Last Orders (The Dublin Trilogy Book 4)

by Caimh McDonnell

  “But this is an emergency.”

  “Oh dear, I see. We only really provide that service for customers of the shop.”

  “Right,” said Paul, opening the door and re-entering. “So, if I bought something, then I would be a customer.”

  “Yes.” The woman was still talking into the phone, despite the fact Paul was now standing in front of her.

  “Right.” Paul hung up the phone and looked around the shop. “Well then, I think I’ll get…” He picked up a smooth blue pebble from the display beside the counter. “I’d like to buy this.”

  “Ah, an excellent choice. That will be sixty euros.”

  “Sixty!?” Paul tried to keep the shock from his voice, but it was impossible. Not that long ago, he’d have lived happily for a fortnight on that much money. Now he was spending it on a pebble.

  “This is very powerful. It can be used to realign a person’s chakras.”

  “Oh, that’s good. I do feel like me chakras are properly ballsed up,” said Paul, as he handed over all of the money he currently had in his wallet.

  “Would you like a bag?”

  “Sure.”

  “That’s another three euros.”

  “What? Is it a bag for life or something?”

  The woman gave him that smile again. “Better than that. It is a bag for many lives. It has been woven by hand and blessed in a Hindu temple by a blind woman called Sharona, who many believe to be a prophet.” As she said this, the woman popped the stone into a bag that was just big enough to carry a reasonably sized pebble. Resisting any and all ripostes about prophets and profits, Paul fished three euros out of his pocket and handed them over.

  “Gracias,” said the woman, who appeared to be fluent in bullshit in several languages.

  “So,” said Paul, taking the proffered bag, “can I make an emergency appointment now?”

  “Oh no, I’m afraid Manny is seeing the last client of the day now. You’ll have to ring back tomorrow.”

  Paul gave the woman a long, hard look. “Really?”

  “Yes, but do come back.” The woman reached across and placed her hand on Paul’s chest. “I can sense you have a lot of tension.”

  Plan B, which Paul had quickly decided on, involving finding their way around to the back of the shops. There was a large metal gate on which was hung a rather stern ‘keep out’ sign, leading into a back yard where four cars were parked alongside a couple of dumpsters.

  Paul and Phil looked up at the windows.

  “How do we figure out which one it is?” said Phil.

  “Hmmm.”

  “You could try chucking your pebble up at the windows, see who looks out?”

  “Don’t be daft, Phil, that would give us away.” Plus, Paul was hoping that he could possibly return the pebble and get his money back. Sixty euros was, after all, sixty euros, and blue wasn’t even his favourite colour.

  Paul looked at the windows again. “That one!” It wasn’t the most Sherlockian of deductions, but he was quite proud of it. Five windows on the second floor had lights on, but only one of the rooms appeared to be illuminated by a soft diffuse light with a pink glow to it. He’d never been in anything that could be termed a boudoir, but he’d seen them in films, and he was pretty sure they were big into mood lighting.

  They moved one of the dumpsters to below the window and clambered on top of it, but even with Phil’s six-foot-six height, they couldn’t reach the window. Paul had then managed to convince Phil to boost him up. They needed to do it quickly. Paul was aware they were somewhere they weren’t supposed to be, with no good reason to be there and that the clock was against them. Paul didn’t want Harrison to get away due to him being “prompt” in the activity he was hopefully currently engaged in.

  Paul took his phone out and then put his foot into Phil’s cupped hand.

  “One, two, three!”

  In one fluid motion, Phil lifted Paul skyward, and he was able to grab onto the window ledge with his free hand.

  “Wait, wait, wait,” said Paul in an urgent whisper, as he thumbed his phone to open the camera. “Take your time.”

  “That’s easy for you to say. You’ve not got a face full of crotch.”

  “Wait!” Paul looked at his phone to confirm the camera was working. “OK, go!”

  With Phil boosting him up fully, Paul was able to get his head and chest above the windowsill. What he saw was a muscular man in a T-shirt two sizes too small for him – Manny, presumably – performing acupuncture on a naked man lying face down. There was no sign of any hanky-panky.

  While what Paul saw was disappointingly mundane, the same couldn’t be said for Manny. From his perspective, a man had just appeared outside his second-floor window. This caused him to scream in shock.

  And this caused Jacob Harrison to scream, as the man who had been carefully sticking needles into him for twenty minutes suddenly stuck one in very un-carefully.

  All of this screaming caused Paul to scream – and to press the photo button on his camera. The flash went off, reflecting against the window glass and blinding him slightly. This caused him to wobble.

  This wobbling and the chain reaction of screaming caused Phil Nellis to scream and wobble. Phil was a man who constantly believed that the sky was about to fall, and for once he was proven correct. Paul started to fall sideways. Phil followed after him, trying to somehow regain control, before gravity got the best of them both. All this resulted in was Phil effectively launching Paul into the open dumpster beside them, which belonged to the restaurant. Apparently the sauerkraut was not selling as well as hoped.

  Phil had then fished Paul out of the dumpster and they had beaten a very hasty retreat. Luckily, Manny must have been too distracted dealing with his bleeding client to give chase. Paul was only able to hobble, as his hip was killing him. He had landed hard on the pebble in his pocket.

  As Phil and Paul came around the corner to where the van was parked, they were confronted by an unwelcome sight. Kevin Kelleher, his hand in a bandage and a smug grin across his face, was leaning on the bonnet of the van.

  “Howerya, lads? Any chance of a 99?”

  “Not for you,” said Paul.

  “Yeah,” added Phil, “the machine broke yesterday.”

  Paul looked at Phil, who shrugged. “Well, it did.”

  “So,” continued Kelleher, “did you have fun following Mr Harrison while he was getting acupuncture? He’s trying to deal with some issues he’s been having with his back, stemming from being dangled off a balcony.”

  Kelleher pushed himself off the bonnet, exaggeratedly dusting himself down. “You lot are a joke. Do you really think Harrison can’t keep it in his pants for a few weeks?”

  “Well,” said Paul, “he doesn’t have the greatest of track records in that area.”

  “Still, though, you’re following him, we’re following you. What a fun little game we’re playing. By the way, I have an agreement with Mr Harrison and his solicitors that when he eventually owns your sorry business – as scant consolation for the mental hardship you’ve caused him – I’m going to buy it off him, for a very fair price. The reason I bring that up is that I’m a bit concerned with the sorry state of this vehicle I’m about to own.”

  Kevin Kelleher ran his finger along the side of the van and tutted. “Filthy. I think it needs a thorough clean, inside and out. Luckily for you, my brother Vincent and I are also shareholders in a mobile car valeting business.”

  As he said this, Vincent, the monobrowed monolith of the Kelleher clan, appeared from behind the van, holding a hose. Paul moved a couple of steps to the right, and saw that the hose was running from the back of a blue van parked behind theirs.

  “Complimentary jet wash. Just to show there are no hard feelings.” Vincent gave what Paul could only assume he considered a smile as he pushed the hose in the gap of the partially open van window. “By the way, you should really close your windows properly. There’s a lot of nefarious characters around.”


  “I wouldn’t do that if I was you,” said Phil.

  “Wouldn’t ye? What are you going to do about it? Call the cops? What with one of you very closely resembling a peeping Tom spotted in the area? Or are you going to resort to physical violence? Go right ahead, you’ve not got your psycho partner with you now.”

  Paul noticed that Kevin reflexively cradled his bandaged fingers.

  “Actually—” began Phil, before being interrupted as Paul put a warning hand across him.

  “No,” said Paul, “just let the man get on with it, Phil. We deserve this.”

  Kevin laughed. “Too fecking right, and I’m going to enjoy it.”

  “Not as much as I am.”

  “Yeah, we’ll see. Vinny!”

  “What?” responded Vinny.

  Kevin Kelleher looked slightly exasperated. “What do you mean what? Turn on the damn hose.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  Vinny then duly turned a knob on the hose, and Paul could clearly hear water whooshing through it, into the MCM surveillance van.

  There were quite a few things in this world that Maggie did not enjoy. She didn’t like being woken up. She didn’t like healthy food. As the last local election had proven, she really didn’t like politicians – their building, indeed their whole street, was very possibly going to be free from people trying to shake your hand and give you a sticker for at least the next decade, if not longer. The refusal to eat healthy food had of course resulted in her monumental flatulence problem, which was why the window had been open a crack. Paul would have left it open wider, but Maggie also didn’t like the cold.

  But more than any of this, as Paul had found to his cost, Maggie hated bath time.

  A blood-curdling yowl issued from the back of the van and it started to rock violently.

  Paul and Phil each took a couple of steps back. This was definitely a situation where distance was preferable.

  Kevin Kelleher suddenly looked a lot less pleased with himself. It was a credit to his rat-like survival instincts that he was halfway through shouting the word “run” when the window of the van exploded outwards and a mass of very wet and extremely unhappy dog landed on the pavement.

  What happened next was like a scene from a bad horror movie, with the Kelleher brothers running as fast as their legs could carry them, which was nowhere near fast enough. As they ran, Maggie bit at their heels. She leaped up and took down Vinny, before continuing after Kevin.

  “Should we stop her?” asked Phil.

  “How?” said Paul.

  They watched in silence as the Kelleher brothers screamed and yelped their way around the corner.

  Paul moved over and pulled the hose out of the window. “Right, wait for her to come back and see if you can dry this thing out a bit.”

  “And where are you going?”

  Paul pointed at the van belonging to “Kelleher Valet Services”. “I’m going to get the Kellehers some free advertising by parking that little beauty in a bus lane.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  DSI Burns was aware that, at times, she came to conclusions about people too quickly. It was a flaw she had identified in herself while reading a management book called How to be a People Person. It had been an interesting discovery, not least because she was so rigorous about assembling all the facts in a case before coming to a conclusion. She was a big believer that instinct was a word lazy people had come up with to make guessing sound like something more impressive.

  It was with some considerable effort that she had, until this point, tried not to form a hard and fast opinion of FBI Special Agent Alana Dove. Yes, as soon as she had met her, DSI Burns had received a call from the commissioner, who’d told her that instructions had come from what he called “the highest level” to give her any and all assistance requested. That had pissed Burns off. She didn’t like anyone messing with her investigations, especially a foreign agency, but Dove was only the tip of that spear. She would have been sent here by her bosses and any copper knew that part and parcel of the job was being put in positions you didn’t want to be in. Burns still remembered the day, as a young Garda on the beat, when she had been forced to put the cuffs on a young woman who had fought back against her abuser. The job defined you, but at the same time, at certain points, you and the job could vehemently disagree. As old Sergeant Murphy had said at the time, we can’t just enforce the laws we agree with.

  So no, DSI Burns didn’t dislike Dove because of the job she had been sent here to do. The prosthetic arm was disconcerting, but it was, of course, not a reason to dislike someone. In fact, when she thought about it, it was pretty impressive that Dove had managed to succeed in her career despite such an obstacle. She didn’t even dislike her for the fact that, at any given time, Dove appeared to be wearing more make-up than Burns owned. She did wonder if the creepy slow blink thing was because of the sheer weight of mascara her eyelids were required to lift. But no, DSI Burns was not going to hate someone for shallow aesthetic reasons. Now, though, she had a damn good reason to hate FBI Special Agent Alana Dove and she was going to embrace it with all her heart.

  She opened the door to her office. “Agent Dove, please come in.”

  Dove had been waiting outside for twenty minutes while Wilson gave Burns a full debrief on what had happened on their trip to Sláinte Ferries.

  Agent Dove strode past Burns and sat down beside Wilson, who shifted nervously in his seat. As Burns closed the door, she noted that the woman also wore too much damn perfume. She’d have to open a window after this.

  Burns walked behind her desk and sat down.

  “OK, Agent Dove. Detective Wilson has brought me up to speed with what happened.”

  “Yes, and may I put it on record that he should be commended for his actions in performing CPR on the gentleman who collapsed. I believe his speedy response may have helped save a man’s life.”

  Dove turned to Wilson and gave him one of her massive collection of wide smiles. Wilson nodded nervously, as though he wasn’t sure if such a commendation was like winning a free trip on the Titanic.

  “Noted,” said Burns. “Although it does neatly bring us to the fact that you nearly killed a man.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I don’t know how it works across the Atlantic, but here, we try not to induce heart attacks in interviewees. It’s a health and safety thing.”

  “I don’t think we can be held responsible for that.”

  Wilson didn’t say anything, but his facial expression screamed that he felt he definitely shouldn’t be part of the “we” here.

  “You threatened an innocent man’s family!”

  “With all due respect, Superintendent, I did not.”

  “You told him—”

  “I pointed out the powers of two US government agencies. That is merely information. By definition, an innocent person has nothing to fear from the law. Unless you are trying to cast aspersions on the integrity of American law enforcement? Or you are trying to suggest this gentleman’s family is engaged in unlawful activity?”

  DSI Burns rolled her eyes. “Cut the crap, Dove, that nonsense isn’t going to work on me. You were strong-arming the man and you nearly killed him. Need I remind you that you have absolutely no legal jurisdiction here? We involved you in this investigation as a courtesy, a courtesy which you have abused.”

  “I fail to see how—”

  “You went into the interview with extensive knowledge about the man’s family.”

  “Fail to prepare, prepare to fail.”

  DSI Burns snatched up the stress ball from her desk so quickly, Wilson actually flinched. It gave a disconcerting squeak, like a distressed woodland creature, each time she squeezed it. She was not unaware of that fact. “So we’re calling this a success then, are we?” Burns started squeezing the ball under the desk. It had been a long day, in a long week. “Dove, I want you on the first flight home. We will continue this investigation without your ‘help’.”

  A
gent Dove’s face registered alarm – or at least the parts that were capable of doing so.

  “But, you can’t—”

  “The hell I can’t. I’ve already spoken to my bosses. Keen as they are to play nice with our American cousins, nobody wants the headlines if this man dies.”

  “Ehm…” Both women looked at Wilson in shock; they’d mostly forgotten he was there. To be fair, he looked more than a little surprised to find himself speaking. “The hospital did say he was expected to make a full recovery, guv.”

  “Yes,” agreed Dove. “And it was the man’s third heart attack. I mean, clearly he needs to look at his lifestyle.”

  “And how do you know that exactly?”

  Dove didn’t say anything.

  “Wilson, did you know that?”

  Wilson shifted about again. “No, boss, I didn’t hear anyone mention it at the hospital, but then maybe I…”

  Burns refocused her gaze on Dove. “Just to be clear, private information about Irish citizens is exactly that: private. If I get even the slightest hint that you’re obtaining information illegally, then you will not be flying home. In fact, I’ll be seeing to it that the state provides you with free room and board for one to three years.”

  “I heard that from one of the doctors at the hospital.”

  “Really?”

  Burns glanced at Wilson, who shrugged. “She could have done, boss. I mean, they would’ve been checking records and stuff.”

  “Speaking of information,” said Burns, “would it be fair to say, Agent Dove, that you haven’t been sharing all of the information pertinent to this case with us?”

  “There is confidential information that I am not at liberty to divulge.”

  “Bollocks.”

  Agent Dove looked confused. “I don’t understand what—”

  “Bullshit, does that make more sense? We are running a murder investigation here and it is absolutely not your job to decide what we do and do not need to know. In fact, withholding information pertinent to a murder investigation is called obstruction of justice in this funny little backwater, and we take a fierce dim view of it.”