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

by Caimh McDonnell

  "Serves you right," says Phil, "for trying to kill that dog."

  Paul sighed. He was on his way to an animal sanctuary in Rathfarnham owned by the Dublin Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. It had wide open spaces, lots of animals, it even had a pond. An actual pond. If the option was available, forget the dog, Paul would happily have put himself in there. Unfortunately, he had made the mistake of describing it to Phil as a lovely farm in the country.

  "For the last time, I really am taking her to a nice farm in the country. An actual farm, they've got geese and shit."

  "Yeah, right" said Phil. “That's what Auntie Lynn told me about Roger the tortoise and Veronica the parakeet and Wilbur the gerbil and Geri Halliwell the goldfish and Grandma Joan…"

  Apparently, inspired by some TV programme, Phil had decided a couple of years ago to turn his aunt's rather large back garden into a vegetable plot. It was then that he had discovered the mass grave containing his childhood. Well, all of it apart from presumably Grandma Joan.

  "Look, I'll take a picture as proof when we get there," said Paul, then he checked his watch and realised there was a very good chance he wasn't going to get there before closing. It probably wasn't like one of those charity shops where he could squeeze his donation through the letterbox.

  "What am I supposed to do if Hartigan goes somewhere?" asked Phil.

  "Follow him. That's what I'm paying you for."

  "Speaking of which, you've not paid me for the last two—"

  "You're breaking up," interrupted Paul, then hung up the phone before Phil could negotiate another pay rise.

  Maggie looked at him. He looked back at her. He had no logical explanation of how, but on a fundamental level, he believed she was somehow responsible for this.

  "I am fixing this tyre and then you…" he emphasised with a finger jab, "are going to an actual farm in the actual country. I'm not going to be beaten by a bloody dog."

  Paul moved around to the boot. He'd never opened it before, and the car was old enough that a key was still required. After some waggling and pushing it popped open.

  He looked down at its contents. It contained one item, lying there as if in a display case. Bunny's hurling stick. Thirty-seven inches of ash, with a metal band around the end. Bunny gave each new one a name, but Paul didn't know this one. The last one had been Mabel. Paul had broken that dealing with Gerry Fallon, the gangster that had been trying to kill him, Bunny and Brigit. Paul ran his fingers along the shaft of the hurl. Nobody had seen Bunny for a week, as far as Paul knew. He also knew he was unlikely to leave either his car or his hurl behind if he was going somewhere.

  A juggernaut roared by and shook the car violently. Maggie barked in response.

  "Alright, alright," said Paul, pushing the hurl back and lifting the faux carpet cover where he assumed the spare would be.

  He did a double-take. On top of the spare tyre sat a handgun. Paul had seen more than enough films to know it was a revolver. It had a wooden handle and a long steel barrel. It was some straight-up Dirty Harry shit. He glanced around him nervously. Bunny would have had a gun in the Gardaí, but Paul was fairly sure this one wasn't legal. You couldn't just have a handgun in Ireland, could you? Even if you were an ex-copper. Until the Rapunzel affair, Paul had never been near a gun and even then, he'd not been the one holding it.

  Paul reached down and touched the gun's barrel. The metal was surprisingly cold. There was a giddy attraction to the thing. You wanted to hold it and were afraid to at the same time. He picked it up tentatively by the handle and, careful to keep it out of view, he felt the heft of it in his hand. Only then, when he'd lifted it, had he noticed the yellow Post-It Note stuck to its underside. It had the name “Simone” and a mobile phone number on it.

  Paul jumped with fright and dropped the gun as his mobile vibrated in his pocket.

  "Jesus!"

  He fished it out and looked at the display. It being Phil again was no great surprise, he was the only person who ever rang him these days.

  "Hello?"

  "Hello, Control," the voice on the other end was Phil's, only it wasn't. He appeared to be doing a funny accent.

  "Why are you talking like that?"

  "I'm just letting you know that I've picked up a fare." Phil was definitely doing an accent. Badly, but an accent nonetheless.

  "What are you on about?"

  "Yeah, that's right, out in Seapoint."

  Paul closed his eyes and counted to five. "Please tell me that you didn't actually pick up the guy we are following?"

  "That's a big ten-four, Control. I am on my way into Leeson Street now."

  "You absolutely fucking… and why are you talking like that?"

  Even as Paul asked the question, he knew the answer. The taxi was licensed to ‘Uncle’ Abdul. Paul had never met him, but he'd bet the farm that Phil was attempting an impression of whatever Abdul's accent was. In the world of Nellis logic, he'd be maintaining his cover.

  "Never mind," continued Paul, "I'll get there as soon as I can. Just… don't talk to him."

  "No problem, Control. Will use my initiative."

  Paul felt a shiver run down his spine. As terrifying two-word combinations went, ‘Phil's initiative’ ranked right up there with ‘performance poetry’ and ‘amateur surgery’.

  "No, no. Do not—"

  "No problem."

  "Just don't lose him!"

  "I can't believe you lost him."

  Thirty minutes had passed.

  "It wasn't my fault. We got stuck in heavy traffic. He said ‘I'll hop out here’ and then he just legged it. Nearly walloped a cyclist with the door."

  Paul used the fingers of his non-phone-wielding hand to rub his temple. He could feel the mother of all headaches coming on. "Why didn't you follow him?"

  "Because," said Phil, "I was stuck in heavy traffic."

  "Which way did he go then?"

  "That was the funny thing. He said Leeson Street, but I saw him wave down a cab going the other way and head back out of town."

  Forget headache, massive migraine.

  "I think," continued Phil, "he was trying to make sure he wasn't followed."

  "Yeah," said Paul, "I think you're right. Why did you pick him up in the first place?"

  "He walked over and just got in. I didn't even have the light on. I'll tell you what though, he gave a decent tip."

  "Oh super," said Paul, "well, I'll be docking that from your pay. Seeing as you drove the getaway car for the bloke you were supposed to be following."

  "Ye know," said Phil. "I know you don't mean it, but your tone can be very hurtful at times."

  Paul counted to fifteen.

  "Right, I need you to come out and find me on the M50." Paul looked down at the flat tyre, resisting the urge to further damage his foot by kicking it again. "It turns out Bunny's car has a spare wheel but no jack."

  As he spoke, the third car in an hour slowed down to honk and wave at him. Who were these people? It was enough to make you lose your faith in mankind. The little demon on Paul's shoulder suggested the truly awful idea of waving the gun at the next idiot that cruised by for a gawp and a giggle.

  "I'll only come out," said Phil, "on one condition."

  Paul sighed. "Alright, fine; the dog can stay."

  Maggie looked through the back window at Paul. He could have sworn she was smiling.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  DSI Susan Burns leaned back in her chair and looked up at the ceiling. It wasn't how tired she was, it was the feeling of how tired she was going to be. She was forty-eight hours into a murder investigation, and every lead just seemed to drag them further and further into the mire. Today, she was supposed to have gone house hunting with her brother; that had obviously been shelved. In the last two days, what food she had eaten had been at her desk. Luckily, they had her in an apartment at the back of Garda HQ in the Phoenix Park that was normally used for visiting dignitaries. She'd only managed to grab three hours sleep on Thurs
day night and probably even less last night. This was not the quiet first week in the job she'd had planned.

  She was just back from a semi-official briefing to a couple of senior civil servants at Government Buildings. She had given an update on the investigation’s progress, or lack of it. Not that she'd phrased it like that. The new possible angle involving the Ark and Father Daniel Franks had been discussed at length. Unsurprisingly, the men in grey suits were very keen on that. It didn't take a genius to see that they were on the lookout for any reason that'd give them enough cover with the public to shut it down. They didn't have it, and it had been her job to make that clear. They got very excited to find out there was an outstanding German warrant on Andy Watts too. Finally they had a tenant of the Ark who they could give to the public as a bona fide bad guy. One wanted for assault in Germany no less, and if there was one golden rule of post-crash Irish economics, it was that everything possible must be done to keep the Germans happy. DSI Burns didn’t much care. If they wanted to send teams in knocking down doors, it wouldn't be on her say-so. Right now, the only evidence linking the Ark or anyone in it to the murder of Craig Blake was flimsy and circumstantial at best.

  She looked at the four pictures that she had placed on her office wall. The same pictures were on the evidence boards outside, but she liked having something just she could look at. Gearoid Lanagan and his merry band of lunatics were unnerving, all right, and were certainly of interest to the Gardaí in general, and her investigation in particular, but that didn't mean they were the ‘Púca'.

  And boy, hadn't that taken off. It was all the press could talk about. On the short drive from the Phoenix Park to Government House, she'd passed two walls and a billboard with the words 'We are the Púca' spray-painted across them. Somebody, somewhere, was undoubtedly working on a T-shirt.

  There was a polite knock.

  "Come in."

  Detective Donnacha Wilson stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He looked as exhausted as she felt. She had him in at 7 am briefing her on the Ark situation, following his visit with the NSU boys late last night. Then they'd agreed on the shortened briefing he gave the rest of the team.

  "I've got an update from the Caspers, ma’am," he said.

  "Go on."

  Wilson looked nervous, but that wasn't a surprise given how they'd met. She didn't want to make him feel better about his lot in life. In her experience, people on edge worked harder. She wasn't here to make friends.

  "Adam," said Wilson, indicating the picture of the almost unknown man.

  "We've found him?" said Burns.

  "Sort of. He broke through the cordon around the Ark at about 4 am this morning. He's back inside."

  "Oh for… you are kidding me! What the hell are the uniforms doing?"

  "Apparently he timed it well and caught them cold. He gave one of them a right smack around the earhole when they tried to stop him."

  "Great," said Burns. There's another fugitive from the law inside the building, the grey suits will be pleased. "Instruct NSU to send over any reports on the incident ASAP. Anything else?"

  "Not really, ma’am. Remember I told you that Doctors Without Borders had agreed to send a doctor into the Ark today, as per their request?"

  "Yes." She remembered it well. They'd specified an Asian doctor, and their logic had been embarrassingly obvious. How many Asian members did the Gardaí have?

  "Our request to talk to him when he exits has been denied. No Garda access at all."

  "Oh for—"

  "UN have guaranteed it, would you believe? All stuff about doctors being free from—"

  "Right," interrupted Burns, tossing her pen down onto the desk. "I got it. More bloody politics. I've got some demented shower of vigilantes slicing up punters and nobody seems to give that much of a shit about it. My dad was an award-winning dairy farmer, y'know Wilson? I could've taken over the farm. Farmers don't have to put up with this kind of crap. At least they can see the shit they've to deal with."

  "Yes, ma’am."

  "What does your dad do?"

  Wilson shifted his feet nervously and gave a nervous smile. "Ehm… politician, ma’am."

  "Fuck off, there's a good lad."

  "Yes, ma’am."

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Brigit looked at her phone. Three new messages, all from Paul.

  'Any news on Bunny?'

  'Did you get hold of that Simone woman?'

  'Can I get an update? I'm worried about him.'

  Brigit shoved her phone back in her pocket and looked up at the Ark. She was here because that male voice on a voicemail message that had sounded familiar belonged to Father Daniel Franks. She had no idea how he knew Bunny, but her supply of anything else resembling a lead had dwindled away to nearly nothing. Paul had texted her last night to say he'd found a number for a woman called Simone on a Post-It Note in Bunny's car. It was the one from his bill that Bunny had only texted once. Brigit had tried ringing it again last night, but got the same network-standard voicemail as the last three times. If, at the end of this, it turned out Bunny was just off getting his end away, she'd be annoyed but she'd definitely take it.

  The fact that Father Franks wanted to talk to her hopefully meant he had something significant to say. Certainly, he'd gone to quite some trouble to say it. As Dr Sinha had described it to her, the chaplain from St Mary's Hospital had been the point of contact. Apparently he and Franks went way back, having been in seminary together. He'd got the message out that he wanted to meet her. Brigit being a nurse had been a happy coincidence. The Ark had already requested a doctor, so all he'd needed to find was one that knew her, hence Dr Sinha's involvement.

  Brigit glanced over at the good doctor, who was nervously bobbing up and down on his heels beside her.

  "This is probably an odd time to ask, but why are you doing this?" Brigit asked.

  Dr Sinha shot her a nervous smile. "Well Nurse Conroy—"

  "Brigit."

  "Brigit," he repeated. "Throughout my whole life I have been a good boy, a studious boy, a boy who has kept his head down and stayed out of trouble."

  "OK."

  "I thought it was about time I did something a little… how would you say it? Badass."

  Brigit laughed. "You're like… Clint Eastwood meets Gandhi."

  "Thank you," he said grinning, "that is precisely what I am going for."

  "Oh, I never asked, how did your date go last night?"

  "A gentlemen does not kiss and tell."

  Brigit looked him up and down.

  "Are you wearing the same clothes as yesterday?"

  "Let us just say that ladies like a badass."

  Brigit smiled and turned back to look at the Ark. It certainly was imposing. Technically, it wasn't any bigger, in fact, it was smaller than most of the surrounding buildings, but pictures of them hadn't been on the front of national newspapers.

  Two hours ago, they'd reported to the on-site Garda command centre and there'd been all manner of faffing. Dr Sinha had explained Brigit's presence to Sergeant Paice, the on-site commander, as being required in case any of the women felt uncomfortable with a male doctor. Brigit hadn't mentioned how she was currently on sabbatical after taking a doctor hostage at her last job. It hadn't seemed relevant. Sergeant Paice gave the impression of being a man who hadn't enjoyed anything since birth, and that he found Brigit's presence particularly irksome. Eventually, Sinha had made clear that he thoroughly understood his misgivings and would it be okay if they held their press conference on the steps outside? Yes, the one where they explained how the Gardaí were withholding medical attention from children. Suddenly, previously insurmountable problems had magically found solutions.

  So there Brigit was, carrying a large bag full of medical supplies. They had drawn a small crowd of curious onlookers but it being a Saturday, the IFSC was a lot quieter than normal. Under the supervision of Sergeant Paice, the uniformed Gardaí created a gap in the circle of sturdy steel mesh fencing surround
ed the Ark and waved Brigit and Dr Sinha forward.

  "OK," said Dr Sinha, "Off we go."

  They strode through the gap and towards the building’s main door. Most of the windows had been blocked out with a mix of newspaper and cardboard with slogans written on them. 'Fight the Power' and 'We Shall Overcome' rubbing shoulders with 'People Not Profits' and an incongruous 'Happy Birthday Barry'.

  As Brigit and Sinha stood outside the building's main doors, a muscular man with tight-cropped hair and tattoos aplenty was moving aside the furniture barricading the main entrance. A man of about sixty with a long mane of white hair watched from behind the glass as they approached. He looked like a short-arsed Gandalf. As they reached the door, he put his hand up to stop them advancing any further. When his colleague had moved most of the furniture, he made eye contact with Sergeant Paice and, smiling, placed his hands together. Brigit saw the Guard grimace and then order his men to put the steel fencing back in place, with them on the other side of it. Brigit guessed they'd been through this negotiated procedure before, and that Paice hadn't enjoyed it any more on the previous occasions.

  Once the barrier had been restored, the man with the long white hair placed his hands together again and gave a half mocking bow of gratitude. Then he clicked his fingers, and the muscly guy bent down to release the locks at the top and bottom of the glass doors. As they opened, Gandalf stretched his arm out expansively, ushering them in. "Welcome to the Ark."

  The other man looked less pleased to see them, his face forming into a sneer as Brigit passed him before he immediately started re-locking the door. Brigit looked around the reception area. At one end there lay piles of rubbish, looking starkly out of place on the marble floor surrounded by the no doubt expensive ‘bunch of coloured shapes’ modern art on the wall. The lights were off, which meant that the whole area was only illuminated by a mixture of light diffusing through newspaper, and the occasionally shaft that snuck through the gaps in the cardboard.

  "And now the sofas please, Andrew," said the white-haired man. Brigit was finding his accent hard to place. He was Irish, but there seemed to be a little bit of everywhere in there.