‘Estranged’, Paul had silently corrected in his head. He really hoped they could sort out their marriage; he had four grand riding on it.
They'd parked in the car park of a pub called Casey's, a hundred yards away from the top of Hartigan's cul-de-sac. Initially they'd stationed themselves just opposite Hartigan's house, but they'd quickly noticed that – despite what films led you to believe – two men sitting in a stationary car are very noticeable. Admittedly, the German Shepherd with the penetrating stare probably hadn't helped. After the second neighbour had given them the evil eye, Paul figured they should move before someone called the Gardaí for fear of their property value lowering.
The cul-de-sac only contained five or six houses, so there'd not been much to-ing and fro-ing to keep track of. Every time any new vehicle had gone down the road, they'd taken turns bringing Maggie on a walk-by. Hartigan had thankfully stayed home, and his only visitor had been a takeaway delivery man at about 7:30 pm who he hadn't even tried to have sex with. They'd then seen him settling down to watch Benjamin Button on TV. Paul had seen it; he'd found it dull, but nowhere near as boring as sitting in a pub car park. Phil had passed the time telling Paul the conspiracy theories about 9/11 that'd he read about on the Internet. Paul had passed it quietly contemplating the various ways he could kill Phil.
By midnight they'd had enough and called it a night. If Hartigan was going to be getting or receiving any booty calls later than that, he was going to get away with it. Well, thought Paul, he'd got away with a lot more that day.
It had taken a pay rise to eighty euros per day to convince Phil to pick him up at half-seven the next morning. Their luck had held out, and they had reached Hartigan's just in time to see him loading golf clubs into the boot of the silver Merc. Hartigan driving himself had been a much trickier prospect to follow than the chauffeured Roller had been. He was a boorishly aggressive driver, who seemed to think that laying on the horn for long enough would make the morning rush hour just disappear. Through a combination of luck and following the honking, they'd managed to track him to Malahide Golf Club. They'd sat in the club's car park for fifteen minutes, long enough to see Hartigan appear on the first tee with a man Paul recognised as one of the lawyer-types he'd seen him with the day before on the courthouse steps. They were both chomping on big cigars. Paul didn't know much about golf except that it took a long time, which suited him fine. Unless Hartigan had planned a secret dalliance in a bunker, that meant he had a few hours. He told Phil they had some business to take care of in Howth.
It was 9:45 am by the time they got there for the 9:30 am appointment. Traffic had been dreadful, but they still would've made it if Phil hadn't insisted on stopping the car for twenty minutes to let Maggie go poopie. Paul had considered this an undignified phrase for a grown man to use, but he let it slide.
They climbed the steep, narrow road that led up towards Howth Head. Sergeant Geraghty was already in the car park when they arrived, looking none too impressed with having had to wait. She was a short woman, with severely spiked red hair and an unusually muscular build. Paul guessed she was either big into her sport, or just mad keen to kick the crap out of somebody.
"Holy shite," said Phil as they pulled up to park, seeing the vehicle parked on the far side of the Garda car. "Is that Bunny's?"
"Yep."
"1980s Porsche 928S," they both said together. It wasn't that either of them were big petrol heads. It was just that every kid who had been trained by Bunny McGarry at St Jude's Hurling Club could recite the make and model of that car from memory. Bunny had taken great delight in showing it to every one of them, on the strict understanding that they never came within three feet of it. The story went that the car had belonged to a gangster and had been virtually totalled in a car chase with the Gardaí, a chase Bunny himself had been involved in. Paul didn't know if he believed that story or not, as Bunny was prone to exaggeration. He'd once told them that he had figured out who Jack the Ripper was, but the fecking English were too stupid to listen to him when he'd rung Scotland Yard.
What Paul did believe was that Bunny had bought the car off the insurance company, who were otherwise going to scrap it, and had then lovingly restored it. This meant harassing every garage in Dublin until they did it for him, no doubt at very ‘Garda-friendly’ rates. Regardless, it had been Bunny's life’s ambition to own a Porsche, and now he did. Paul had never seen the attraction himself. It was just a car. It was admittedly a rather distinctive car, with its matte black paint and red leather seats. The name “Porsche” sounded a lot more impressive than the car actually looked. It wasn't one of the ‘classic’ Porsches. It was like one of those old footballers from the Sixties with the long hair and sideburns; the type who'd have a pint and a tab at half time. It may have been all right in its day, but when put beside its sleek, athletic descendants, it looked horribly out-of-date. Still, Bunny loved the thing. Despite often looking like he himself had been dragged arseways through a hedge, his car was never less than immaculate. Everyone knew that, should any harm befall this car or, God forbid, if somebody was monumentally stupid enough to steal it, the sentence would be a fate worse than death – the one hundred percent undivided attention of Bunny McGarry.
Paul got out of the car and walked over to Sergeant Geraghty. He would have preferred it if Phil hadn’t followed him, but he couldn't think of a good reason to tell him not to.
"Mr Mulchrone?"
"Yes. And you must be Sergeant Geraghty. Sorry I'm late."
Paul extended his hand and they shook.
"That's quite all right," she said, in a way that made it clear that it definitely wasn't. She had a strong northern accent. "Can you confirm that this is Mr McGarry's car?"
Paul nodded. "How long has it been here?"
"It was first noticed on Saturday morning. Normally, it would have been clamped but…" Sergeant Geraghty looked annoyed about something.
"But?" asked Paul.
"Normally it would have been clamped but, apparently, this car is somehow exempt." Sergeant Geraghty failed to keep the sour expression from her face as she said it. "No clamping company will touch it. I also attempted to get it impounded, but that has also proven impossible."
"Ah, right," said Paul, "Bunny is a little particular about his car."
"I don't understand how one man can be exempt from the law."
"Have you been stationed in Dublin long?" asked Paul, as innocently as he could. The expression on her face indicated she didn't appreciate the question.
"I transferred down from Donegal six months ago."
"Ah right," said Paul again. "Well, I'm sure he's probably got a good reason for leaving it here."
"Yes," said Sergeant Geraghty and then she took out her notepad and pen. "When was the last time you actually saw Mr McGarry?"
"Last Tuesday."
"And have you spoken to him since then?"
"No, I've been trying to reach him," said Paul, "but he's not been answering the phone."
"I see. Has he been acting strangely recently?" asked Sergeant Geraghty. Paul watched her eyes dart to the left, glaring in the direction of Phil's giggle.
"Not for him, no."
"Would you say he is prone to emotional outbursts?"
Phil actually laughed at this.
"Phil, shut up!" said Paul.
"Sorry, sorry," said Phil, "but that's a gas one. ‘Is Bunny prone to outbursts?’ Wait until I tell Auntie Lynn that one."
"This is a serious matter," said Sergeant Geraghty, "we need to determine if Mr McGarry may have…"
She let it hang in the air. Paul knew where it was going, but didn't want to say it either.
"What?" said Phil, who knew as much about subtle hints as a sea lion does about astrophysics.
Sergeant Geraghty lowered her voice. "…may have… hurt himself. It's not something we like to advertise, but up on the cliffs there is, unfortunately, a popular spot with people who choose to take their own lives."
"What
?" said Phil, the humour disappearing from his voice. "Suicide?! Are ye mad? Bunny?"
Paul turned, and saw the confusion on Phil's face. "Just let me handle this."
"Yeah, Paul, you just tell her it's bollocks. No offence, Guard, but it is. It's bollocks."
"Who is this gentleman?" said Sergeant Geraghty, clearly not enjoying Phil's assessment of the situation.
Paul put his hands out in a placating gesture. "Sorry, Sergeant. He's going to shut up now. This is all a big misunderstanding. I'm sure Bunny has probably just gone somewhere for a few days…" like 'on a massive drunken bender', Paul added in his mind, "…but I am confident he will turn up soon enough. There's no need to panic."
"Well," she replied, "I hope you're right. In the meantime, I believe you are a named driver on the insurance for this vehicle?"
"No, God no," said Paul.
Sergeant Geraghty flipped a page in her notebook. "You are Paul Mulchrone, are you not?"
Paul nodded.
"Well then, you are on the insurance for this vehicle."
Paul and Phil exchanged a shocked look. To their knowledge, Bunny had only ever allowed two people to even sit in that car. The idea that he would allow Paul to drive it was mind-boggling.
"Oh," said Paul," right, well… I'm sure Bunny will be back to take it away soon enough."
"I'm afraid we need it moved now. It can't stay here any longer."
"I appreciate that," said Paul, "but I've not got the keys for it, or—"
He stopped talking when she held up the keys. "Sorry, did I not say? The vehicle was found unlocked, with the keys in the ignition."
Paul looked at the keys, then at the car and then, despite himself, he looked at the path that led up to the cliffs.
"Now," continued Sergeant Geraghty, "has he ever gone missing before?"
Chapter Five
Sixteen Years Previously
Friday 4th February 2000
Tara Flynn looked up as the pub doors rattled violently. The way today was heading, stubbing her toe on the nightstand this morning might prove to be its highlight. Yesterday she'd put their cleaner on maternity leave. Seeing as Ralinka was working, wink wink, ‘cash in hand’, what she'd effectively done is give a woman a couple of hundred quid to stop turning up for work. Tara was the assistant bar manager of O'Hagan's public house, which sounded fancy until you realised there were only two other members of staff, and they were also assistant bar managers. O’Hagans was all chiefs and no Indians; literally in one case, as Dickie was chief assistant bar manager and Ricardo was head assistant bar manager. Nobody was clear on which of them that meant was actually in charge. Mrs Fionnuala O'Hagan, the widow of the titular Martin O'Hagan, was a genius in the field of human resources. She assumed that giving people a title meant they'd go to otherwise undreamt of lengths for you. Tara looked down at the mop she'd been enthusiastically shoving about the place for an hour; apparently the mad old bitch was right.
Tara had only started working there herself two months ago, after flaming out spectacularly from a degree in sociology. She didn't have the authority to put Ralinka on maternity leave, but she also didn't have the kind of conscience that would allow her to stand there watching a heavily pregnant woman mop a floor any longer. She had visions of the poor girl's waters breaking, and her mopping it up herself before politely getting on the bus to the hospital. So now, Tara was the unpaid cleaner as well as everything else. It didn't matter, she was only working there temporarily until she had enough money for Australia.
The doors rattled even more violently as the limited patience of the Mongol horde outside began to run thin.
"Just a second," said Tara, taking her pinny off, shoving the bucket into the corner and leaning the mop beside it. She knew who was outside. She'd called her. That didn't mean she wasn't dreading her arrival. As she walked towards the door, she could make out the ominous shape through the frosted glass. Five-foot-nothing, wrapped in seething anger and a shocking pink PVC coat.
"What the feck is taking so long?" came the voice from the other side.
"Just a second," repeated Tara, releasing the bolts at the top and bottom of the doors.
She'd not even opened the door fully before Mavis Chambers was through it. She was in her late sixties and was supposedly retired, having run a fish stall on Moore Street for most of her life, knocking out ten kids and killing three husbands in the process. Not actual murder as far as Tara knew, but she'd guess by the end at least a couple of them may have welcomed death. She was comfortably the most terrifying person Tara had ever met. She wore an eye-watering amount of perfume, presumably a habit left over from those six days a week surrounded by fish.
Mavis inhaled the entire second half of her cigarette, and then rasped through the resultant cloud. "Where is he?"
"All right now, just relax. He's sleeping it off. He was in a bit of a state."
That was a massive understatement. By the time they'd found him, best estimates had it that Bunny had been on a drunken rampage for several days. A couple of the lads had located him down by the docks, drunk as a skunk and roaring at passing ships. He'd been paralytic, but he'd still managed to give Dickie a nasty shiner for his trouble. They'd brought him here as it was a choice of their storeroom or the cells, which would've been awkward for a Garda Detective. Not that Bunny should worry about that; the Gardaí would be a piece of piss compared to Mavis. She'd been looking for him for over a week.
Two young boys, faces smeared with chocolate, followed their grandmother through the door and continued their game of punch chasing, paying no heed to their environment.
"Careful there, boys," said Tara, "the floors are wet." We're in the middle of a city centre, thought Tara, how on earth did they manage to get muddy shoes?
"Boys! Behave," Mavis screeched, to no noticeable response.
"Our Joanna's young fellas," confided Mavis, "she's got a court date."
"Right."
"Speaking of which, where's that waste of space?"
"I'll take you to him, OK. Just… he's clearly having a bad time of it. Just be gentle."
"Gentle? Sure I'm only going to talk to him."
Tara led her guest back to the storeroom.
"Don't touch that, boys!" Mavis barked, despite neither of her grandchildren being in view. Tara craned her neck but couldn't locate them.
As she opened the storeroom door, the smell hit them like a physical wave; antiseptic mixed with drink, body odour and other things she didn't want to think about. Tara held her nose and flicked the light on with her free hand. Amongst the broken furniture and storage shelves lay Bunny McGarry. He was sprawled awkwardly across some old upholstered seating that didn't make much of a bed. His sheepskin coat that they'd thrown over him had been kicked off. He was lying there in a tattered and stained shirt, one sock, and a pair of underpants that was doing a poor job of protecting his modesty. He groaned at the intrusion of the naked bulb's harsh light and threw his arm over his eyes.
"Christ Almighty!" exclaimed Mavis, a look of revulsion on her face.
"Bunny?" said Tara softly.
He mumbled incoherently.
"Bunny?" she repeated in a more stern voice.
He rolled over and farted.
Tara sighed and starting edging forward. "Bunny, come on now, rise and shine."
Tara hadn't noticed Mavis disappearing from behind her until she reappeared carrying the mopping bucket, the contents of which she hurled straight over Bunny's supine figure.
"MOTHER OF SHITTING CHRIST!"
Bunny was awake, if you could call it that. His hands clutched at his head as he sat bolt upright, his eyes tightly closed.
"What'n'the… where'n'the… who'n'the… agh Jesus."
"Don't you swear at me, ye Cork prick!"
Mavis advanced on him with a surprising burst of speed for a woman her age, and proceeded to beat him around the head with her handbag.
Bunny whimpered and held his hands up in a pathetic attempt to d
efend himself.
"Mavis! Gentle!" Tara managed to pull the older woman back but only after she'd landed another trio of heavy blows.
"Gentle?! I'm going to kill the drunken bollocks, you see if I don't."
Bunny put a hand to his mouth, and then slowly opened his eyes and looked sheepishly around.
"Am I… is this Hell?"
"Hell, he says! Hell!" Mavis delivered the line to the broken quiz machine in the corner, for reasons Tara didn't understand. "You'll feckin' wish it was Hell by the time I'm finished with ye. You're a disgrace!"
"You're in O'Hagan's, Bunny."
"What'm I doin' here for feck’s sake?"
"What's he doing here, he says!"
Tara redoubled her grip as Mavis tried to surge back at Bunny again.
"Mavis! Attacking him isn't going to help."
"This prick is past helping."
"I think I'm going to puke."
Tara kicked the bucket across the floor at him from where Mavis had dropped it. "Not on my floor please." She'd more than enough cleaning to be doing as it was.
Bunny gingerly picked it up and hugged it to his stomach.
"Ye pathetic creature. Would ye look at him!"
"Ara what business is it of yours?" snapped Bunny.
"I'll tell ye, shall I?" said Mavis. "D'ye remember St Jude's, the hurling team you set up? The one I sweated blood to help ye with? All them jerseys I washed, money I raised…"
Bunny nodded. "Course I—"
"Well it's gone, isn't it? Feckin' gone! Them bastard property developers with their bastard flats. You were supposed to stop the council selling off the field, weren't ye? You were supposed to sort it out!"
"I'm going to. The vote isn't until Thursday."
Even if Tara hadn't relaxed her grip slightly, she doubted she could have held Mavis back this time. She rushed over and started raining blows down around Bunny's head again.
"What the?!"
"It's Friday ye stupid, drunken bastard. FRIDAY!!!"
The Day That Never comes (The Dublin Trilogy Book 2) Page 5