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

by Caimh McDonnell

  "Sorry about that," said Sally in a soft voice. "She's… well, the boys are all angels as far as she is concerned. Her and Bunny used to be great pals, back in the day."

  Sally stood beside Brigit and pointed to the tallest of the boys in the picture. "That's Cormac, my eldest. He fell in with a bad crowd. You try your best and all but…" there was a crackle of emotion in her voice as she spoke. Brigit did her the courtesy of keeping her focus on the picture as Sally wiped a sleeve across her eyes. "Bunny did arrest him, but then he turned up at court and spoke on his behalf too. He's down in Mountjoy now. Bunny wrote him. Said when he gets out next June, he's got him an apprenticeship down with an electricians in Waterford if he wants it. Get him out of here for a few years. Stop him getting sucked back into…" Sally sniffled. "I'll miss him, but we can go down and visit. It's for the best."

  With a sudden urgency Sally had squeezed Brigit's arm and leaned in. "He's a good man. I hope you find him."

  Once she'd spoken to a couple of other parents, all polite and concerned dead ends, Brigit had gone onto O'Hagan's pub on Baggot Street. It was the place Johnny Canning had told her Bunny frequented. She'd been expecting an ‘old fellas’ pub, but O'Hagan's was all fresh paint and old-school charm, clearly aiming at the after-work crowd and the odd tourist. She'd met the owner, a nice lady called Tara, who'd been most helpful once Brigit had established her ‘friend of Bunny’ credentials.

  "Oh yeah, he came in late last Friday night all right. Last time he was in."

  "Is that unusual?" asked Brigit.

  "Well," said Tara, "He's a regular but not regular, if you know what I mean. He could pop in at any time of the day really. Could see him three times in a day and then nothing for a week. You know Bunny, he's always got something on the go. He'd a bloody dog with him a couple of weeks ago."

  "What was his mood like last Friday? Did he seem depressed?"

  "Depressed? Jaysus, no. He was celebrating!"

  This took Brigit aback.

  "Really?"

  "Oh yeah, he was on the good whiskey. He only has that on special occasions."

  "Did he say why he was celebrating?"

  "Not as such, no. He bought me one, not that I actually charged him for it, and we had a quick toast. I don't normally drink when I'm working but sure, you can't leave a man to celebrate alone. Wait… now that I think about it, I remember him saying 'I got the bastard,' because I said 'You always do.' Yeah, that's right."

  "Did he give any more details?"

  Tara stared at the bar in concentration for a few seconds. "No, sorry. It was a Friday evening so y'know, busy."

  "Is there anyone else he might have spoken to?"

  "Not really. He wasn't actually in here that long. I think he just wanted a quick one for whatever had him in such a good mood."

  "So did he leave here alone?"

  Tara laughed and then raised her hand in apology. "Sorry, but Bunny didn't come here to pick up chicks, God help us if he did. Yeah, he left around midnight maybe. Hard to be sure. I think he used to park the car up on Fitzwilliam Square and the last thing he said to me was not to worry, he was getting a taxi home. I'm always on at him about that."

  "He wasn't worried about leaving the car?"

  Tara pulled a face. "Nobody would be stupid enough to touch Bunny's car."

  "What would you say if I told you it was found out in Howth the next morning?"

  Tara hadn't said much in response, but for really the first time in their conversation, she looked concerned. That wasn't uncommon. Amongst all the people she'd spoken to that day, Brigit had noticed a recurring theme. Though they'd not directly expressed it, they all seemed to have the impression that Bunny McGarry was invulnerable.

  Brigit had thanked Tara for her help and left her number in case she thought of anything else.

  And now here Brigit was, sitting in her car having fought her way home through the chaos of Friday night rush-hour traffic. She'd found out plenty, but nothing that seemed to help. She was going to order a pizza, open a bottle of wine and take a fresh run at trying to figure out where to go next. She was painfully aware that a week ago tonight, Bunny had tried to ring her and that'd been the last time anyone had any confirmed contact with him.

  Brigit looked out the window at the rain that showed no sign of stopping. The door to her apartment building was only about fifty yards back across the street. On a normal night, this was a good parking spot. She often had to leave the car two streets over. In this kind of a downpour though, that was more than enough distance to ensure she'd be drenched to the bone by the time she got inside.

  She took her keys out of her bag in preparation, and grabbed her raincoat from the passenger seat. She made a hasty exit from the car, and holding the coat over her head she made a dash for dry land. Her left foot splashed into a deep pothole, nearly sending her flying and cursing the gods as she squelchingly limped towards the door of her building. Amidst the downpour, she saw a figure running in the opposite direction on the side of the street she'd just left.

  As Brigit fumbled with her keys a hand touched her upper arm and she screamed with shock.

  Put it down to stress, jumpiness or perhaps an overly keen survival instinct, but three years of self-defence classes instantly kicked in. She reeled around and rammed the heel of her hand straight into her assailant's face.

  He fell backwards, bounced off the car that always seemed to occupy the best parking space and then slumped to the pavement.

  Brigit looked down into a face of wounded indignation as the rain instantly diluted the trickle of blood from his nose.

  "Oh my God," said Brigit, "I'm so sorry."

  Dr Sinha looked up at her, his tone unjustifiably apologetic. "That's quite all right, Nurse Conroy, entirely my fault."

  Chapter Seventeen

  Sunday 6 February 2000 – Morning

  Paddy Nellis stretched his legs out, adjusted his sunglasses and breathed in deeply. It was in the nature of how he made a living that he preferred dark and enclosed spaces. He liked to see and not be seen. He was a thief and a damn good one; sitting in the middle of a park in broad daylight was about as unnatural an environment for him as it was possible to have. On the upside, Sunday morning seemed to be high time for ladies going for a jog. He was a very happily married man, but there was no harm in looking.

  It was because of his beloved wife Lynn that he was here in the first place. Mavis Chambers had been on to her, and then she in turn had badgered him. He'd hated the idea from the get-go, even if it was of benefit to their nephew Phil. The kid was a goofy string-of-piss and no mistake, but since they'd taken him in, Paddy had grown to love him. The kid lived for that hurling team, despite the fact he had no discernible athletic ability of any kind. Still, there are some things you don't do. Paddy had said no. He'd put his foot down. Then Lynn had pulled out the big guns. She'd brought up how she'd waited for him while he'd been inside. It was never spoken but they both knew that he was away for their prime years. She'd wanted a child of her own and his actions had maybe, just maybe, denied her that. She'd never used it before, she'd only even implied it this time, but it had been enough. And here he was. The “here” in question was Bushy Park, way out on the leafy high-living south side of Dublin. It'd been a ball ache to get to, but anonymity was priceless in the circumstances.

  "Paddy."

  He jumped and then blushed as Bunny McGarry sat down on the bench beside him, seemingly appearing out of nowhere.

  "Fuck’s sake, Bunny, for a big culchie beast you don't half move quietly."

  "Tis the ballet training, Patrick. I’m light on my feet. You should see my Swan Lake, it'd make you shit a brick. You've a God-awful sense of direction, by the way. This is the south side of the park, not the north. Bad enough you dragging me out all this way, I've not got the time to play hide 'n' feckin' seek with you."

  "My sense of direction is fine, and we're here because I don't want to be seen chatting with the Garda Síochána. That'd do
my reputation a power of good."

  "Well, I'm not mad keen on consorting with criminal scum, but sure, here we are."

  Paddy bristled. "Fuck you, Bunny. This wasn't my idea."

  "Wasn't mine either."

  "Ah, I can't be bothered with your bullshit, I'm out of here."

  Paddy stood up to leave.

  "Ara calm down Paddy, alright? Let’s just remember why we're doing this. Don’t pay any attention to me, I've sweaty bollocks from running around a park for an hour."

  Paddy looked down at Bunny, who was giving him what he probably thought was a smile. He imagined the look on the wonky-eyed muppet's face as he just walked off. Then he imagined the look on his wife's face when he told her what he'd done. He turned and sat back down again.

  “If you could keep your sweaty bollocks out of the remainder of the conversation I’d appreciate it.”

  “I’ll try to, but something might come up.”

  Paddy glanced sideways and noticed Bunny looking back at him. They both smirked and the tension eased.

  "So," said Paddy, "do I need to ask about a wire?"

  "Do I?"

  Another long silence stretched out.

  "Look," said Bunny, "I don't like this and I'm not supposed to, but needs must. These pricks have got us by the short and curlies. No wire, you can check me if you like."

  Bunny stood up in front of him and Paddy looked him up and down before waving him back to the bench. "Tempting as it is to cavity search a big sweaty Cork boy, I'll pass."

  Bunny sat back down.

  "So?"

  It hung there for a moment.

  "Aren't we going to talk about what I get?" said Paddy.

  "Course," said Bunny, "How does ‘fuck-all’ grab you?"

  "No get out of jail free card?"

  Bunny shifted uneasily. "That's not the deal."

  Paddy gave him a steely-eyed stare before cracking a smile. "Still hanging onto the moral high ground there, Detective, how's that working out for you?"

  Bunny leaned back and looked up at the sky. "Not the Mae West to be honest. Not in the current circumstances."

  "Yeah," said Paddy, "I can imagine. How's about you and I do each other the favour of forgetting this ever happened?"

  "Agreed. So, what are we forgetting?"

  "Well, I'm forgetting your request to break into the highly secure offices of Phoenix Construction on just a day’s notice.”

  Bunny looked around nervously. "There's no need to feckin' broadcast it."

  "I'd never do such a thing. I'm a simple car mechanic, Bunny, I don't know what you've heard to say otherwise."

  "Ah for—"

  "What were you expecting? That I'd be able to tell you they've a safe with twenty grand in cash and a ledger, hand-written but in some kind of code."

  "Something like that."

  "Well I can't tell you that. I also can't tell you that said code, if it existed, is pretty good and it ain't going to give you the kind of leverage you need to sort your Monday evening problem. I mean, three months from now when you figure a couple of things out, maybe but—"

  "Fuck it," said Bunny. "Was there anything else?"

  Paddy stared at Bunny, who after a moment did the best attempt at rolling his eyes that the lazy one would allow. "Sorry, if you were to have hypothetically blah blah..."

  Paddy lowered his voice. He'd not been looking forward to this, but nobody had their hands clean here. "There's a certain councillor, who you'd think would be on your side. He's not."

  "Really?" said Bunny.

  "There's… you'll see."

  Paddy stood up.

  "How will I see?"

  "Look under the passenger seat in your car."

  "When did—"

  "I know the difference between north and south, ye daft culchie prick."

  Paddy stood up to leave.

  "Wait," said Bunny. "What about the money?"

  Paddy Nellis just winked and walked away, whistling happily to himself.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Detective Wilson tugged at the leg of his trousers, in an attempt to prevent the unpleasantly damp fabric from clinging to his lower leg. He watched a laughing couple spill out of the warm, inviting lights of the nearby Harbour Master pub, the man’s tie wrapped jauntily around his companion’s neck. They'd probably stayed there longer than intended, waiting for the truly biblical rain to stop. Wilson had only been able to close his umbrella five minutes ago and, despite having it, his shoes and the lower pant legs of his best suit were still soaked through. The happy couple clung to each other and headed off into the night, either to continue their Friday evening's drinking elsewhere or to swap a lot more than the tie. Wilson sighed to himself and shifted his feet again. In hindsight, of the many pros and cons of joining the Gardaí, he felt that everyone had criminally underplayed the effect it would have on your ability to get your end away. Here he was on a Friday night, a man very much in the prime of his oat-sowing years, standing around in soaking trousers like a dipshit who's been stood up on a blind date. Only a copper could fully appreciate how little justice there was in the world.

  He checked his watch again; he'd been standing there for thirty-six minutes now and been pissed off for about thirty-four of them.

  "Wilson."

  Wilson jumped at the voice and instantly hated himself for it, not least because that was no doubt exactly the effect the voice's owner had been going for. He turned to see a man in a trench coat and a smug smile.

  "Livingstone, I presume?"

  Wilson’s words were greeted by an eye roll and a grimace. "Wow, never heard that one before. Come on."

  Livingstone brushed passed him and walked off in the direction that Wilson had been expecting him to come from in the first place. He was forced to break into a skip to keep up.

  "You're late," said Wilson.

  "Yeah," said Livingstone without looking back, "it was raining."

  Bloody Caspers, thought Wilson. In truth this was his first contact with the most reclusive branch of the Gardaí but their reputation preceded them. Caspers, as in Casper the Friendly Ghost, was the nickname for the NSU or National Surveillance Unit. The name was intended to be ironic, the Caspers being legendary for their unfriendly and sneering attitude towards the rest of the force. As Wilson's old boss, DI Jimmy Stewart, had once described them, 'busy little shits running about like they're the bloody Secret Service or something. In the land of the blind, the one-eyed men truly are king.'

  Keeping an eye on stuff is what the NSU did. They were the Garda Síochána's covert surveillance specialists. They operated primarily out of the Phoenix Park headquarters, same as Wilson's NBCI team did, but they weren't exactly hanging out drinking in the same pubs. Mind you, if the NSU were any good, you'd not have known if they were.

  It was now thirty-six hours since Craig Blake's tortured and mutilated body had been discovered, and about thirty-two hours since Wilson himself had found the admittedly tenuous link to Father Daniel Franks and his so-called Ark. As DSI Burns had pointed out, somebody simply quoting Franks by using the phrase 'This is the day that never comes' was the flimsiest of flimsy circumstantial evidence and yet, it was something and it couldn't be ignored. That was the problem. Officially linking the Blake killing with Franks would be like throwing napalm onto a roaring fire. The Ark and the trial of the Skylark Three had dominated the media over the last two months, linking them was a newspaper editor's wet dream. DSI Burns didn't want to drag her investigation into a political three-ring circus. And so, it'd taken time. They had been forced to go through unofficial channels.

  There was, of course, the official, publicly-known Garda operation around the Ark. Since Franks and his supporters had moved in over two months ago now, there had been a police presence around the building. Initially, they'd been there to ensure public order but it had become political fast. There had been the government's attempt to stop supplies going in, which had met with public outcry before being struck down by the
High Court as being unconstitutional. The Gardaí had been forced into the position of bad guys on that one and had hated every minute of it. Stopping food being delivered to hungry people wasn't what anyone had signed up for. Similarly, getting the water and electric turned off had been struck down by the courts. The case for saying that the electricity bill for the building was an excessive expense on the holding company that legally owned it, even though it itself was owned by the government, had looked promising until a generous anonymous donor had stepped in and paid it. All the smart money was on the donor being a backer of the opposition. They knew a potential administration-ending debacle when they saw it and they didn't want it ending any time soon.

  Then there was the other Garda operation, the NSU's one. Anybody with half a brain who gave it more than fifteen seconds thought would have guessed that the NSU would have been carrying out surveillance on the Ark, but there was knowing and there was having it admitted. Burns had been forced to pull in favours. Wilson's unofficial meeting with a team carrying out an operation that didn't exist was what he'd been waiting around in the rain for.

  Livingstone rounded a corner and the Ark itself came into view. A five storey building that had previously looked similar to pretty much every other shiny corporate office in the International Financial Services Centre. Any politician worthy of the name who had seen a bit of power in the preceeding fifty years had tried to claim credit for the IFSC. It was an oasis of corporate prosperity on the banks of the River Liffey. A shining light that showed Ireland to be a dynamic, forward-thinking nation. You could see how everyone from the Taoiseach on down would be pissed off with one of its buildings being turned into a great big homeless shelter by some priest who had wandered off the reservation. It was now a big glistening reminder of a mishandled economic collapse, and those that the recovery had left behind. A rising tide might lift all boats but if you were without one, you drowned.

  The Ark building did stand out now though, and not just because it'd been pictured so many times on the front of newspapers. Cardboard and improvised curtains blocked out many of the windows. Barriers also surrounded it. That had been the latest brainwave. The government realised that turning off the electricity or water might not pay, but they could damn sure stop anyone else getting in and detain those leaving. The deadline to leave without facing trespassing charges had passed two days ago. Some had come out, many more had stayed.