"Yes," said Veronica, " I mean I was about to—"
"I called you," interrupted the older woman.
"You did?" said Niall.
"Yes. I wanted to complain about this criminal waste of wide-open green space. Shocking, so it is."
Veronica marched over to the man who had identified himself as Detective McGarry. "This is ludicrous! This woman and these children," she said it in such a way that it implied she'd just found them on the bottom of her shoe, "are trespassing on my private property, and I want them removed immediately."
The Guard looked down at the trespasser.
"Is this true, love?"
"Yes Bunny," she responded.
"Will you come peacefully?"
"I will not."
"I am then forced to arrest you."
"Ye can try."
"I'll have to use handcuffs on you."
She grinned up at him. "I'm not into the kinky stuff, officer. At least, not in front of the kids."
The woman took Detective McGarry’s proffered hand and pulled herself up out of the deckchair.
"What the hell is going on here?" interjected Veronica. Detective McGarry ignored her as he pulled out a pair of handcuffs and, with practised efficiency, put them on the woman's meekly extended wrists.
"Are you the sole adult responsible for these children, madam?"
"I am," replied the woman.
"Right," said the Guard, only now returning his attention to Veronica. "I'm going to have to call Child Services. It's a Saturday, and they'll need one carer for every two children so it could take a while. Then we'll need to get separate cars to bring all the nippers home. There's very strict regulations on—"
He was interrupted by a camera flash going off. Veronica looked up to see a man in his twenties leaning over her fence. "Councillor Smyth, would you like to give a comment on the situation with the St Jude's club being re-developed out of existence?"
"Now look here," said Niall, "this guy is trespassing too."
"I'm afraid he's not, sir," responded the policeman. "He's on public land there. He'll have a good view of this pensioner and all these children being hauled out into police cars, I shouldn't wonder."
"Oh dear," said the woman, "I'm not an expert on these things but, would that be the kind of thing that'd look bad in the papers?"
Veronica and the woman locked eyes for the first time. Under the casual tone, she recognised in her the kind of resolve that she too prided herself on.
"We're only five minutes from RTÉ here too," said Detective McGarry, "I wouldn't be surprised if they send the van."
"Christ," said Niall, "he's right, Veronica. This won't—"
"Shut up, Niall," interrupted Veronica. She took a deep breath and slowly let it out. Rage was coursing through every fibre of her body but deep down, she was a deal-maker. Politics was all about only fighting the battles you could win. What was it that whiny country singer had said; you didn't need to be a weatherman to see which way the wind was blowing?
"What we have here," said the woman, "is one of them photo opportunities. How does the headline ‘'Councillor throws her support behind inner city kids ' sound to you?"
The women locked eyes again, and exchanged smiles that had about as much warmth as a witch's tit.
"C'mon, children. Come and meet the nice lady who is gonna help save our field."
Chapter Fourteen
"The Minister for Justice, Padraig O'Donohue, gave a statement in the Dáil this evening saying that – regardless of the circumstances – vigilantism was never the answer. He added that he would ensure the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation had all the resources it required to get to the bottom of what he called ‘a heinous crime’. Detective Superintendent Susan Burns of the NBCI said that initial investigations placed Mr Blake's time of death as late Tuesday evening, and she is appealing for any members of the public with information to ring the confidential tip line at 1800 666…"
Paul leaned forward and turned off the radio. While the media had spoken about nothing else since the shocking discovery of Craig Blake's body earlier that morning, they'd actually had very little information to impart. The man was dead, someone had killed him, and they'd apparently not been too genteel about it. There was a tone of ill-suppressed giddy excitement in the reports, like a child with a secret that it really wanted to tell; desperate to share the gory details. Paul had no doubt that at least one of the tabloids would spill the beans in the morning and then take the fine on the chin, knowing it would be paid for twice over in increased circulation.
So, in the big picture, Blake's murder made for a media feeding-frenzy, but it was the little picture that most concerned Paul. It was now Thursday evening; he had until Monday to find evidence of Hartigan having an affair – or indeed a happy marriage – or else four grand was going up in smoke. Paul had spent his day forlornly checking his phone for updates from Brigit or any word from Bunny, but neither had happened. In the meantime, he had to hope that the traumatic news about his best bud turning up dead might push Hartigan towards the comforting arms of a woman. Any woman.
Earlier, Paul had got back to the restaurant just in time to see his quarry making a hasty exit. His mobile held to his ear, Hartigan power-walked up Dawson Street where he was soon picked up by the green Roller. They had then followed him home. Actually, they hadn't; by the time Phil had negotiated Stephen’s Green's traffic system, Hartigan had been long gone. What they'd done is drive back to Hartigan's house, and been relieved when they'd seen the green Roller pulling out of his cul-de-sac, having just dropped him off. After a quick drive-by to confirm it looked like Hartigan was indeed at home, Paul and Phil regrouped in the car park of Casey's pub. This had consisted of Paul speed-reading from a book, while Phil took Maggie for an overdue walk.
How to be a Private Investigator was written by James T Blando, who wore an honest-to-God fedora hat on the inside cover. Paul had found the picture really off-putting, but the potted CV said Blando had been a PI in Los Angeles for over thirty years. Paul had a sneaking suspicion he'd originally rocked up there hoping to break into movies. Certainly the dust jacket picture made it look like he was auditioning to be a detective in a Broadway musical. Even for a Yank he had too many teeth and too much enthusiasm for life. Still, Paul had bought his book. It was a choice of that, a tie-in to a TV show that only got one series, or a children's book entitled The Complete Guide For The Junior Detective. Paul had seriously considered the latter, but he couldn't bring himself to buy it under the withering gaze of Lianne, the shop assistant from hell. The Blando bible it was. He had got about fifty pages in by the time Phil had returned with Maggie.
"It says here that we should have surveillance kit for watching Hartigan," said Paul, "like cameras and binoculars and all that."
"I could get Uncle Paddy's bird-watching kit if you like?" Paddy Nellis hadn't watched a bird in his entire life, but Paul wasn't about to point that out. Phil could get a little funny about his dear departed uncle. Still, it stood to reason that if you wanted to pull the kind of high-end jobs that Paddy Nellis had, you needed the gear to scope the place first. Phil had duly been dispatched home, Paul's desperation forcing him to take another chunk out of his budget to splurge on a taxi for him.
He'd returned two hours later in another taxi, only he was driving this one.
"Oh God," said Paul, "please tell me you've not become a hijacker now?"
"No, smartarse. Uncle Abdul was over at our place again, helping Auntie Lynn move a wardrobe."
Paul made every effort to maintain a blank expression as he nodded. Abdul wasn't really Phil's uncle, or indeed related to him in any way. He was, however, quite clearly engaged in relations with his Auntie Lynn. She was still a woman in her prime, and he guessed she was done with the mourning. Paul had picked up that Abdul had previously ‘stayed over’ a couple of times as their house was nearer some unspecified location he had to be at early the next morning. He'd also dropped over to use their i
ron, take a look at their boiler and clean their chimney. You name it, he hadn't really done it. If Lynn didn't want to explain their relationship to Phil, Paul would be damned if he was going to. Still, with the merry widow's nephew coming back in the middle of the day unannounced, Paul was pretty sure Phil may have interrupted the wardrobe-moving process at a very key juncture. He tried not to think about the fact that he'd hired the most obtuse man in Dublin as his assistant detective.
"Yeah," said Phil, "Abdul said I could have a lend of his taxi for as long as I liked." Definitely a key juncture. "I reckoned it'd be good for the following stuff you were talking about. I mean, who pays attention to taxis? Be like hiding in plain sight."
That was the unnerving thing about Phil; he could go from incomprehensible stupidity to moments of sheer genius, often in the same breath. He was right, of course. Taxis drove like they owned the road and parked like nobody else existed. It was absolutely perfect. In stark contrast to Bunny's Porsche, which stood out like a sore thumb, nobody would pay a blind bit of notice to yet another taxi. That had been the first thing in the vehicular surveillance chapter of the Blando bible; drive something inconspicuous. In other words, everything Bunny's Porsche wasn't.
"So what've I missed?" said Phil.
"Not that much," said Paul. "That lawyer bloke we saw Hartigan play golf with yesterday went in just after you left, then two Laurel and Hardy-looking characters turned up about an hour ago. I'd bet my life on them being Garda detectives. They've all been in there since."
"There's not much chance of him knobbing any of them."
"Jaysus, Phil, you're a shocking loss to the greeting card business. Did you get your uncle's bird-watching gear?"
Phil went around to the boot of the taxi and came back with a large silver case. It turned out that Paddy Nellis, God rest his soul, must have been one of the most thorough birdwatchers in history.
The case contained a couple of cameras. One of them was one of those big, impressive-looking things with the massive lenses like those paparazzi types use. There were three additional lenses, but they didn't know how to change them and were too scared of breaking it to try. Besides, the one already attached had allowed them to zoom in close enough to see that somebody in a house way down the street was watching Coronation Street. That'd do the job nicely. The other camera had been a smaller, more discreet, digital one that seemed pretty good, and certainly a lot more inconspicuous. In addition to the cameras, the case contained a powerful pair of binoculars. Paul raised a prayer of thanks to the heavens, although it would be open to serious debate whether a career criminal like Paddy Nellis would be there to receive the message.
"And Lynn said we could use all of this?"
"Yeah. She said I could take whatever I want."
She must have been positively gagging to get that wardrobe shifted.
While Phil watched the top of the cul-de-sac to see if any of Hartigan's guests had made a move, Paul nipped into the pub for a quick field bath. Sitting alone in Bunny's car, he had begun to smell himself. For the last few weeks that he'd been sleeping in the office, he'd nipped into Digger Doyle's boxing gym down the road every couple of days for a shower. He was smelling well past due. On his way out, he'd bought four packets of cheese and onion to show willing. He was worried that the bar staff may have started to notice how he seemed to spend a lot of time in their car park and not much time in their pub.
Nearly two hours after they'd arrived, Paul saw the two Garda detectives pull out of the cul-de-sac in their nondescript blue Vauxhall Astra. Paul wondered how that interview had gone. ‘To your knowledge, did the deceased have any enemies?’ ‘Yes, everyone.’
About half an hour later, the lanky lawyer fella finally left too.
"Right," said Paul, "look alive. Hartigan is alone and – please God – hungry for love."
"I dunno," said Phil. "Is he really going to be trying to get his hole? I mean, his friend has just died and that. Seems a bit disrespectful."
"True. On the other hand, he is a narcissistic monster who destroyed countless people for personal gain so, y'know…"
"He might be horny?"
"Precisely."
Paul pocketed the small camera and slipped the lead back on Maggie. Luckily, she seemed to have an infinite capacity for walkies.
He took her down to the cul-de-sac. Maggie inspected the same tree she always did, which granted Paul plenty of time to casually look in the general direction of the Hartigan residence. Lights were on in several windows and the silver Merc was in the drive, so he was definitely still at home. The green Roller was nowhere to be seen, so if he was going anywhere tonight, odds on he'd be driving himself.
Maggie finished her sniffing about and declined to pee on anything. Paul was about to turn and head back when a blue BMW with tinted windows turned the corner and pulled up in front of Hartigan's house. Paul looked down at Maggie and whispered, "keep going, don't stop the music." Unnervingly, she then went back to sniffing enthusiastically around the base of the tree. Paul put his hand into his pocket and excitedly fingered the small camera. This could be it, finally. Please let this be a car full of hookers.
The driver's door opened, and a man of about forty with short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair and a boxer's physique stepped out. Paul vaguely recognised him as one of the security guys from the court. The man stopped and looked directly at Paul, giving him a peculiar smile. Paul felt himself redden under the man's gaze and covered by looking down at Maggie. "Come on, Chardonnay, hurry up." He had no idea why he'd decided to give Maggie a false name, and why he'd chosen the seventh most popular one for strippers. Paul was painfully aware that the man was still staring at them, and that Maggie had now started staring back. She emitted a low growl.
Luckily, the tension was broken as the far passenger door of the BMW flew open, and an ill-tempered whine emitted from it.
"Oh don't worry about me, I'll open my own fucking door then shall I?"
The driver rolled his eyes as the bald head of Paschal Maloney emerged from the back of the car, followed by his petulantly scowling face.
"What the fuck do I pay you for?"
Even in his peripheral vision, Paul couldn't help but notice the driver's wince of irritation. Maloney did a double-take when he noticed Paul and Maggie, as if a man walking a dog was an unprecedented occurrence. "Oh, hello." He recomposed his face and beamed a false smile across the car roof at Paul. "What a lovely dog."
Paul mumbled his thanks and started moving away down towards the bottom of the cul-de-sac. Maggie was resistant, and Paul had to tug on the lead to get her moving at all.
The driver moved around to the boot and opened it.
"Well come on then," said Maloney, as he started to walk down Hartigan's drive.
Luckily, Paul had been already pulling on the lead as otherwise Maggie's sudden snarling surge forward would have sent him flying. As it was, she nearly ripped his arm clean out of the socket as she hurled herself towards the car, barking furiously. Maloney let out a girlish scream and then scurried up the drive. In contrast, the driver stood calmly where he was, giving them a look of quizzical amusement. Paul stumbled forward, losing the tug of war. "Chardonnay! Sorry, she's… normally very friendly."
Thankfully, the tree Maggie had been inspecting moments before lay between them and Maloney. Paul was able to halt her progress by going to the other side of it and wrapping the lead around the trunk. It still took all of his strength to hold her in check. A car alarm beeped once and then Paul turned to see Maloney's driver walking up the drive, a black briefcase in his hand. His boss was now standing on the porch, joined by Hartigan; they were both looking back down the drive at the man with the insane dog. Paul quickly turned away and concentrated on trying to shove his body in front of Maggie to obstruct her view. "Will you stop, ye mad bitch!"
Eventually, Maggie's barking turned into a frustrated whine. Paul looked behind him, to see a now empty porch. He quickly unwrapped them from around the tree and
dragged her down towards the bottom of the road.
"You stupid… I can not believe you! That is it. I know I said you taking a shit on my desk was it, but this – this – is really it! You've completely compromised the case. Hartigan has seen us now. I mean, what the hell is your problem?"
Maggie unsurprisingly didn't answer. Instead she just kept growling as she paced back and forth, like a boxer waiting to make their way to the ring.
"I've had enough of this. You're going to the dogs home tomorrow. Bunny has disappeared, Brigit won't speak to me and you have to go and balls up the one chance I have to try and make things right."
Maggie made defiant eye contact with Paul, raised her leg and peed against someone's garden wall.
"Unbelievable!"
Paul realised he wasn't just vibrating with rage, his coat pocket was also vibrating. He took his phone out and answered.
"A car went down, did you see?"
"Yes, Phil. It was what's his name – Maloney – the other member of the Skylark Three. Maggie," said Paul pointlessly pointing in her direction, "decided to try and attack the little fucker and blew our cover in the process."
Maggie sat down and looked haughtily off into the distance, as if unwilling to dignify that with a response.
"Jesus, what brought that on?"
"Hell if I know, but it's going to make following Hartigan a right ball ache now. He's seen me and her, and we were incredibly memorable!"
"Shit. What are they up to now?"
"I dunno. I'll have a quick squiz on my way past, assuming madam here doesn't go all Godzilla on me again. I'll be back at the car in five. We'd better stay sharp. Who knows, Maloney and Hartigan might head out on the town to commemorate their fallen brother-in-arms."
Paul hung up the phone and then bent down to Maggie. "Right, we're going back to the car. Can I trust you to keep the head as we go past you-know-where?"
Paul looked up and noticed an old lady standing in her front porch, regarding him with undisguised dismay. He gave an embarrassed wave and started walking quickly away.
The Day That Never comes (The Dublin Trilogy Book 2) Page 11