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

by Caimh McDonnell

  Bunny spoke slowly and deliberately. "There's no I in team."

  "I have literally never heard you say that."

  Paul winced and raised his arms as Bunny made to swing the hurl at him.

  "This is your dream, ye scuttering gobshite. You know as well as I do, all of this is just your subconscious trying to work shit out, so stop pissing about. Now, how's the whole detective game working out for you?"

  "Terribly," said Paul. There was no point in lying to himself.

  After his trip out to Howth on Wednesday morning, Paul had returned to Malahide Golf Club to await Hartigan finishing his round of golf. He had now got Bunny's car, which was unsettling for obvious reasons, and helpful for different, but equally obvious reasons. He'd been able to allow Phil to take his auntie's car back. She had wanted to get her hair done. Again, that probably never happened to Phillip Marlowe either.

  Paul had scooched down in the front seat and watched Hartigan shaking hands with his opponent on the 18th green before heading back into the clubhouse. He reckoned from the body language that Hartigan had won, although that may have been because Jerome Hartigan wore the air of a man who always won. Allowing fifteen minutes minimum for a shower, Paul reckoned he had enough time to take Maggie out for a quick walk around the car park. He was nervous enough about letting a dog into Bunny's car in the first place; the possibility of her using it for a toilet was too horrific to contemplate. They'd both stopped to watch a golfer tee off on the 10th hole. To Paul's credit, he'd realised just how bad an idea that was as the club had been on its downswing. Maggie had instantly hurtled off after the golf ball. Paul had dropped the lead; if he hadn't, his arm might have come clean off. He gave chase, but every time he thought he'd almost got hold of her, somebody else in her eyeline would take a shot and Maggie would be off again like a slobbering heat-seeking missile. One guy had made the mistake of throwing a club at her and had then been forced to climb a tree to avoid having a permanent reminder of why that was a bad idea. An old lady had taken the wiser choice of blaming Paul. She'd chased after him in a golf cart for two holes. He'd only lost her when she'd got stuck in a bunker on the 14th. By the time Paul had corralled Maggie and got her back to the car he was exhausted, dishevelled and sporting multiple bruises. He was also missing something; Hartigan's silver Merc was gone.

  Without any other option, Paul had gone back to Hartigan's house. There had been no sign of him. Paul had parked up in the car park of Casey's pub and sat there seething, while Maggie had dozed happily in the back seat. He'd coughed loudly a couple of times in an effort to wake her up, but to no avail. He'd considered poking her but had thought better of it. Hartigan had eventually turned up four hours later; four hours of prime ‘getting his end away’ time. Paul had grimly calculated how many times Hartigan could have had sex in that time. He'd arrived at six, by crediting Hartigan with near-superhuman powers of recovery and a very limited interest in foreplay. At that point, Paul had rung Phil and asked him to take over the stakeout. Then he'd gone to do the only sensible thing he could think of regarding the Bunny situation. He'd gone to Brigit to beg for help.

  While he'd been away, Hartigan had gone out again. Phil had followed him all the way over to Castleknock. He'd phoned Paul while in ‘hot pursuit’, although seeing as Phil liked to stay at least 10 mph below the speed limit, the pursuit would've actually been only tepid at best. They managed to converge on a pub called Myos just as the realisation had been dawning on Phil that Hartigan's wasn't the only silver Merc in Dublin. At some point in proceedings, he'd started following the wrong one. This one contained a middle-aged woman with a full-on eighties perm of blonde hair, big enough to ruin a trip to the cinema for someone two rows back. There had followed a full and frank exchange of views, during which Paul had fired Phil, while Maggie had dry-humped a nearby potted plant for reasons nobody wanted to think about. In short, Wednesday had been a less than a total success.

  "So," said Bunny, "You've no idea what you're doing."

  "That would be correct."

  "Get the Nellis gobshite back for a start."

  "But he's crap—" protested Paul.

  "So are you, but at least that lanky rasher would take a bullet for you."

  "And then what?"

  "Figure it out," said Bunny. "This ain't one of those bullshit dreams where someone gives you all the answers. You were always a devious little sod, did you lose your bollocks somewhere along the way?"

  "Well no, I—"

  "If memory serves, you had a promising future as a scumbag conman before you went in another direction. Maybe you're thinking about this all wrong? In the meantime, that dog takes a dump in my car and I'll haunt you for all eternity."

  Paul lowered his eyes for a second, trying to find a way of expressing the inexpressible thing he'd been avoiding.

  "Bunny, are you…" He left it hanging in the air.

  "How the fuck should I know? I'm just in your head, remember? Let's look at the facts though. I've disappeared, nobody has seen me for days and my beloved car was found out beside the seaside, where every Tom, Dick and Harriet heaves themselves into the great beyond. I've also been down in the mouth recently, not that you've bothered to notice, ye navel-gazing langer."

  Paul nodded silently. By definition, all of these facts were things he already knew, unpalatable as they were.

  "On the other hand," said Bunny, his tone suddenly brightening, "I don't really grab me as the dying sort."

  Then Bunny bent down and licked the side of Paul's face.

  Paul awoke with a start to find Maggie's tongue slobbering in his left ear. "Ah, get off me, ye mad bitch."

  As he furiously scrubbed the saliva off his cheek, reality came back to him. They were parked just up from Hartigan's house on the cul-de-sac. Last night, Paul had decided to risk moving a lot closer, nosey neighbours be damned. Now that it was just him, he'd reasoned that he couldn't risk losing the target again.

  A glance around told Paul that the world had lumbered into a grey, wet morning in his absence. The clock on the dash told him it was 8:07. He reached down with his right hand to locate the lever to return the driver's seat to an upright position. Just then, the distinctive green Rolls Royce that had brought Hartigan home from court two days ago, drove past and out of the cul-de-sac. Paul had stupidly parked with the front of the car facing away from the top of the road, so he'd have to pull a U-turn.

  "Ah for—"

  Thursday had barely started and he was fucking up again.

  Chapter Eight

  Gerry: And we’re back. If you’re just joining us, we’re discussing the fallout from the mistrial of the Skylark Three. Will there be another trial? Do you think it is worth the effort? We’ve got Mick from Clonee, Mick – you’re on the air.

  Mick: Yeah, Gerry, d’ye know what? I don’t see the point myself. I mean, people like that shower, they never face justice. We never lock up the people really responsible for stuff like this.

  Gerry: You say that Mick, but Ireland did imprison a couple of bankers and a former government minister on corruption charges. That’s more than Britain or America have managed to do.

  Mick: Well, doesn’t that just sum this country up? Even our crooks are rubbish!

  Brigit rang the doorbell again. Nothing happened, just like the last five times. She tried to peer in through the tiny gaps in the closed Venetian blinds on the front window, but she couldn't see anything. At the sound of a squeaky wheel, she turned to see a large man on a mobility scooter cruising slowly by on the pavement, eyeing her suspiciously. Brigit gave him what she hoped was her most winning of smiles. His eyes remained fixed on her as he moved on down the pavement before eventually accelerating around the corner.

  Brigit put her hand to her pounding head and sighed. In truth, the hangover was not as bad as it really should be. After Paul had left last night, try as she might, she couldn't get herself back into pity party mode. Instead, she'd gone to bed in that unhelpful stage of drunkenness where tho
ught wasn't just possible, but inevitable. She'd spent hours tossing and turning, and running it all through again and again in her mind, before finally finding sleep, only to spend it in a fitful dream that re-ran it all yet again.

  That morning she'd woken up and, to avoid thinking about the night before, she'd thrown herself into ‘the Bunny problem’. Unfortunately, that had meant texting Paul, once she had unblocked his number. His note had said that he'd not heard from Bunny since Tuesday, that his car had been found apparently abandoned in Howth on Saturday, and he'd no idea what Bunny had been working on. She'd requested he text through Bunny's address from the documents they'd filled out for their private investigator's licence, and Paul duly had. She had to start somewhere, and here was the only place she could think of.

  She also felt slightly guilty. Bunny had tried to ring her on Friday night, and she'd ignored it. He'd left a drunken voicemail where he'd sounded pissed as a fart, but happy. Of course, that was the thing with Bunny, his moods were a little like Russian roulette. ‘Howeryanow, the Leitrim lovely. ‘Tis Bunny. All your troubles are over. He's a good lad. Give me a ring and your Uncle Bernard will explain all. You'll be happier than a horny hound at a one-legged leper convention.'

  She'd dismissed it as the ramblings of a drunk. It wouldn't have been the first time. He'd called a few weeks before and drunkenly given what she imagined his version of a pep talk must be. It'd been cringe-inducingly awkward, being heavily based on the concept of 'sure, have a chat and it'll be grand'. The last thing she had wanted was more romantic advice from Bunny McGarry. And now he'd disappeared, and she was standing outside his house pretending that she had the first idea how to find a missing person.

  The house Brigit was currently standing in front of was a two-up, two-down mid-terrace residence in Cabra. There appeared to be nobody at home. To be honest, if there had been, that would have been a spectacularly disappointing – if successful – investigation. It occurred to her that she knew precious little about Bunny McGarry. He wasn't married and never had been as far as she knew, but she couldn't even be certain of that. He'd come into her life like a drunken whirlwind of violence and near-incomprehensible swearing, and she'd never really questioned what lay behind the bluster.

  She fished her phone out of her pocket and rang Phil Nellis. Although she'd met him on the same day as she’d met Bunny, Phil she knew quite a lot about. He was a master of the overshare. For example, she knew that he was the nephew of a man called Paddy Nellis, who had apparently been Dublin's premier burglar back in the day. While she didn't approve, she was hoping to take advantage of any skills Phil may have picked up.

  "Hello?"

  "Hi Phil, it's Brigit. I was wondering if you wouldn't mind helping me with something?"

  "Yeah sure. What is it?"

  Now that it came to it, actually saying the next bit seemed a bit rude. Ah well, in for a penny…

  "I need you to break into a house for me."

  "What?" The outrage was coming through crystal clear.

  "Only it's not really doing that. I'm just checking somebody is OK. It's like… a humanitarian mission."

  "Like Mother Theresa and that?"

  "Yeah, kind of. It's not even really illegal." That was a shaky guess at best, outright lie at worst.

  "Have you tried the doorbell?"

  "Yes."

  "Right. And whose house is it?"

  "Ehm… Bunny's."

  Brigit heard a yelp, followed by a thud of the phone dropping.

  "Are you bleedin’ mental?" The question sounded like it was being shouted at the phone from a long distance away.

  "Phil. Listen to me, Phil. It's OK. I work with Bunny, it's not a crime."

  "Breaking into Bunny McGarry's house? You're right, it's a suicide bid."

  "Phil, please pick up the phone. Phil?"

  She could hear it being picked up, then dropped, then picked up again.

  "What did you say?"

  "I said, pick up the phone."

  "Oh, right."

  "He might be in trouble, Phil."

  "If Bunny is in trouble, then I feel sorry for trouble."

  "Please, Phil?"

  "Stall the ball," he said, a tone of exasperation in his voice. "I'll bell you back in a second."

  Then the phone went dead. As she looked at it, a video call came through from Phil. What the hell was the point of this?

  "Hello?"

  "It's Phil." He was holding a phone at such an angle that she had an exciting view up his long nostrils.

  "Yes, Phil, I can actually see that."

  "Show me the house."

  "What?"

  "Do you want my help or not?"

  Brigit glanced around and then stepped back, wafting the phone about.

  "Right, yeah, yeah, yeah," said Phil. "I can spot four possible points of vulnerability there."

  Brigit turned the phone back around and whispered into it. "Wow, really?"

  "Yeah. The front door, the two upstairs windows and the downstairs window."

  "Oh." He had correctly identified everything that wasn't brick. Brigit was beginning to think that this phone call was not her best idea ever.

  "See that plant pot?"

  There was a large white plastic planter, dirty and dented, sitting beside the front door, its contents long since dead.

  "Yeah."

  "Look under it."

  Surely not? Brigit held the phone to her ear with her shoulder and moved the plant pot.

  "Ah for… " A set of keys were sitting on the ground. She felt suitably embarrassed. "Who leaves keys under a plant pot in this day and age?"

  "Bunny, because nobody would be insane enough to try and rob him."

  "Thanks for your help, Phil."

  "I was never here."

  "Ehm… you actually were never here."

  "Exactly. Nellis out." Then the picture disappeared.

  Brigit looked at the keys in her hand. It was a less than auspicious start to her investigating career.

  Only as she entered did the thought occur to her that there might be an alarm. From the lack of insistent beeping noises, she guessed there wasn't. She supposed if you were blasé enough about home security to put keys under a plant pot, you were unlikely to have a highly sophisticated alarm system installed. She picked up the four pieces of post on the floor and put them on the side table, where two more already sat. As she stood uninvited in the hall of someone else's home, several sensations ran through Brigit. She felt uneasy, nervous and undeniably excited. There was a guilty thrill in being inside someone else's private space. It was why certain magazines sold so well.

  She moved through the downstairs. Surprisingly for a man who, in person, gave the impression that he might have slept in a skip, the whole place was very neat and tidy, if a tad stuffy. The front room had been knocked into the kitchen. A large wide-screen TV dominated the area; in front of it sat a well-worn armchair and a near-untouched sofa in matching green upholstery. The wallpaper looked older than she was. A shelf full of videocassettes took up an entire wall. Brigit hadn't even seen one of those for years. Bunny appeared to have a fairly comprehensive collection of hurling matches, including every All Ireland final since the eighties, judging by the years scrawled on the sides. There were no photos, no overtly personal mementos. The fridge contained nothing but two bottles of tomato sauce and another of brown sauce. No cooking utensils were out, and three Tupperware containers were piled neatly beside the microwave. The place had a barely-lived-in feel.

  She moved upstairs. To the right was a bathroom, again surprisingly neat. She wondered if he had a cleaner? A glance through the cabinet produced nothing unusual. Some of the medication she recognised as being for high blood pressure. That wasn't a great surprise. Bunny's face was an alarming shade of red at the best of times. A single toothbrush sat in the holder on the sink, dry to the touch. Some basic shampoo and shower gel. It looked like one person lived there and they hadn't moved out, or if they had, they'd d
one it in enough of a hurry to not bother grabbing the basics.

  She moved into the next room. It was clearly a spare; a single bed sat beside one wall, piled high with various pieces of hurling kit. Maybe that should be her next stop? One of the few things she knew about Bunny was his absolute dedication to the youth hurling club he'd set up. The opposite wall emphasised this, dominated as it was by team photographs. Every St Jude's under-12s team stretching back for what looked like twenty years. The one common factor was Bunny, standing to the left in each photo looking imposing and in charge, as generation upon generation of bright-eyed young fellas beamed cheeky grins at the camera. Despite herself, Brigit honed in on the one she knew – the 2000 team. In the back row, Phil Nellis towering above all, looking slightly to the left of the camera. And in the front, wincing slightly at heaven knows what, a pre-teen Paul. Loss, pain and anger tugged at Brigit's heartstrings, and she turned away.

  In the front bedroom sat an old wooden wardrobe, reasonably full of men's clothes, confirming the impression that it was just Bunny who lived here. One neatly-pressed suit alongside a series of more work-a-day ones, in various stages of wear and tear. There were also two overcoats, meaning he did actually have options outside of the damp-smelling sheepskin coat he seemed to perpetually exist in.

  On the cabinet beside the bed was a framed picture, in pride of place and yet facing away towards the wall; like it was both important and painful. In it, a much younger-looking Bunny had his arm around a stunning black lady. He looked so different. Brigit realised it was the first time she'd properly seen him smile. Again, she'd never even thought of it but, in the right light, he wasn't an unattractive man, once you got past the wonky eye and the air of demented glee.

  On the dressing table sat another picture; this one she recognised. It was of her, Bunny and Paul at a tapas restaurant up off the Quays, the night they'd agreed to start their own private investigation firm. MCM Investigations. Her big idea and her dream come true. It had all been sorted out before the food had even arrived. The look of joy in her own eyes burned into Brigit as it beamed out at her from the photograph. She'd had three copies of it printed out, one for each of them. It had been one of the happiest moments of her life. Paul on one side of her, Bunny on the other. It was lucky she'd got the waiter to take it when she had. Bunny being Bunny, had loudly proclaimed that tapas wasn't a meal, it was like a bunch of trailers for a meal. Then he'd drunkenly flamenco danced, briefly joined a child's birthday party and disappeared before the dessert had shown up. Brigit had burned her copy of it weeks ago, along with everything else that showed Paul's cheating face. She dropped it back on the table, turned to leave and then stopped. Bunny was a missing person. She'd need a current picture of him. Without looking at it again, she slipped the picture into her coat pocket.