Last Orders (The Dublin Trilogy Book 4)

by Caimh McDonnell

  Bunny looked down at the man. “Ye… ye shouldn’t sneak up on people.”

  “Sneak up? In broad daylight on a public street? You’re a lunatic. Smile for the camera, dickhead.”

  With his good hand, the man pointed down the street, where a much larger man in a suit was holding up an iPhone and recording them.

  Bunny looked around. A couple of office workers had stopped down the street, one of whom had her phone out, clearly debating whether to call the Gardaí. On the opposite corner, the dog walker with the lank red hair watched on, before dragging his dog away.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Not a date.

  Brigit kept repeating those three words in her head as the taxi nudged its way through the afternoon traffic on O’Connell Street.

  Not a date.

  Not a date.

  Not a date.

  And it wasn’t. She was going for a meeting with Anto Kelleher and his brothers in the Gresham Hotel. It had been agreed in a series of texts between herself and Anto over the weekend. The texts had perhaps been a little flirtier than was entirely appropriate in the business environment, but, still, she was on her way to a meeting. Had she told Paul about it? No. But they weren’t talking at all, seeing as she had removed him from the company. He would no doubt hit the roof if he found out she was talking to the Kellehers, but that was exactly the problem. She was trying to run a business here, whereas Paul was trying to run a bloody guerrilla war.

  Alright, she had made a bit of time yesterday to get some shopping done, but she’d been needing some new work clothes for a while. Admittedly, she had spent so much on the blue Ted Baker pencil dress that she was going to be returning it tomorrow at lunchtime, but it was important to look nice for meetings. She had also splurged on a taxi rather than walk the fifteen minutes down from the office, as it was a fairly rotten day weather-wise and she didn’t want to run the risk of trying to return a rain-soaked dress.

  She was annoyed with herself too. Paul and she hadn’t been an item for eighteen months, so why exactly would her exchanging texts with another man be a problem? He had no right to think that. Not that he knew but, in her head, he thought that. The version of him she carried around with her was saying so right now. She didn’t owe him anything. Alright, maybe she did. But she didn’t owe him idiotic blind loyalty. If he wanted something, be it her or the company, then he needed to damn well put the work in. Destiny was a speeding train, not a taxi – you either caught it or you missed it. She’d read that in one of her self-help books, of which she had started to acquire an alarmingly large collection.

  The taxi pulled up outside the Gresham Hotel and Brigit paid the driver. Before she could touch the handle, the taxi’s door swung open. Anto Kelleher stood there smiling, an open umbrella held out.

  “Well,” said Brigit with a nervous smile, “aren’t you full service.”

  “Ah,” said Anto, “it’s a thoroughly miserable day. Didn’t want you turning up looking like a drowned rat.”

  “Charming!”

  Brigit slid out of the taxi and under the umbrella. Anto grinned at her. “That dress deserves to be kept dry and, if at all possible, preserved for posterity.”

  “Cheeky. Keep your eyes off my posterity.”

  Brigit took the proffered umbrella and strode forward, turning her head to hide the smile playing across her lips. Anthony slammed the car door and hurried after her. A concierge in faintly ridiculous top hat and tails opened the door for her with a bow. She nodded her thanks and walked in, collapsing the umbrella and placing it in a nearby stand. It had been a while since Brigit had been in the Gresham. The last time had been at the works do of a guy she’d been seeing very briefly several years ago. She remembered the meal being lovely – considerably nicer, in fact, than the guy had turned out to be.

  “Where do we…”

  Anthony indicated a set of double doors on the far side of the reception area. “We’ve got a meeting room booked. I even splurged for the tea- and coffee-making facilities.”

  “Wow,” said Brigit. “You really know how to show a girl a good time.”

  Kevin and Vincent Kelleher were Anthony’s brothers, that was obvious. You could see that the same essential ingredients had gone into the recipe, it was just that the other two had come out of the oven considerably less hot. Kevin was about eight inches shorter than Anto, whereas Vincent was about the same amount taller. Both of them were bulky, leaning towards fat but not actually there yet. All three of them had blue eyes. Kevin’s glowered out at the world in a squint while Vincent’s sat under an unfortunate monobrow that gave him the air of a caveman who’d been squeezed into a shiny suit. In contrast, what hair Kevin had on his head had been very well maintained, primarily in an attempt to de-emphasise the lack of it. Brigit would’ve bet that the excess was on his back. Both of the older brothers had that gorilla feel to them. She imagined Anthony’s body was very smooth, not that she had spent any time at all thinking about Anthony’s body – which she very definitely, absolutely had not.

  “Kevin, Vinny – this is Brigit Conroy.”

  “Hello,” said Brigit.

  “Nice to meet you.” Kevin smiled from across the far side of the mahogany table but he didn’t get up. Vincent nodded from his position holding up the wall behind him. Anthony had clearly got all of the charm in the family. The room smelled of polish and carpeting that had been recently hoovered. It looked like every other hotel meeting room she’d ever been in. There was a framed picture of James Joyce on the wall.

  “Take a seat. I’d offer to shake your hand, only…” Kevin held up his right hand; he had a couple of fingers taped together.

  “Oh dear,” said Brigit, sitting down opposite him. “What did you do to yourself?”

  “Oh, I didn’t do it to myself. It’s been quite the morning.”

  Anthony clapped his hands together. “Right. Tea, coffee?”

  “Tea would be lovely, one sugar.”

  “I’m fine,” said Kevin. “I see you’ve not brought either of your partners with you?”

  He said the word “partners” with a tone Brigit didn’t like.

  “No, I thought it best if we try and clear this up between us first, before involving anyone else.”

  Anthony was busy over at the tea and coffee station. “We’ve a few biscuits here as well. Proper ones too, none of that Rich Tea nonsense.”

  He was trying to force the mood towards jovial without a great deal of success. Brigit was now a whole different kind of nervous. Coming here had seemed like a good idea, but as she looked across at Kevin and Vinny Kelleher, she wasn’t so sure. She couldn’t read what was going on. Kevin had an odd smirk about him that didn’t ring true to what the purpose of this meeting was supposed to be. If he was building up towards an apology, he was going an odd way about it.

  Anthony placed a cup of tea on a saucer in front of Brigit. “Enjoy.”

  “I’m not sure she will.”

  “Kevin?”

  Brigit could feel the tension as Anthony looked across the table at his older brother.

  Kevin smiled back at him. “You see, we’ve just taken on a new client.” He took an envelope out of the inside pocket of his suit and tossed it towards Brigit. It landed halfway across the table and skidded to a halt in front of her fingers.

  “Kev, what is this?”

  Kevin didn’t look at his brother. “Shut up, Anthony, grown-ups are talking.”

  “What the fuck are you playing at? This isn’t what we—”

  “Shut. Up.”

  Brigit picked up the envelope and slowly opened it.

  “His name is Jacob Harrison, I believe you’re familiar with him?”

  Brigit unfolded the piece of paper and glanced at it. “I see. And this is your idea of a truce meeting, is it?”

  “Truce?” laughed Kevin. “I don’t want a truce. Consider yourself duly served with a summons on behalf of Doherty’s Solicitors, representing Jacob Harrison. He is suing MCM Invest
igations for loss of income and emotional distress arising from your partner’s assault on him. I served Mr McGarry with his summons personally this morning.” He held his hand up again. “He didn’t exactly take it well. Still, it was a great bit of video. It’ll do wonders in the trial towards proving his proclivity for violence.”

  “This is crap,” said Brigit.

  “Is it?” said Kevin. “Let’s see what the courts make of a private investigator dangling someone off a tenth-storey balcony. He’s also filed a complaint with the Private Security Authority by the way, so you can expect to be hearing from them.”

  Brigit stood up. “You dragged me here for this?”

  Anthony‘s face held a look of undisguised horror. “I didn’t know. Hang on, just take a seat and we’ll…”

  Brigit looked across at Kevin. “I don’t think we’ve much more to discuss.”

  Kevin grinned. “Not unless you’d like to sell your business to us right now? I mean, it’s just lost a whole lot of value, but we need a photocopier if you’ve got one.”

  “Go fuck yourself.”

  “You’d want to control that temper, Miss Conroy. Look how much trouble it got your friend Bunny into.”

  Brigit pushed the chair away and turned towards the door.

  “Kevin? What the fuck, man? This isn’t what we agreed.”

  “Shut up, Anthony. You sound like an idiot.”

  “Screw you. We had an agreement. You said…”

  The rest of it was lost to Brigit as she slammed the door and started marching purposefully down the hall. Shit. Shit. Shit. How could she have been so stupid? All this had been was a set-up, designed to humiliate her. She still held the summons clenched in her hand but she was too angry to read it. She was so angry she couldn’t even tell who she was most angry at. The Harrison thing had been a straightforward follow-and-record job until Paul fobbed it off on Bunny. Then Bunny, had… well, he had been Bunny. It wasn’t like it was unprecedented behaviour. He had a very black and white view of the world. Unfortunately, that had now landed their company in all kinds of crap.

  She stomped across reception and pushed open the outer doors. The concierge was distracted with helping some old dear up the steps. She heard Anthony calling after her but she didn’t turn around. The cold December air hit her like a slap across the face after the centrally-heated comfort of the hotel. She hurried down the pavement, not even sure where she was heading, just knowing she had to get as far away as she could. She needed to think. First, though, she would need to calm down, and that might take a hell of a long time.

  The number 70 rushed by, the rarity of an unobstructed bus lane allowing it to build up a bit of momentum. The driver either didn’t notice the puddle or didn’t care. The bus hit it hard, sending an arch of dirty water onto the pavement and adding the cherry atop a truly shitty day by leaving Brigit standing there soaked through, in a dress she now owned, clutching a summons for a company that, legal proceedings pending, she soon might not.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Detective Donnacha Wilson took a deep breath and watched as the lift hit B for basement. This was his second trip to the mortuary in a week and he was a long way from happy about it. He’d received a message that DSI Burns wanted to see him here immediately, and was a little suspicious that it could be a set-up, perhaps orchestrated by DS Rowe, a well-known prankster – at least in his own head. In reality, he was a grown man who spent an inordinate amount of time trying to bully and annoy his co-workers. As far as Wilson was concerned, Rowe was single-handedly responsible for the dissemination of the “Chucker” nickname that he so detested. He went to great lengths to see if he could make Wilson throw up; Halloween had been a particularly fun week. Wilson doubted this was Rowe’s work, though, seeing as the last he had heard, he was up to his neck in it with DSI Burns. Even he would have the sense to keep his head down in those circumstances, wouldn’t he? Still, Wilson had triple-checked the message with DS Moira Clarke before coming down to the mortuary.

  The doors pinged open and Wilson stepped out, looking for any possible sources of “shenanigans”. There was a large green bin, marked “Medical Waste”, beside the door leading into the mortuary itself. Wilson kept his eyes on it as he walked by, fully prepared to punch anyone who popped out of it and put it down to “impulse reactions”. The bin lid remained resolutely closed as Wilson pushed through the door.

  He was greeted by the sight of DSI Burns and Dr Devane standing side by side, watching something on a monitor. Wilson politely cleared his throat and Burns glanced over her shoulder. “Ah, Wilson, good of you to join us.”

  “Sorry, guv, I was heading straight out to the Ranelagh thing when I got the message.”

  “Why were you—” Burns stopped herself. “Oh right, yes. I suspended Rowe.” Wilson smiled and then quickly hid the reaction before it could be noted. Burns kept her eyes on the monitor. “You may not get much daylight down here, Denise, but you at least don’t have to deal with your team developing romantic attachments to their work.”

  Devane shook her head. “No, thankfully.”

  Wilson hovered behind the two women, unsure what to do next. “You wanted to see me, guv?”

  “I’ve got a job uniquely suited to your skill set.”

  “You do?” Wilson was unaware that he had a skill set, at least not one that his boss had shown an appreciation for.

  “Yes, you’re a devious little sod and I want to put that politician’s mind of yours to work for me.”

  Wilson sagged. He came from a family of politicians, and while he tried to put that firmly behind him, everyone kept bringing it back up. That and the fact that he had the unfortunate habit of literally bringing stuff back up were becoming the two recurring themes of his career, and he was becoming royally sick of hearing about both of them.

  “Don’t pull that face,” said Burns – much to Wilson’s consternation, as she wasn’t actually looking at him. “This is a good job. I think you’ll actually like it. It’s a bit glamorous.”

  “Really?”

  DSI Burns shrugged. “Well, it’s at least different. An FBI agent rocked up in my office yesterday evening…”

  “Yes boss, Special Agent Dove.”

  Burns glanced at him. “How did you… never mind.” She tapped her forehead with a finger. “An FBI agent with a metal arm, I imagine that got the gossip wires buzzing. Rory Trainer still excitedly remembers that time Moira brought her dog in, I’d imagine this blew his tiny mind.”

  Annoyingly, it was Detective Rory Trainer who had found some excuse to ring Wilson yesterday, basically to tell him this bit of news. DSI Burns had an unnervingly accurate instinct about people.

  “Anyway,” continued Burns, “one of those two bodies from the Wicklow Mountains is an FBI agent called Daniel Zayas who disappeared eighteen years ago. We have been instructed to cooperate fully with Agent Dove in her investigation.”

  “But isn’t it—”

  “Our investigation? Yes,” interrupted Burns. “It is supposed to be her helping us. Believe me, I have had this conversation quite a few times. The Americans have brought some heavy pressure to bear and our bosses have heroically folded like a shitty tent in a thunderstorm. So you are my liaison.”

  “Yes, boss.”

  “Because, as mentioned, you’re a devious little sod and I really think I should start making use of that more. I want to know everything she does, everything she knows and everything she thinks she knows. And I want her to only know what I want her to know.”

  “Yes, boss.”

  “The woman is a bit…”

  “Odd,” finished Dr Devane.

  “That’s a kind way of putting it. She asked for a moment alone with the body to pay her respects. She has now been standing inside looking at Zayas’s remains for…” Burns glanced at Devane.

  “Eleven minutes.”

  “Eleven minutes,” repeated Burns. “Just standing there, staring at it. We think she’s got a funny look on her face
but it’s hard to tell as the picture on the monitor isn’t great and, to be honest, neither is the face.”

  Dr Devane made a noise. It could have been a suppressed laugh but it was impossible to tell with any certainty.

  Wilson stepped forward to stand beside Burns, peering at the screen. A redheaded woman was leaning against the autopsy table, looking down at the skeletal remains.

  “What do you think she’s actually doing?” asked Burns.

  “I have no idea,” replied Devane. “Those remains have been examined for everything I can think of, so it’s not like she’ll be able to ascertain anything further from this. Do you think she knew the man?”

  Burns shrugged. “She said she never met him, but then, she also told me a lot of other lies so I wouldn’t take much from that. In the version that the Yanks are pushing, Agent Zayas was here to trace his roots.”

  “Really?”

  “I double-checked with a friend I have at the embassy, and he clearly doesn’t have any. Family are all from Cuba or Mexico.”

  Wilson felt he should say something. “Have we confronted Agent Dove with that?”

  Burns shook her head. “No, no – we’ve been told to play nice. Can’t go calling our American friends liars. We have to pretend to go along with that story, while you find out what’s really going on here.”

  “Yes, guv.”

  Clearly Dr Devane was starting to get a little annoyed. “I mean, does she think she’s communing with the spirit of the dead man or something? How much longer is she going to be?”

  “You can ask her if you like, Denise, but I’ve been officially told to let her do as she likes.”

  “Well, I haven’t and I have work to do. She can’t stand around in there all day.” Devane reached forward to press a button beside the monitor. “Is everything OK, Agent Dove? Can I assist with anything?”

  Dove looked up as if she were coming out of a trance. “Sorry, I’ll be right out.”

  They watched her take one last look at the remains, and she appeared to say something before she turned to go. At least, most of her turned to go. Her right arm remained resolutely gripping the edge of the metal examination table.