"Oh," she said, "it’s a him. That's fine then."
Paul was tempted to point out how Jeffrey Dahmer had exclusively targeted male victims, but he couldn't see how that would be helpful. She took him over to military history and pointed at the shelf.
"There's some stuff there on general spying, lots of stuff about the NSA, Big Data, that kind of thing. There's a few more 'how to' type books there, they might be useful. Little tip though… if you are already somewhere when the person arrives, then it's not legally stalking."
She tapped her nose after she said it. Paul reckoned that if you wanted a clear indicator of whether your life had gone to shit or not, ask yourself if you've felt the need to check the legal definition of stalking lately.
"Unfortunately, I'm following the guy. I've no idea where he's going or who he is going to see. That's kind of the point."
Lianne pulled an unhappy face. Perhaps he should've just taken her advice and moved on. He was on a schedule.
"Are you following this poor bloke about with one of those long-lens cameras? Invading his privacy?"
"Oh," said Paul, he'd not thought of that. "Is there anywhere around here that sells cameras?" He could use his phone but that'd be limited. Plus he could never figure out how to zoom in with the bloody thing.
"You make me sick," said Lianne.
"I get that a lot."
Just then his phone vibrated in his pocket. He was not in the least surprised to discover it was Phil. As he answered it, Lianne pulled a face that implied she didn't know the crucial difference between working in a bookshop and a library.
"Hey, Phil."
"You'd better get back here."
"But he's still having lunch," said Paul. "Look, just keep moving the car and— "
"No, no," interrupted Phil, "You don't understand. There's been a murder."
Chapter Eleven
Brigit looked up from the pint of Diet Coke she was nursing, wrenched from her thoughts by the sound of plastic hitting linoleum, followed by a muttered expletive. The barman of the Last Drop bent over to retrieve whatever he'd dropped. Brigit's seat gave her an unfettered view of his arsecrack, whether she wanted it or not, and nobody did. The man was carrying about 200 pounds of excess weight, at least when he wasn't leaning it against the bar. He'd also taken the unconventional approach of advertising the pub's food menu by wearing samples of it on his originally white shirt. When she'd entered the pub twenty minutes ago, he'd curtly informed her that lunch was no longer being served. From what she could see, it no longer being available was only one of the very many reasons you wouldn't want it. The carpet felt like flypaper, which was ironic given the number of flies in attendance. The lounge bar's only other occupants were two old dears playing Scrabble. One wore a big hat and a smile and the other wore thick-rimmed glasses and a grimace of concentration.
As the barman stood up, Brigit saw the TV remote he'd been pursuing. He pointed it at the TV on the far wall. The old dear with the hat glowered at him. He nodded his head towards the screen, "Newsflash."
Unmuted, the TV blared into life in time to give voice to Siobhan O'Sinard, or as she was more commonly known, the sexy, ginger one who used do the news in Irish.
"… survived by his two daughters and ex-wife. We can now go live to our reporter James Marshall who is at the scene."
The picture changed to a reporter standing on a leafy street of aged oaks and perfectly maintained hedgerows. The kind of greenery that screamed money. Two Gardaí in the background guarded an imposing front gate, while trying hard not to notice that they were live on national television. The reporter in the foreground wore his best solemn news-giving face, undermined by the dancing excitement in his eyes.
"Thank you, Siobhan. Exact details are sketchy at the moment, but here is what we do know. Prominent property developer Craig Blake, a member of the so-called 'Skylark Three' – whose prosecution for fraud controversially collapsed just two days ago in the Central Criminal Court – has been found dead at his home here in Blackrock. Unnamed senior Gardaí sources have confirmed that a murder investigation is underway and, given the exceptional circumstances, it has been put under the control of the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation."
Split-screen. Siobhan giving it her best steely-eyed serious news look.
"And do we know any more about those circumstances?"
"Well," said James, "we have heard that the scene has been described as ‘horrific’, and it is believed that an element of torture may have been involved. We expect the investigation team to hold a news conference later this evening."
Back full-screen to Siobhan in the studio.
"And we will bring you any updates on this story when we have them. To recap—"
And the bartender muted Siobhan once more.
"Serves the cunt right."
The three other heads in the bar turned to the woman in the hat.
"Janine!" her friend exclaimed, taken aback.
"Ah come on, Carol, the misery those three bastards caused. Hanging is too good for 'em."
"But there's no need for that kind of language!"
She wagged an unrepentant finger at the picture of Blake that was now filling the silent screen. "Scumbags like him are exactly why that kind of language was invented."
The barman nodded his approval and then went back to rummaging about in his ear with a finger.
Brigit looked at her phone. It was 3:25 pm. She was still five minutes early. Her phone was also down to 7% of its battery. She'd need to head home after this, she was always forgetting to charge the damn thing.
She had spent the afternoon ringing people she didn't know. Once she'd eliminated her own and Paul's numbers, that had left twenty-four unrecognised numbers on Bunny's phone bill that he'd either called or texted. She had received a surprising array of responses. One of the mobile numbers appeared to be dead, which was odd in itself; Bunny had had a four minute, thirteen second conversation with it only eight days ago. There'd been a pizza place, a curry house and his electricity supplier, all of which she'd filed under ‘general admin’.
Nine of the calls to mobile numbers had gone to voicemail; five of them had just had the standard impersonal network message, which seemed odd. Who didn't even have their name on the message in this day and age?
Of the other four, one was to a lady called Sally Chambers, who sounded middle-aged and from central Dublin. The second was a woman who didn't give her name but did have a rather breathy sex-kitten message asking the caller to please leave a message. The third again had no name, but the oddly familiar voice of an older man from somewhere up north. He had formally asked the caller to leave their name, number and a brief message, and he would get back to them as soon as possible, God bless. As she'd listened to it, Brigit had made a mental note to ring her da.
The final voicemail had belonged to a guy called Johnny Canning, the man she was currently waiting for. He had sounded perhaps late-twenties on the phone. He'd been the only one to call her back so far. Their conversation had got off to a frosty start when she'd asked how he knew Bunny. This had struck Brigit as odd, seeing as he'd later revealed he assisted him with the coaching of St Jude's. Helping out a kids hurling team wasn't exactly controversial, even if they were considered the worst one in Dublin and quite probably beyond. Still, despite his initial wariness, he'd said he'd be more than happy to meet up and answer her questions. Of all the people she'd rung, he was also the one who seemed most concerned that Bunny had disappeared. He said he had a shift tonight, but he'd be able to squeeze her in this afternoon.
Of the others – as in those who had actually answered the phone – the response had been mixed, to say the least.
Six of the numbers were parents of kids who played for St Jude’s. All she got from those was that he'd not been at the game on Sunday and that yes, that was unusual. They'd last heard from him the week before, which tallied with the bill. He'd been trying to get people to fundraise for a new clubhouse. Clearly he
'd spent an evening doing a ring-round. This had made Brigit feel slightly guilty. She remembered the night the old clubhouse had been burnt down. She and Paul had found Bunny sitting in the ashes, drunk as a judge.
Another of the numbers was a bookies in Dalkey who said they'd no idea who he was, despite them appearing on the sheet five times over the month. When Brigit had pointed that out, they'd said that customer confidentiality was a core part of their business and hung up. Clearly drink wasn't Bunny's only vice.
Two of the other people who had answered had been women who'd both declined to give her a name, and said they didn't know any Bunny or Bernard McGarrys. They had been very keen to get off the phone too.
Another member of the uncooperative category had been the man with the strong Belfast accent and a stammer, who clearly did know Bunny; his profanity-filled explanation of how he wish he'd never met him had made that very clear. She'd tried to get a word in edgeways but he'd hung up on her too, when he'd finally run out of breath and vitriol.
Then there'd been the last one. Brigit blushed as she remembered it. That had been awkward, and it did make her suspicious about some of the other ones. Bunny McGarry, it appeared, didn't just limit his vices to drinking and gambling.
She looked up from her phone when a man entered the bar. He looked at her, and she shot him a nervous wave. This couldn't be Johnny Canning, could it? As he strode across the lounge towards her, Brigit was busy tearing down whatever mental image she had constructed for the man she was there to meet. To say the least, he was not what she had been expecting. In fact, allowing for the fact that they were both Caucasian Irish males above the age of consent and below the age of infirmity, he was pretty much the polar opposite of Bunny McGarry. A snatch of a half-remembered song referring to 'magazine-quality men' flittered through her mind. Johnny Canning was what it had meant. His smile, downright un-Irish in its dazzlingness, sat amongst perfect features and flawless skin, beneath a tightly-groomed coif of sandy brown hair.
A man like this shouldn't be walking into a dump like the Last Drop. A man like this shouldn't be walking around full stop. It was unfair to other men – and in a way, women. 'Here's what you could've won, ladies.' An immaculately tailored casual jacket hung over a well-toned physique, wrapped in a tasteful shirt-and-slacks combo. His shoes were shined so perfectly you could probably see your face in them, and if you had his face, it'd be worth the effort. He was probably a little older than she'd figured too, maybe mid-thirties, but ‘well-preserved’ didn't cover it. He was a walking, talking work of art.
Brigit touched her hair self-consciously and felt her cheeks redden. Suddenly she hated her hungover self from six hours ago, the one who had thought throwing on whatever clothes were handy had been an acceptable course of action. Pull it together, girl, this isn't a blind date – you're here on business.
"Brigit, I presume?"
"And you must be Johnny."
They shook hands and he sat down on the stool opposite her.
"I am indeed. Thanks for meeting me here. It's handy…"
"I knew it must have something going for it."
Johnny smiled to acknowledge her joke. "It's so nice to finally meet you. I've heard a lot about you."
Brigit eyed him suspiciously. "Really?"
"Oh yes, Bunny talks about you all the time. Apologies, I didn't put two and two together until halfway through our chat earlier. When you said you worked with him, in my head I stupidly thought you were a cop."
"Ah, right."
"Not that I've any problem with the Gardaí, you understand. I run a nightclub and I'm the law-abiding proprietor of a clean-as-a-whistle establishment. Big friend to the Gardaí. No trouble here, Your Honour." He held his hands up in mock surrender.
"Ah," said Brigit. "That's where you're working later on?"
"Ehm, no," said Johnny, looking slightly bashful. "I volunteer one evening a week on a helpline. No big deal."
Oh fuck off! Outwardly Brigit smiled and nodded. He was getting annoying now. Nobody was this perfect.
"Which nightclub is it?" asked Brigit.
"The Fin, up off Leeson Street. Do you know it?"
"Only by reputation." Brigit wasn't a big fan of clubbing, but she knew the name. It was where the rich and famous went to party. The drinks cost more than her car was worth.
"Ignore what you've heard, we're honestly not that awful." He gave her a charming smile. "Rich idiots need to unwind too."
She was finding him difficult to dislike. He could have come across as arrogant, but somehow didn't. Just then the barman appeared beside him and carefully laid down a sparkling water Johnny hadn't ordered. The glass it came in was the cleanest thing in the whole place. There was even a slice of lime in it.
"Cheers, Rory," said Johnny, before pointing at Brigit, "Do you want another?"
"Nope. I'm good thanks."
The barman scratched his belly and then departed silently.
Brigit was tempted to ask what on earth had just happened, but didn't get the chance. Johnny took a sip and then his face became a picture of concern. "So, what's the deal with Bunny?"
"Well," said Brigit, "that's what I'm trying to find out. The last time anyone heard from him was late Friday night." The memory of Bunny's number flashing unanswered on her phone popped unbidden into Brigit's mind again.
"Right," said Johnny. "The last time I heard from him was the previous Wednesday. I tried him a few times Saturday, and pretty much every couple of hours since he didn't show on Sunday. I even sent people over a couple of times to knock on his door."
"Is he always at the matches?" asked Brigit.
"Pretty much. That team means the world to him, as you know."
"Did you play for it growing up?"
Johnny pulled a face. "Christ, no. I'm not a fan of team sports and besides, I'm from Navan." He layered on the Meath accent for the last word. Brigit was taken aback.
"Wow, you keep that well hidden."
"Well, I don't go back much. At all. Ever. Anyway."
"Hang on," said Brigit. "How'd a Navan boy who hates sports become an assistant coach at St Jude's?"
Now it was Johnny's turn to look embarrassed. "Very grand title. I drive the bus, wash the kit, stop him over-terrifying the kids, that kind of thing. General dogsbody. Bunny asks, I do."
"Has he got compromising pictures of you or something?" Brigit's smile died on her face when she noticed it not being returned.
"No, it's just…" Johnny shifted uncomfortably. Brigit was about to attempt a hurried segue off the topic but he waved her concerned expression away. "I met Bunny at the lowest point of my life. He helped me when nobody else would. The least I can do is drag my sorry arse out of bed on a Sunday morning, even on four hours kip, and help him where I can. Let’s be honest; he's not overly burdened with friends, is he?"
Brigit nodded. "Tell me about it. I tried to make a list of his enemies earlier."
Johnny gave a small laugh. "Christ, good luck with that."
"Did you and he talk much?"
"I guess. I mean, yes, we did. There was a lot of driving to and from matches and all that, and Lord knows we could never have agreed on a radio station." Johnny smiled sadly.
"How was he recently?"
Johnny took another sip of water and considered this. "Alright, I guess. I mean, he was mightily pissed off about getting pushed out of the Gardaí, no mistake about that. But he was looking forward to working with you."
"Really?" Brigit was genuinely surprised. She'd always thought even getting Bunny to agree to the idea had been a stretch.
"Oh yeah," said Johnny, lapsing into an alarmingly faultless impersonation of Bunny's Cork accent. "Oh, she's a cute whore that Leitrim lovely, and no mistake. Smart as a butcher's dog."
"Oh God."
"He meant ‘whore’ there in the positive sense."
Brigit gave an embarrassed smile. "Glad to hear it."
"He rates you though. I mean, you'd have to speak fluent Bunn
yese to know it, but I am a world-renowned expert in the art." Johnny fished the slice of lime out of his drink and pushed it onto the rim of his glass. "He was very disappointed with how your little team broke up before it got a chance to get going."
Brigit coughed and then fidgeted nervously. "Well, y'know. Some things go a bit beyond ‘forgive and forget’."
"I'm afraid you're telling the wrong guy." Johnny extended his hands. "You're having a drink with the poster boy for second chances."
Brigit doubted anyone was kicking Johnny out of bed for eating crisps. Or burning down an orphanage for that matter.
"I'm sure you didn't do anything as bad as—"
"No," interrupted Johnny, "I did a hell of a lot worse."
Brigit looked into his eyes to see sincerity staring back at her. "Ask yourself, how much does a man have to mess up in his life to be lucky to have Bunny McGarry for a friend? I may know nothing about hurling, but St Jude, patron saint of lost causes?" Johnny fished a medal of St Jude from under his shirt. "Three meetings a week, the helpline, spending my Monday nights washing kit. I've got all kinds of penance to serve." Johnny slipped the medal back under his shirt. "Anyway, sorry… you didn't ask me here to sermonise or pry. What are we going to do about Bunny?"
"Do you know if he was… I don't know, working on something recently?"
"Well," said Johnny, "as you know, he was off in France a few weeks ago."
"Was he?"
"Oh, ehm, yeah. Sorry. I'd thought he'd have said. All I know was he was over there for a few days. No idea what it was about."
"Right."
Brigit unlocked her phone and took that down in notes. It belatedly dawned on her that she should take notes; it was the kind of thing detectives were supposed to do.
"When I asked," said Johnny, "he did say the trip went fine, all sorted – whatever that means."
"OK. Anything else?"
Johnny puffed his cheeks out. "Nothing immediately jumps out. I mean, he was always sorting something for someone, and people were always wanting a quiet word, but he never spoke much about it. There have been countless things over the years, but nothing particular that springs to mind. I assume you know that, well… let's just say, any man who lays his hands on a woman between Croke Park and the Aviva Stadium, Bunny sees it as his personal mission to deal with that situation with what I believe you'd call 'extreme prejudice'."
The Day That Never comes (The Dublin Trilogy Book 2) Page 9