“What are you suggesting?”
Anto glanced around. “I’m just saying, they’re not playing fair, so why should you? It’d be the simplest way to get them off your back.”
“So, what? I break in and steal it?”
“No.” He gave her a cheeky smile. “I’m saying we break in and steal it. You get rid of my brothers and I get a little revenge. What’s not to like?”
Brigit shook her head. “I’m not a criminal.”
“No,” said Anto, “but they are. When in Rome.”
Brigit gave him an appraising look and then decided to throw him a curveball. “So, what are your plans for Christmas?”
He shrugged again and picked up his water glass. “I don’t know. Can’t go home for it, so… not much. What about you?”
“I’ll be back to Leitrim but possibly not until the morning of.”
Usually, she would have been home for longer, especially in the last couple of years. Since her mum was gone, Brigit hated the idea of her dad being alone at this time of year. Then, earlier this year, something truly unexpected had happened. The widower Conroy had found himself a lady friend. Her name was Deirdre; she was from a town a few miles away and a widow herself. Brigit had gradually noticed how more and more of Deirdre’s stuff seemed to be in their house now. Brigit was happy, because her dad seemed happy and that was all that counted. Still, although she would never admit as much, it felt weird – another woman being there in Ma’s place. They had never discussed it; her dad just wasn’t set up for the big emotional explanation. It wasn’t in the DNA of the Irish male of his generation. All that mattered was that he was happy. And Brigit would still be there for the dinner and a couple of nights after.
Through all of this, with MCM Investigations crumbling around her ears, it had dawned on Brigit that now Dad was fine and looked after, there was precious little holding her here. Maybe she could finally head off and see the world? Get a fresh start.
Anto cupped his hands around his mouth. “Earth to Conroy.”
Brigit came back from staring at the future. “Sorry, I was miles away.”
“I was just saying – how’s about you come over to mine on Christmas Eve then and I’ll cook you dinner?”
“Sure.”
Brigit gave Anto a wave and headed up the stairs towards the office. As he’d walked her back, he’d mentioned his brother Kevin’s safe again, but Brigit had moved the conversation on. Breaking and entering in order to get evidence against the man trying to bring them down felt like crossing a line.
Speaking of crossing lines, she had agreed to dinner – the meal of seduction – and not just any dinner either, dinner at his place, where presumably there would be a bed. Not that its use was on the cards, but it would be there.
She opened the door of the office to find Phil standing in reception, his hands on his hips, looking at her like a disapproving maiden aunt. Behind him stood her flipchart.
“What are you up to?” asked Brigit.
“What am I up to? What am I up to? What are you up to?”
Despite herself, Brigit blushed. “Mind your own business, Phil.”
“Do you know who he is?”
“Yes. He’s Anto Kelleher.”
Much to Brigit’s confusion, Phil looked horrified. “He is?”
“What’s it to you, Phil? He doesn’t work with his brother anymore. He’s on our side now. Have you ever even met him?”
“No, but I recognise him.”
“Look, I’m not talking about this. It’s none of your business.”
Phil looked around furtively. “Alright, yeah. Fair enough. But there’s something else.”
“What now?”
Phil leaned across and pressed a button on his keyboard. The unmistakable opening bars of the theme tune to Titanic started up.
He stood beside the flip chart and said in a deliberate voice, “Have I ever told you how much I enjoy the music of Celine Dion?”
Before she could respond, they were interrupted by a broom handle thumping against the ceiling downstairs. “Seriously, turn that shit off!!!”
Phil turned over the first sheet on the flipchart.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
DSI Burns looked up from the report she was reading as there was a knock on her office door.
“Come in.”
The door opened and Wilson leaned in. “You wanted to see us, boss?”
“Oh yes, come on in. Take a seat.”
Wilson came in, with Agent Alana Dove following in his wake.
“Before I forget, Wilson, seeing as you’ve got that university education we’re all so proud of, can I ask you to do me a favour?”
“Of course, boss.”
“Could you explain to Detective Gilsenan the difference between the words ‘rouse’ and ‘arouse’. It’s only one letter but it really is crucial.” She held up the document she had been reading. “He’s inadvertently made his report on that assault in Maynooth into soft porn. I’d explain it to him myself, only, technically, that’d be an inappropriate conversation in the workplace.”
“Yes, boss.”
Burns looked over at Agent Dove. She was wearing the same disconcerting smile as always. No matter how many times Burns found herself in a room with her, it didn’t become any less unsettling. She would probably be an excellent interrogator, assuming she didn’t induce a heart attack, of course.
“Speaking of a bit of word play. Agent Dove, are you familiar with the phrase deus ex machina?”
Dove shook her head. “No.”
Wilson leaned forward. “It is a phrase taken from the Greeks. Attributed to Aristotle, it denotes…” Wilson stopped when he noticed the look on his boss’s face. “Oh, sorry, chief. You meant that as more of a sort of a rhetorical thing, didn’t you?”
“What does mansplaining mean, Wilson?”
“It means I’m going to shut up and only speak when spoken to, chief.”
“That sounds like a very good idea.” Burns returned her gaze to Agent Dove. “So, where was I? Oh yes, deus ex machina. As Aristotle here was about to point out, it means a solution appearing out of nowhere to resolve a problem. You know the sort of thing: Superman flies around the world so fast that he manages to turn back time. Doctor Who realises his sonic screwdriver has another setting he forgot about. A squad of marines just show up out of nowhere. You get the idea.”
Dove nodded. She was good. She knew enough to let somebody get where they were going. Wilson could learn a lot.
“Or, say, if you’re investigating an eighteen-year-old murder case and then suddenly, magically, out of nowhere…” Burns opened her drawer and pulled out the evidence bag contained within. “The victim’s wallet turns up in the post.”
She had received it that morning. Sergeant Moira Clarke was tasked with opening the NBCI’s post. While it seemed like a job beneath her rank, it never ceased to amaze how much potentially useful stuff there could be in the mountain of crap. Amidst all the death threats, random abuse and letters from nutters claiming their cat was stealing from them, there would be the occasional badly spelled account of what really happened in some murder. A lot of your hardcore criminals wouldn’t be seen dead talking to the Gardaí, but they’d be more than happy to anonymously rat out a rival or colleague in a letter. Often the spelling and penmanship were appalling, but then, a lot of the criminal fraternity hadn’t paid that much attention in school. The last letter they’d written had probably been to Santa.
Burns placed the bag on the desk. It contained a brown leather wallet that was remarkably well preserved for its age.
“Said wallet contained six hundred and forty quid in old Irish punts, two hundred dollars and four credit cards in three different names, which is rather interesting in itself, don’t you think?”
Dove finally spoke. “Yes, yes it is.”
Burns pulled a piece of paper from her drawer, written in the meticulous hand of Moira Clarke, who had documented the wallet’s contents, bei
ng careful not to interfere with any forensic evidence.
“There was also a card for a plumber in New York, a picture of a woman wearing frankly not enough clothing, three receipts and a membership card to the ‘Golden Triangle’ gentleman’s club, which I’m guessing isn’t filled with many true gentlemen. It also contained a small key – oh, and three condoms, flavours multiple, ribbed for her pleasure. Thoughts?”
“That is unexpected.”
“Yes,” agreed Burns, “it most certainly is. Oh, I forgot one thing.”
Burns picked up the other evidence bag from her drawer and held it up in front of Agent Dove. “To confirm, does that appear to be Agent Zayas’s FBI ID?”
Agent Dove leaned forward and stared at the card. “It certainly seems to be. If you like, I can get it and the wallet overnighted to our lab in—”
“No, thank you. It’s evidence in an Irish murder enquiry. It’ll be staying here.”
“But with all due respect, our lab has some of the most sophisticated techniques in the world.”
Burns put both of the evidence bags back into her drawer. “I’m sure. Well, while our labs consist of two lads with a bottle of talcum powder and a magnifying glass, they’re still getting first crack.”
“I didn’t mean to imply…”
“Yes,” said Burns. “I’m sure. I think we’re missing the bigger picture though, don’t you? Do you know in my twenty-one years in the Gardaí how many times a perfectly preserved piece of evidence – in an evidence bag – has turned up in the post?”
“I can’t imagine…”
“None. Zero. Zilch. It has never happened. And in that time I’ve received several anonymous confessions, a couple of non-anonymous confessions and not one but three pictures of a gentleman’s special little friend. One of which, by the way, we successfully IDed as part of an investigation. My point is, seeing as this investigation has taken yet another unusual turn, I’d like to revisit our earlier conversation. Have you told me everything I need to know regarding this case?”
“Absolutely.”
“No offence, Agent Dove, but I don’t believe a word that comes out of your mouth.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Detective Superintendent. I have nothing but the highest respect for you.”
Burns gave Dove a stern look. If she was attempting to take the piss, she had an impeccable poker face.
“OK.”
“In the unlikely event that your lab doesn’t come up with anything from the wallet…”
“Then yes, we will discuss other options. However, I’ve got a sneaking suspicion that we will get a result. Somebody has gone to what appears to be a great deal of trouble to preserve this wallet for eighteen years. Assuming it isn’t from some serial killer who’s living with his mammy with an attic full of skulls, the sender is either taunting us or trying to point us in somebody’s direction. I’m not wild about any of those options. Could you give me a moment to speak with my detective, please?”
Dove nodded. “Of course.”
Burns stood and watched Dove through her office window as she walked back across the office to the desk opposite Wilson’s.
“I wouldn’t trust her as far as I could throw her.”
“Yes, boss.”
“Has she done anything unusual?”
Burns watched as Wilson shifted nervously in his seat. “I mean, not as such, no boss.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s just, well… she’s weird, isn’t she? I mean with the arm, and the face not really moving thing. Everything the woman does is a bit weird.”
Burns looked down at Wilson and then opened the drawer and took the two evidence bags out. “I want you to take this over to Doakes at the Technical Bureau, alone. Tell him it’s from me and I want it treated as highly sensitive. Explain what’s going on and that I would like this ASAP, and I really do mean ASAP.”
“Yes, boss.”
“And he only talks to you or to me. Nobody else.”
“Yes, boss.”
“We are going to give this gift horse a long, hard look in the mouth – and then we’re going to look up its arse too, because I neither like nor trust this.”
“Yes, boss.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
In his dream, Paul was standing on a cliff side looking down at the waves as they crashed against the rocks. The wind fired raindrops like tiny bullets into his face.
Bunny sat beside him on a deckchair. He was wearing a one-piece swimming costume and sipping a pink cocktail with an umbrella in it.
“Ye should’ve talked to the girl.”
The wind whipped viciously around Paul. As he looked down, he noticed he was naked. Of course he was.
“I did,” shouted Paul.
“My hole ye did. Not really. It’s easier to fight someone you hate than say something to someone you love.”
Paul knew he was in a dream. Paul almost always knew, every time he dreamed, that he was dreaming. Unfortunately, it never meant he could control the dream or force himself to wake up from it.
“It’s not like that.”
“It’s exactly like that.”
The ground started to give way beneath his feet.
“You’ve been too busy thinking only of yourself,” shouted Bunny, as the wind howled. “What about her? And me? And that Nellis eejit, come to think of it?”
“I’m just… I was…”
“Yeah – doing everything by yourself. You don’t need anyone.”
The mud sucked at his feet as the cliff began crumbling into the sea. Paul tried to grab at the ground behind him, but his fingers couldn’t gain purchase. As the ground tumbled away, the waves and the rocks rushed up to meet him.
The last thought in his head was how foul the sea breeze smelled.
Then he awoke, in a different kind of nightmare. Beside him in the bed lay Maggie, her foul breath wafting into his face.
“Oh Jesus,” said Paul, sitting up with a start. “What have we discussed? No dogs in the bed.”
Maggie gave a low growl. She had agreed to no such thing.
“You are, you are…” Paul looked at the bedside clock: 1:12 am. He was having a hard time forming a sentence. Somewhere in the background, there was a pinging noise. “Seriously, get out of my bed.” Paul stood up, and then tugged at the duvet. Maggie stayed resolutely on the bed. “That’s it, no more drink for you after 6 pm. It makes you feisty.”
She barked. In the background, there was another pinging noise.
“What the hell is that?”
It wasn’t the notification noise for a text message, and his laptop was set up to give a Homer Simpson belch when an e-mail arrived.
Ping. There it was again.
Various parts of Paul’s brain were gradually beginning to wake up. The part that held extremely important facts sprang into life, somewhere between the bit that wanted to go back to sleep and the bit that wanted to take a pee. It alerted him to what website he had left open before going to bed.
Paul rushed from the bedroom, or at least tried to. What he actually did was walk two steps and then wallop his left big toe into the side of the bed at an agonising velocity.
Two minutes and a considerable amount of high-grade and ultra-sincere swearing later, he hobbled to the laptop on the sofa. He tapped the space bar and the screen came alive. The messages appeared in a chat box in the right hand corner of the screen.
“Hello sexy.”
“Great to hear from you.”
“You look like just my type!”
Yes! thought Paul. It was past 1 am and he’d finally got a man horny.
Two days ago, a thought had struck him. For most of the previous week, he had been going over the same questions in his head. How on earth were they going to prove that Jacob Harrison, the scuzzy, philandering piece of crap who Bunny had dangled off a balcony, had not lost his ability to be a scuzzy, philandering piece of crap? That’s what this lawsuit came down to, after all. They had to pr
ove that Harrison hadn’t been left permanently psychologically scarred, unable to get his end away – not to mention his supposed fear of water and heights. The problem was, Harrison and the Kellehers would have to be complete morons not to realise that Paul and Co. were looking for just such a way to catch Harrison out. It was like trying to rob a bank in broad daylight when they knew you were coming.
That was when Paul had had his big idea.
After a bit of digging around, he had found a way to contact Samantha Parkes, the woman with whom Harrison had been having an affair. She had been initially very frosty – until she had realised that Paul’s interest was primarily in causing Harrison pain. Then she had warmed up considerably. It was her who introduced Paul to the Beautiful Unicorn dating site. Its tagline was “Where the elite come out to play” – although from a quick scan, it seemed fairly clear that “Horny horses sow their wild oats” would’ve worked equally well. You could put up pictures of yourself or have an “incognito” profile – the trick being that the incognito ones cost fifty euros a month, while the ones with pics were free. But first you had to make it past the “gatekeepers of gorgeous”. That’s right, they only let the best-looking people in. He assumed they went with the name “Beautiful Unicorn” because “Third Reich Singles” was already taken. Every time he looked at the website, Paul felt like he needed a shower.
Still, he had been accepted in an hour. Or rather, “Rebecca” had. To be accepted in this age of so many Photoshop fakers, you had to submit a ten-second video of yourself saying hi while holding up a recent newspaper. For this, Paul had called in a rather big favour. Rebecca was real alright, in the sense that she was Tina, the niece of Jacinta, the landlady of Phelan’s pub. Seeing as she was studying acting, Paul had managed to pitch the whole idea as an acting job of sorts. And a paid one at that. He had then had a very careful conversation with Jacinta about exactly what her niece would be helping him with. It was made exceedingly clear to him that, should he upset her in any way, Paul’s body would never be found. While this wasn’t ideal, he had limited options when it came to hot women in their twenties who would do him a favour.
Last Orders (The Dublin Trilogy Book 4) Page 21