He’d never live it down.

  “Right, fine.”

  With one hand, Paul quickly untied his belt, released the button on his jeans and unzipped them. Then, with what little dignity he could muster, he shimmed the jeans down his legs. He pointed at his underpants.

  “And before you ask, no way!”

  Phil considered this.

  “Alright, fair enough.”

  “Good,” said Paul. “Now you.”

  “What?” said a suddenly nervous Phil.

  “Yeah. How do I know you’re not wearing a wire?”

  Phil drummed the fingers of first his left hand, and then his right hand on the counter, a contemplative look on his face.

  “No, fair point.”

  Phil started unbuttoning the front of his shirt.

  Paul shook his head. “Oh don’t be such a…”

  Before Paul could finish admonishing Phil for his gullibility, the bell over the front door pinged.

  Paul didn’t look around. He just closed his eyes and waited for it to be over.

  “Hi, I was wondering…” Paul heard the shock in the man’s voice as he walked in on one man who was nearly naked, and another who appeared to be in the act of undressing.

  “D’ye know what, it’s fine. I’ll…”

  There was a quick shuffle of feet and the bell above the door pinged again.

  Wordlessly, Phil moved across to lock it, while Paul started awkwardly redressing himself.

  “Phil, I need to speak to your uncle.”

  “You’ll be doing well, he’s dead.”

  “Oh, sorry.”

  “It was last year. He’d a dodgy ticker for a while, conked out on the job.”

  Paul, just placing the sling back over his shoulder, stopped and looked at Phil. “Do you mean?”

  Phil looked back at him as he again replayed what he’d just said in his head. “Ughhh – Lord no, not – ‘on the job’.” Phil threw in a couple of hip thrusts, to show he’d belatedly understood the mental image he’d created. “I mean, he was robbing a house out in Skerries. He liked to keep his hand in.”

  Legend had it that Paddy Nellis had been the finest housebreaker in Ireland, before he’d moved into other areas. He used to joke that he’d been in more houses than Phil and Kirsty combined.

  “That’s terrible,” said Paul.

  “Ah, it’s probably how he’d have liked to go. Heart attack, right there on somebody else’s kitchen floor, a rucksack full of their antiques on his back. Nice couple, they came to the funeral.”

  “Sorry for your loss,” said Paul, “but… who is in charge now then?”

  “That’d be my Auntie Lynn.”

  Paul turned and looked at Phil.

  “Really?”

  “Oh God yeah.”

  “What’s that like?”

  “To be honest,” said Phil, “she’s taken a lot of the fun out of crime.”

  Phil moved back behind the cash register and started locking various things.

  “Seriously, Paulie, you can’t be here. If Lynn finds out…”

  “How did you know?”

  “What?”

  “That I was in trouble?”

  Phil compulsively shoved his fingers in his mouth and started tearing at his nails with his teeth. It brought back so many memories of him doing that as a young fella.

  “Phil?”

  “Alright, look. It was Gerry Fallon’s son, Gerry junior. His da sent him over to talk to Auntie Lynn about you. People know you’re linked to us, because of the thing.”

  Paul nodded.

  “I… might’ve over-heard something through the door. They wanted to know if you were with us now and all that.”

  “What did Lynn say?”

  “What do you think? Of course not.”

  “Nice of her.”

  “Cop on, Paulie, these are the Fallons. They weren’t asking permission, they were just checking facts.”

  “So then you…”

  “Went and rang you, like an idiot.”

  Phil took a long brown leather jacket down from a hook behind the counter.

  Paul softened his voice. “Thanks, Phil, I do appreciate it.”

  “Yeah, well,” said Phil, as he started to put on his jacket, “you’re welcome. Now, for the love of God, would you please go away?”

  “I will. Just as soon as I’ve talked to your auntie.”

  Phil stopped, one arm into his jacket and glared at Paul.

  “I’m cashing in my favour, Phil.”

  Phil angrily shoved his other arm into the jacket.

  “I am going to be in all kinds of shit for this.”

  “So where is she?”

  “She’s water dancing.”

  Paul considered this. “Is that some kind of street slang?”

  Phil furrowed his brow as he looked at him, drumming his fingers on the counter once again. “No. It’s Friday. Water dancing.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  DI Jimmy Stewart was out of breath.

  He’d had to climb three flights of stairs, which was doing nothing for his mood. As he made it up the final few, he made an effort to look less winded than he was, but the sweat making his shirt cling to him told the tale. Back in the day, he’d have been sprinting up these stairs. That’s what he liked to tell himself at least.

  42 minutes after Stewart had made his ‘request’, Quinn had rung him back and asked to meet in the stairwell. It was all a bit OTT on the cloak and dagger front and showed that Quinn’s instincts for subterfuge hadn’t improved. Two people meeting for a casual chat in the stairwell? Quinn might as well have held up a neon sign saying ‘Engaged in dodgy activity’. Stewart didn’t care; he was five days from a gold watch. What he wanted was a result.

  If Stewart was sweating, it was nothing compared to Quinn. He was pacing back and forth on the landing like an addict in the latter stages of withdrawal. With darting eyes, he watched the older man negotiate the final few steps. The lad seriously needed to cut down on the caffeine.

  “When you said…” panted Stewart, “to meet in the stairwell, I assumed you meant on the bottom floor… not the top.”

  “Is this a set-up?” blurted Quinn.

  “Set-up?” grinned Stewart. “I already told you I don't know anything about any fucking setup; you can torture me all you want.” He looked into the younger man’s expression of sweaty incomprehension and sighed. “Seriously, Reservoir Dogs?”

  “What are you going on about?”

  “Never mind,” said Stewart, with a shake of his head. “Why the hell would I be setting you up?”

  “For revenge.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself, Quinn. We had a minor spat, big deal. Do you’ve any idea how many people have properly pissed me off in my 41 years on the force? If I was going out for revenge, you’d rank somewhere between the moron who never quite fixes the coffee machine, and whatever thieving so’n
’so keeps taking my yoghurts out of the fridge.”

  “Maybe you’re being used by the inquiry into Ryan, trying to get evidence.”

  “Because that’s what I’d do in my final week on the force? After all those years of service, be remembered as the bloke who turned Judas on the way out the door? Cop yourself on, Quinn. Your buddy Ryan posted one of his own turds through his ex-wife’s letterbox. They’ve got enough evidence on him already. Now – have you got something to tell me or am I going to boot you down these stairs?”

  Quinn flinched away. He was five foot nothing and, although Stewart was knocking on the door of sixty, he reckoned he could comfortably take him. Not that he was going to try, but it was no harm Quinn not realising that.

  “Well, it’s just that the whole thing smells dodgy. That fella Mulchrone’s phone is off, but Conroy’s showed up.”

  “And?”

  “That’s what’s odd. It’s here.”

  “Here?” asked Stewart. “Maybe she’s come in.”

  “No, I mean – not ‘here’ here. It’s down the other end of the park.”

  “Oh for… is that all? Jesus, Quinn, the Phoenix Park is like the biggest city park in Europe or something. That’s a coincidence, and not even that big a one. Christ, you’re paranoid.”

  “Oh yeah?” said Quinn, sticking his chin out defiantly. “Then explain this. I went in using the locator app on her phone. The networks have an over-ride and I accidentally ‘happened’ upon the password.”

  “I understood none of that but go on?”

  “So, how come somebody else accessed her location 13 minutes before I did?”

  Stewart didn’t say another word. He was too busy taking stairs two at a time.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Paul had once found a great book in the three for five euros bin about how the mind works. One of the chapters had been on something called the spotlight effect. Basically, we all believe other people are paying way more attention to us than they actually are. Paul knew that, in general, this was true. However, now that he was standing in a swimming pool, with his heavily bandaged right shoulder wrapped in a shopping bag, while his left hand hung onto his underpants for dear life, he knew it wasn’t his imagination; he really was becoming the centre of attention.