The Day That Never comes (The Dublin Trilogy Book 2)

by Caimh McDonnell

  "Ehm, just a second," he said to the closed door.

  Maggie disappeared under the table. She seemed to understand that she shouldn't be there and if Mrs Wu or anyone else found out, she might be forced to leave. Paul had a sneaking suspicion that the dog was way smarter than he was. That still left him the issue of her dirty protest to deal with. The bags he used when he took Maggie for a walk were in the pocket of his anorak, at the bottom of the stairs, at the far side of the breathy female voice. Leaving it on the table and trying to pass it off as an unusual office toy didn't seem practical. He couldn't see anything that he could use to cover it up – that left disposal as the only option. He moved over and, with difficulty, opened the window. The old wood of the frame was warped and screeched a tiny protest as he forced it up.

  "Can I come in?" said the voice behind the door.

  "Just a minute," responded Paul, looking around the room for something – anything – he could use to move the poo from point A to point anywhere that wasn't in the office. "I'm just finishing up a phone call."

  "Yes," said the voice, "with the woman who ate your socks."

  "Ehm… yeah." Paul's eyes fell onto the only book in the room. It was an omnibus collection of the stories of Philip Marlowe, Raymond Chandler's famous detective. Brigit had bought it for him as a present. She had called it his training manual in the art of being a private eye. Paul hadn't finished it, but he was pretty sure that at no point had Philip Marlowe had to get a poo out of his office. No, Marlowe had stuff happen like leggy blondes sashaying in to ask him to clear their name of murder. Paul picked the book up and then put it down again. He couldn't face using it as a pooper-scooper. Instead, he went to the waste paper basket and fished out the lad's mag he had bought himself in a moment of weakness. Using an Oriental Palace menu, he was then able to slide the turd onto the magazine. He was relieved to see it had a firm enough texture to all come in one piece. Clearly Maggie had enough fibre in her diet; she'd possibly obtained it from his socks.

  "Are you still on the phone?" asked the voice.

  "Yep," said Paul, as he made his way across the room with the slow deliberation normally only seen from members of the bomb disposal unit.

  "Only you don't appear to be talking any more."

  "I'm listening. She has a lot to say."

  "About why she ate your socks?"

  "Yeah, I mean… obviously, that was a metaphor."

  "Obviously."

  Paul had reached the open window. He looked down at the small car park behind the Oriental Palace where their delivery bikes sat. Two of the delivery guys were enjoying a cheeky fag before starting work. Dropping his payload there would be asking for trouble.

  "Will this be much longer?"

  "No."

  Paul pulled back and gave the magazine his best forehand return of service. He watched in satisfaction as the doggie doodie sailed off into the distance, over the wall and into the alleyway full of storage garages beyond.

  "What fucking spanner is throwing shite about?!"

  Paul quickly ducked back inside and dropped the magazine and menu into the wastepaper basket. He surveyed the office. It looked like crap but at least it no longer contained any.

  "Just a second."

  He moved across to the door and opened it with a flourish. At least, he would have done but for those sagging hinges. Instead, it opened in a three-stage process, the third stage of which involved him walloping himself in the face with it. He rubbed his forehead and looked around the door. Standing on the far side was a leggy blonde. A smirk that sat somewhere between bemused and amused played across her full red lips.

  "Don't mind if I do," she said, as she walked past him into the office.

  Paul was a thoroughly modern man with thoroughly modern sensibilities. However, it was also a small office with only so many places to look. He couldn't help but notice some pertinent facts as she walked by. The red dress she wore was figure-hugging in a way that could be described as 'leaving little to the imagination', and yet Paul was pretty sure it was designed to dominate the imagination of any heterosexual male who came into contact with it for weeks after. He admonished himself on that outdated thought. It would, of course, do the same to lesbians. In fact, it might even push a few women who'd always been curious into signing up for full-time membership of that particular club. It was the kind of dress that could dramatically change lifestyles.

  Paul tried to pull himself together as he struggled to close the door. "Please take a seat," he said, as he shoulder-charged it into submission. He turned to see that she already had. She was sitting behind the desk opposite his, and impatiently brushing non-existent dust off her perfectly-formed knee. Paul looked nervously around the office.

  "Please forgive the mess; our cleaning lady is late."

  She looked around her. "In the permanent sense?"

  Paul smiled in lieu of an answer and sat down behind his desk. He tried to ignore the soft, warning growl that issued from beneath it. He'd forgotten that Maggie was there. He casually leaned back in his chair in an attempt to put as much air as possible between her and his nether region.

  "So, Miss…" He left a gap that she did not fill. "What can I do for you?"

  "I'd like to hire you."

  "Really?" It dawned on Paul, as soon as he'd said it, that he probably shouldn't have sounded so utterly shocked by the concept. They did, after all, need to have some clients for the long-term viability of the business.

  "Yes. You are the Rapunzel people, are you not?"

  Indeed they were. That had been the case that had brought Brigit, Bunny and Paul together to work as an unlikely team. They had solved it, as far as Paul was concerned, almost as an accidental by-product of him trying to stay alive.

  "That's us alright."

  She leaned forward and lowered her voice slightly. "Can I ask, did your partner really throw his boss out of a window?"

  Paul smiled nervously. "The press made an awful lot of stuff up about that case." They had, but not that bit. Bunny had indeed thrown the second highest ranked Garda in the country off a balcony. In Bunny's defence, he had been corrupt. It was also one of the many reasons why the Gardaí had been so keen for Bunny to consider other career options. It may have got results, but it set a dangerous precedent in terms of industrial relations.

  "I should point out, we haven't technically got our private investigation licence yet so we can't technically take on any cases."

  Why did he say that? The other problem with Bunny's disappearing act was that he was also supposed to stump up the money for the licence. Paul had eight days to find three grand or the PSA would automatically reject their licence application and MCM Investigations would be officially dead before it had even started. Paul looked across the desk. Could this be a sting operation by the PSA? He dismissed the notion. Their coffee had tasted recycled; they didn't have the kind of budget to run to that dress.

  The woman in the red dress leaned back and smiled. "I'm not worried about technically. Lots of things are technically illegal in this country." It would dawn on Paul later that she didn't have a discernable accent. She spoke in a kind of purring, breathy voice that didn't exist in nature. It felt more like a crack team of female scientists had developed it to take advantage of the fact that all men are idiots.

  "Where are your associates, by the way?"

  "Mr McGarry is currently unavailable." It felt odd to refer to Bunny like that. He was only ever referred to as Bunny, DS McGarry or a vast array of other considerably less complimentary monikers. Never 'mister' though.

  "And Miss… Conroy is it?"

  "I cheated on her in a drunken one-night stand that has ruined my life and destroyed our relationship. Her position with regards to the agency is currently up in the air."

  The room went silent after he said it. Paul had been dimly aware that he really wanted to talk about this with somebody. He had no idea how badly until he'd just blurted it out embarrassingly to a total stranger. Clearly hi
s subconscious wasn't anywhere near done punishing him.

  "Right," she said, hardly missing a beat. "Well, good luck with that. You should probably ask me about the case."

  "What's the case?"

  "I'd like you to follow a man called Jerome Hartigan."

  Paul laughed. "That's the same name as that developer from the Skylark Three who are up in the High Court."

  She looked back at him. She wasn't laughing.

  "Is this a wind-up?"

  The woman opened her handbag and casually dropped a wad of money onto the table. "I've got a thousand euros that says it isn't."

  "But—"

  "He's having an affair."

  "Ah," said Paul, finally getting a grip on proceedings. "And you are the wronged woman?"

  "No. I'm the woman who is doing wrong. He is having the affair with me."

  Paul opened his mouth and then closed it again.

  "Current legal proceedings notwithstanding, Jerome is a very wealthy man. I have put a lot of time and… let's call it ‘effort’ – into making sure I am in a position to acquire some of that. There has been a hiccup in that plan. I am concerned that he has betrayed me and started sleeping with his wife."

  Paul left his mouth open this time.

  She picked up the Philip Marlowe book from where it sat on the desk in front of her, and held it up. "As Raymond Chandler understood all too well, Mr Mulchrone, it’s a dog-eat-dog world. Speaking of which; it seems to be my allotted role in this exchange to ask – is that a dog between your legs, or…"

  Paul looked down. Maggie had apparently got bored and stuck her head out. He moved back and she silently exited from under the table. She hopped up onto the free chair and sat calmly staring at their guest. The woman looked back at her, for the first time looking as if she wasn't in total control of the situation.

  "Does your dog bite?"

  "She's not my dog."

  "That's reassuring."

  "So…"

  "I want you to follow Jerome Hartigan for a week and tell me if he meets his wife, or any other woman."

  "Because you're having an affair with him?"

  "Yes." She gave him a mirthless smile. "Feel free to judge me all you want, but remind me; where is Miss Conroy again?"

  "Touché."

  "I'm an intelligent woman, Mr Mulchrone. Maybe I saw which way the odds were stacked and decided that, rather than spending my early twenties studying chemical engineering, I could use a little biology to my advantage instead. It's a man's world – I'm just playing the cards I've been dealt." She spread her arms out and gestured at herself, acknowledging her strong suit. "I just want you to find out if my opponent has somehow got the upper hand."

  She stood and picked up the roll of notes from the table.

  "One thousand euros now, another four if you find any evidence."

  "But what if he is not having an affair?"

  "Then I've paid you one thousand euros for a week's work, not too bad. This way, I'll know you really are trying your best."

  "You don't have much faith in people, do you?"

  "No, I've met them. Now, do you want the job or not?"

  Paul took a deep breath. Like he had choices. "Yes."

  "Good. I'll see you here in one week, at 8 pm, for your report. Please put the dog on a lead."

  She tossed him the money and began walking towards the door. She grabbed the handle, kicked the door and opened it in one fluid motion, in a way that Paul would spend the rest of the night unsuccessfully trying to replicate.

  "Wait!" said Paul.

  She looked back over her shoulder at him.

  "You've not told me your name."

  She smiled. "No. No I haven't."

  Chapter Two

  "All I'm saying," said Phil Nellis, "is we can't get into any car chases."

  Paul took a deep breath and counted to five in his head. He was trying not to get annoyed; Phil was doing him a favour after all. He had started the journey by counting to ten but that had given Phil way too much time to say something even more annoying.

  Four… five. "Don't worry, Phil. Like I said, we're not going to get into any car chases. We're just going to be following somebody. That's all."

  "Because I told Auntie Lynn I was going for a drive in the country, and you know how she gets about her car."

  Paul had a sneaking suspicion that Auntie Lynn would have let Phil go ram-raiding if it got him out of the house for a few hours. They weren't getting on very well at the minute. Phil Nellis was Paul's oldest friend, although that wasn't really saying much. They'd both been in foster homes together until Lynn and her dear departed husband had taken Phil in. He wasn't actually her nephew as he was a second cousin, but that was just a technicality. What was a reality was that Lynn's 'nephew' was now thirty and living in her spare room. What was it they said about no good deed going unpunished?

  Paul spotted a parking space. "There's one!"

  Phil slowed the car down even further than the 14 mph it was averaging, and gave the space a sceptical look. He shook his head. "Too small."

  It was large enough to fit them comfortably, even if they had been towing a caravan, and they weren't. They'd been driving up and down the Phoenix Park inspecting perfectly good parking spaces for twenty minutes now. A car behind them understandably honked.

  Paul heard a growling noise from the back seat. He turned to see Maggie with her head out the window, looking back in the direction of the honker.

  "What's that bloody dog up to?" said Phil.

  "She's fine. You just worry about finding a space."

  "I don't even know why you brought her."

  "Because," said Paul, "she has made her feelings on being left alone in the office very clear."

  "Well, if she does anything to this car—"

  "Relax," said Paul. "She's not going to do anything." He had absolutely no confidence that this wasn't an out-and-out lie. Maggie had spent the journey from the office with her head out the window, but not in the normal ‘dog-loving-life’ way. She had instead been staring at passers-by, giving the steely-eyed look you'd normally only get from a new inmate on a maximum security wing. It was like she was looking for the hardest nut to take down to establish her dominance of life. This had led to at least one cyclist at a traffic light nearly ruining his Lycra shorts.

  The plan had been simple enough. Paul had quickly realised yesterday, as soon as 'the client' had left his office, that he had absolutely no idea how to follow somebody. More importantly, he had no idea how to first find somebody to then try and figure out how to follow them. Then he realised that his target, Jerome Hartigan, was going to be in the Central Criminal Court all day; the papers were full of little else. All Paul had to do was follow him from there. How hard could that be? On a pushbike, he reasoned, pretty hard. He had asked Phil to be his driver for the day, fifty euros, no questions asked. It wasn't that confidentiality was massively important, he just really didn't want to go through the ordeal of answering Phil's questions.

  Phil possessed an odd kind of relentlessly logical stupidity. For example, he knew his Auntie Lynn really didn't like it when he repositioned the mirrors in her car. His solution to this was to move nothing, and instead try to squeeze himself into a driver's seat that was set up for a petite woman of five foot two. Phil was six foot seven, almost all of it made up of impractically long limbs. His knees were currently at near head height, and he kept inadvertently turning the windscreen wipers on.

  A bus that had been dropping off a load of schoolkids on a trip to Dublin Zoo indicated to pull out. Even Phil could squeeze it in there.

  "Woah, woah, woah," said the barman as soon as they entered. "No dogs allowed. There's a sign."

  Paul stopped and looked down at Maggie. "The sign says 'except for guide dogs'. She's a guide dog."

  "Oh yeah, and which one of you two is supposed to be blind?"

  "Neither of us," said Phil, "but the sign says guide dogs are welcome. It doesn't say they have to
be with a blind person."

  "What?" A look of angry confusion spread across the barman's rotund face, "but… but a guide dog without a blind person is just a dog."

  "Oh really?" said Phil, "then why would you put a sign up saying that guide dogs are welcome if, by your definition, a guide dog isn't a guide dog unless it has someone with them who is physically unable to read the sign? The sign should just say 'No Dogs'.'"

  Paul looked at Phil, impressed despite himself. The barman wore the exasperated expression common to anyone who has just come into contact with the Nellis logic. "Two pints of Guinness and a pint of water please," said Paul, trying to press home their advantage before the barman could work out a counter-argument on the back of a beer mat.

  Paul paid for the drinks and then brought them over to the table by the window. Phil sat there, nervously looking down at Maggie. She panted up at him cheerfully. It would appear that Maggie liked Phil, which was odd, as Paul was all too well aware that nobody liked Phil straight away. He was an acquired taste, like sado-masochistic sex or jazz.

  Their seats provided them with an excellent view of the front of the Central Criminal Courts just down from the Phoenix Park gates. It was a fairly new building shaped like a cake tin, all shiny metal and lots and lots of glass. A window cleaner's dream come true.

  "I thought you were off the booze?" asked Phil.

  "I am," said Paul. He hadn't drunk a drop since 'the incident' – partly because he blamed it for its part in his downfall, and partly because it was just one of the ways he was punishing himself.

  "So what are ye..." Phil looked horrified as Paul glanced around before surreptitiously placing one of the pints of stout under the table. "Ah no…"

  "Believe me, just getting her one is better for everybody." Paul had discovered this on their only other trip to the pub. It had resulted in him getting banned from the four pubs nearest the office. Word had got around fast.