“I think you do. I’ll be at the afters at O’Hagan’s. I’ll give you a chance to explain this to me, or I could just go looking. Maybe I’m wrong, of course, in which case, sorry for your trouble.”
He said it with a smile, one that said he knew he wasn’t wrong.
It took them a while to get there, to the back stairs of O’Hagan’s. The entire place was rammed with mourners in the midst of a traditional Irish funeral. The drink had started to flow and stories were being swapped. It was only a matter of time before someone started singing.
Paul and Brigit followed Tara Flynn as she brought them through. “I put him in my office like you asked. Is everything OK?”
“Course it is,” said Brigit. “It’s just… the Gardaí were asking about a memorial fund. They just wanted to talk to us about it.”
“Oh right. That’d make sense. Seems like a good thing to do.”
Tara led them up the stairs and through a “Staff Only” door into an office. Jimmy Stewart was leaning against the table.
He nodded as they both entered and Paul closed the door behind them.
“OK,” said Brigit, “we’ll keep this short. I don’t know what you think you know, Jimmy, but you’re wrong. Bunny is dead.”
“A heart attack.”
Brigit nodded.
“Why the closed coffin?”
Brigit looked at Paul, who stepped forward. “For Christ’s sake. Not a heart attack. He…” Paul was unable to look up. “He took his own life.”
“Bollocks, he’s not the sort.”
“What would you know about it?” Paul sounded angry now. Brigit took his hand.
“Jesus, Jimmy,” said Brigit, “have you considered working for the Samaritans?”
“Maybe I’m way off – maybe. But here’s why I think I’m not. Couple of things really, closed coffin aside. Firstly, you two. I’ve been to a lot of funerals – too many, in fact. I went to every damn murder I worked on, so I’ve seen a lot of grief. You two aren’t grieving.”
“I don’t know what you—”
“To be fair,” continued Stewart, “hardly anyone would know. I mean, you’re doing most of the right things, but that’s just it. The whole thing is very controlled. I watched you very closely and, more than anything, you looked like you felt guilty.”
“Guilty?”
“Oh, not like that. Unless I’m way off, you’ve not killed the man. You looked guilty because everyone was going to all this trouble.”
“Seriously, Jimmy,” said Paul. “Get a grip, would you? Do you have any idea how ridiculous you sound? This is incredibly inappropriate.”
Jimmy shrugged. “Do either of you know Dr Denise Devane?”
They gave him blank looks.
“There’s no reason you would. She’s the state pathologist. Very good at her job. Almost nobody would know this, mind you, but way back in the day, Bunny and I were involved in a case with her. You would never guess from meeting her, but she has, well… I don’t know if soft spot is the right word, but she holds Bunny in very high regard, for reasons I can’t really go into.”
“OK.”
“She wasn’t at the funeral.”
“And?”
Again, Jimmy shrugged. “It’s highly unusual. I mean, given the circumstances.”
“People are busy.”
“Maybe so, but I bet her name is on the death certificate. Finally, there’s your reaction when I said this was nonsense. The more I see, the more I smell a rat. Of course, if I’m wrong, I sincerely apologise but, fair warning, I’m going to go looking. I’ve a lot of spare time on my hands these days. Retirement is not exactly agreeing with me.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” Brigit ran her hand over her brow. “This is bloody ridiculous.” She raised her voice. “You can come in.”
After a second, the door opened and Detective Superintendent Susan Burns entered the room, followed by a very sheepish Detective Donnacha Wilson.
“Ah, Wilson,” said Stewart. “Merry Christmas.”
Wilson blushed. “Jimmy, this is DSI Burns.”
Stewart extended his hand to Burns, who took it begrudgingly. “Nice to make your acquaintance, Superintendent. I was gone by the time you took over at the NBCI but I’ve heard a lot about you. Wilson here speaks very highly of you.”
“Yes; he doesn’t mention you at all, although I have noticed that he occasionally comes in after a long lunch and suddenly he has a few new ideas on a case. By any chance, have you been working as an unofficial consultant?”
Stewart shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. That would be against the law.”
Burns nodded. “Yes, technically it would.”
“Can you keep a secret, Superintendent?”
“Of course.”
“Good. So can I.” Stewart smiled at her. The mad old bastard was enjoying himself. He turned to Wilson. “Well, Donnacha, at least this explains why you’ve been dodging my calls. You’re part of some far-reaching conspiracy. I thought you’d just got the hump because I didn’t send you a Christmas card.”
Wilson’s face reddened again. “Fuck’s sake, Jimmy.”
Burns looked between the two of them. “So, did Wilson tip you off?”
“No!” blurted out Wilson.
Stewart locked eyes with Burns. “He genuinely did not. Do you think I’d be here if I thought I’d be dropping him in it?”
She looked between the two of them again. “Fair enough. You really got all this from Devane being a no-show and watching people at a funeral?”
“Call it a lucky guess.”
Burns sighed heavily again. “I’m beginning to think our rules on retirement are a joke. You should really still be in the tent, pissing out.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment. So, is somebody going to tell me what is actually going on here?”
“I assume we can rely on your discretion?”
“Of course.”
Burns looked at Wilson. “Guv, he’s a pain in the arse but I’d trust him with my life.”
“Good. Because rest assured, you are.”
Stewart looked around the assembled foursome.
Finally, it was Brigit who spoke. “Alright then…”
Chapter Sixty-One
Christmas Morning, 3:17am
Bunny looked up at the sky and smiled.
“Mr McGarry, are you listening to me?”
No reaction, just the same smile.
“Is there anything you’d like to offer in an attempt to save your life?”
Nothing.
“Mr—”
“Shush.” With blood staining his lips, he gave a broad smile. “I can hear her singing.”
He closed his eyes.
The man pointed the gun at Bunny’s head.
A final shot rang out.
Bunny began to lose consciousness… He was dimly aware of the man slumping to the ground beside him.
Then there was another figure standing above him.
“Wake up.”
Bunny’s eyes flickered open to see Fintan O’Rourke.
“You were right, ye Cork arsehole, I did only need one bullet. Now wake up, you’re not going to die tonight. You and your bullshit martyrdom routine.”
O’Rourke raised his gun at the sound of rushing footsteps through the snow. “What the—”
“Don’t shoot!”
“Jesus,” said O’Rourke. “What in the hell are you doing here?”
Brigit held her hands up. “Me? You’re a bit of a surprise. Can I?”
She indicated Bunny and, as he nodded, she dived onto the ground beside him. “Christ, Bunny, look at the state of you.”
“You should see the other fella. Actually…” He pointed at the body lying face down on the ground beside him. “There he is.”
She had her phone in her hand. “Ambulance, please. Emergency. Gunshot wound.”
“I told you to run.”
“Like you’ve ever done what anyon
e told you to do.” Brigit pulled her coat off and put it under Bunny’s head. Then she pulled his hands away from his stomach and bent down to look at the damage. “This isn’t great. Can you…”
When she looked up at where Fintan O’Rourke had been standing, he was gone.
When she looked back at Bunny, he was unconscious.
Chapter Sixty-Two
Bunny awoke to whiteness.
It wasn’t a pure white. A heavenly white. A ‘clouds upon which fat-arsed cherubs, constipated for all eternity, sit around strumming harps’ white.
No. It was an institutional white. The kind of not-quite-white white that’ll do because you have twenty other things to spend the money on that are more important than a coat of paint and you barely have enough money to pay for two of them.
It was the kind of white you woke up to when you were fairly sure that it was going to hurt like hell when the morphine wore off. Right now, his head was fuzzy and his mouth felt like a Care Bear had shat in it.
A face appeared above him. It was human, sort of. Female, at least. It had an unnaturally smooth and shiny quality to it. He saw red hair, big blue eyes and a wide grin.
“Jesus. Is this hell?”
The grin disappeared. It seemed to be an unnaturally slow process.
When the woman spoke, she had an American accent. “No, it’s a hospital, Mr McGarry.”
“Close enough.”
The face disappeared from view and the bed started to rise, moving him up into an almost sitting position.
Bunny watched as the woman slowly came into full view. “Who are you?”
“I am FBI Special Agent Alana Dove.”
“Is there a doctor about?”
“No.”
“Anybody else?”
“Not right now. Is everything OK?”
“That depends. No offence, but the last Yank I was alone with was trying to execute me.” Bunny squinted his eyes and looked back up at the ceiling. “Come to that, I’m not entirely sure how he didn’t.”
“It’s a long story. Can we move this along? We don’t have much time.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Actually, I’m afraid you are. The Irish police have a great deal of evidence linking you to the two bodies in the Wicklow Mountains. And the reason they have that is because you murdered them.”
“No comment.”
“It was not a question. That’s not to mention the three dead bodies you left in a field in Sligo.”
“If you’re here to exact vengeance, could you come back tomorrow? It’s been a hell of a day.”
Agent Dove sat down on the visitor’s chair. “Actually, it has been two days. You’ve been in a coma. The doctors seem very impressed with themselves that you’re not dead.”
“Don’t hold it against them. They’ve not met me.”
“This will go faster if you stop interrupting.”
“If you wanted to do a monologue, love, you’d the two days when I was asleep.”
“You’re a very rude man.”
“If I was, I’d have mentioned the metal arm by now.”
Agent Dove shifted forward in her seat, the calm tone of her voice slipping. “I am trying to help you, Mr McGarry.”
“Call me Bunny.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Your bedside manner needs a little work.”
Agent Dove stood up. “Just listen. Here are your options. One, I walk out of this room and disappear, leaving you and the Irish authorities to sort out this unholy mess. You can try to explain how you have left quite so many dead bodies in your wake—”
A part of Bunny’s brain suddenly kicked in. “Is Conroy alright?”
“If you let me—”
“Is Conroy alright?” he repeated, a hard edge to his voice.
“She is fine. She’s waiting outside.”
“I want to see her.”
“Not until I’ve explained your options. My God, you are the most difficult man. I am trying to help you.”
“Bollocks.”
“OK, I am trying to see if we can help each other. Do you want to go to prison for a very long time?”
“I’ve got a solicitor. She seemed pretty good in the brief chat we had.”
“OK then, good luck with that.”
Agent Dove turned towards the door.
“Out of curiosity, what was the second option?”
She turned back. “It involves helping Simone Delamere, before the people who sent your would-be killers find her.”
“Nobody knows where she is.”
“Yet, Mr McGarry. Yet. To be honest, nobody was really looking for several years but, for obvious reasons, recent events have changed that.”
“What are you talking about? What obvious reasons?”
Agent Dove looked at him for a long moment. “Oh my God, you don’t know, do you?”
“Know what?”
“Who is on the tape.”
“I do. Simone was—”
“Not her. The other person on the tape.”
Silence descended on the room again. Agent Dove shook her head and spoke as if not really speaking to Bunny. “You went through all of this and you don’t even know why?”
“I knew people were trying to hurt Simone.”
Agent Dove moved closer. “The man on the tape has recently achieved a position of some influence. Let’s leave it at that. Whoever has that tape controls that influence. When Agent Zayas’s body turned up, it fired the starting gun on a treasure hunt. One that goes through Simone Delamere.”
“She’ll be fine. She’s been fine for, what, eighteen years now?”
Agent Dove shook her head. “You really don’t get it. Nobody was looking for her before. Zayas was a small-time, corrupt piece of crap. Nobody cared he was dead. Hell, several people shared a few drinks to celebrate it. Now though, people have realised that Simone Delamere is still out there somewhere and so too, presumably, is that tape, and they will stop at nothing to get it. I think you’ve already seen that.”
Bunny moved his tongue around his mouth, trying to find some moisture.
“We want to find her,” continued Agent Dove, “before the other side does.”
“So? Maybe you’re an even bigger shower of pricks than they are.”
Agent Dove nodded. “It is a fair point. I also expect you won’t tell us anything that might help us find her, will you?”
“Spot on.”
“Which brings me right back to option two: the deal I have been instructed to offer you. You leave here, in an ambulance meant to take you to hospital back in Dublin. You don’t make it. You die of a heart attack enroute. Hardly implausible, given your condition.”
“You’re going to fake my death? Bollocks.”
Dove wrinkled her nose in disapproval. “It is not without its challenges, but we believe we can. Luckily the holidays, the weather and the location all help. You don’t need to know the how, just that we can, and my bosses believe we should.”
“But you don’t agree?”
“No. I’ve read your file.”
“In my defence, I was drunk when a lot of those things happened.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
“So, let me guess, all I need to do is find Simone Delamere and hand her over to you?”
Agent Dove shook her head. “No, because we know you won’t. If the trail of bodies you’ve left behind you proves anything, it is the lengths you will apparently go to in order to protect her.”
“And why the feck should I trust you?”
“We don’t need you to. We just want you to not trust them – the people who sent a squad to track and ultimately attempt to kill you. All we want is for you to realise Simone Delamere is in grave danger and then do what it is you do. I’ll be honest, Mr McGarry, your friend finds herself slap bang in the middle of a war, and frankly, my side is losing. We’re outnumbered, outgunned… Call it what you will, but we can’t hope to match them for resources. We
have looked into you. Against my advice, my superiors believe that you might just be the wild card we need. A dead man the opposition don’t see coming. Someone who, I’m guessing, has at least a couple of ideas on how to find Simone if he really had to. We will drop you anywhere in the world and give you what assistance we can. Maybe, over time, you might grow to trust us enough to let us assist you and Ms Delamere in bringing down those that are hunting her. At the very least, we imagine you will at least find a way to cause them pain.”
“Oh, ye can bet your arm on that.”
Dove pulled a disapproving face. “If you get in trouble, we will of course have complete deniability.”
“Yeah? How many Agent Doves can there be in the FBI?”
“None. That’s why we chose the name.”
“Can I think about it?”
“No. In fact, we need you to make a phone call. Reluctantly, but under instructions from her bosses, DSI Susan Burns is willing to assist us in organising your death, but there is one problem.”
“Is it my mobile phone contract? Those bastards won’t let anyone go.”
Agent Dove did what Bunny was fairly sure was meant to be an eye roll.
“We need you to be dead. Despite any pressure that we can apply, the state pathologist has point-blank refused to countenance being part of this. Not unless she speaks directly to you.”
Dr Denise Devane.
Bunny looked back at the not-quite-white ceiling for a long few moments. In all honesty, it wasn’t like he had many options. “Give me the phone.”
Chapter Sixty-Three
Jimmy Stewart looked slowly around the room. “So you’re telling me that Bunny’s death has been faked to allow him to disappear off the radar?”
They all nodded in turn.
“And that’s all you know?”
Brigit shrugged. “Pretty much. I mean, I think this woman he was in a relationship with is in trouble and Bunny can help. We don’t know anything more than that. This Agent Dove woman went into the room to speak to him and when they called us in, it was a done deal.”
Stewart looked at DSI Burns. “And you’re happy with this?”
“Christ, no. Of course I’m not. There’s not a damn thing I don’t hate about it, but what were the options? As it was explained to me by Agent Dove, Bunny almost certainly killed those men in self-defence, but she made it very clear that the US government would be publicly sticking to that ridiculous story that Zayas was here to find his roots. Do I want to push for a trial when I know the accused isn’t going to get a fair defence? Then I got two phone calls that made it very clear that the Irish government was going to give the Yanks what they wanted.”
Last Orders (The Dublin Trilogy Book 4) Page 30