"You've done good work, Jarleth."
Court turned and faced Bunny for the first time, jabbing his finger into the big man's face. "Don't you… don't you use my fucking name. We're not friends, alright? If we were friends you'd not be here!"
"Cool your jets," said Bunny, nodding towards Anto as he brought their drinks over. The soccer widows at the end of the bar were surreptitiously glancing in their direction now too, attracted by Court's raised voice.
They sat in silence as Anto placed the drinks in front of them before retreating back to his station.
Court lifted up his pint and then put it down again untouched. "Back in the day, I helped you set St Jude's up, backed you all the way. I went down to Croke Park with you and all but battered them into throwing in some funding."
"You did," said Bunny. "You painted a couple of walls and shook more than a few buckets too. You even hosted that fecking table quiz to fix the roof."
"And I wrote the questions."
"And you wrote the questions."
"Yvonne Wild still brings up that fifth Beatle thing. She sent me a book with a quote from Paul McCartney saying it was Brian Epstein and not George Martin. The book is worth more than the prize money would've been! Cost me votes, that quiz."
Bunny shook his head and smiled. "Some people never forget."
Court ran his finger up the moist side of his pint glass. "You do."
"No, Councillor," he said, "I remember all you've done to help us. Then I remember that last Thursday you raised your hand to vote to tear it all down."
Court said nothing, he just lifted the pint he didn't feel like drinking and took a couple of gulps. When he spoke next, it was in a near whisper. "That tape… I've got two kids, Bunny."
"A couple of hundred kids go through that club every year."
Court leaned back on his stool and felt himself sway slightly. "It was… a mistake."
"Which part?" said Bunny.
Court stared down at his own feet as he spoke. "The tape. I… it was just after I'd lost my seat in the Dáil, and she was helping out in the office—"
"Don't," interrupted Bunny, "there's no point. All that matters is that they had it and I've got it now."
"Ha," said Court, reaching a hand forward and steadying himself. "Had? Like that was the only copy. They rang me, offered to drop one around, to reassure me they've got plenty. They've got me by one bollock and now, you've got me by the other. Doomed either way."
"So you might as well do what's right."
"For a blackmailer you're fierce fucking moral, Bunny." Anto and the two ladies glanced again in their direction. Court looked down and swept some invisible dust off the leg of his slacks. "They know what you're doing,” said Court. "They think I can talk you out of it."
"We both know that isn't true."
"Yeah, yeah we do. The great Bunny McGarry, the unstoppable force."
Court grabbed at his pint, spilling a bit as he lifted it. Then he put it down again and turned to look Bunny in the eye, as much as it was possible. "You can't win this, d'ye know that? All of this is for nothing. They've got Snow White, and he brings nearly half that shower of wannabes on the council with him. They'll vote as a bloc and there's nothing you can do about it. You're going to have me vote against the tide for no reason and still get destroyed."
"And what about the next time?" said Bunny.
"What?"
"Don't kid yourself, Councillor, it won't just be this time. Now that they own it, they'll be renting your arse out all over town. Fuck’s sake, tell me you don't honestly believe they'll let you off the hook after this? You'll be their feckin' lapdog from here on out. How many people will ye be helping then?"
"You ever made a mistake, Bunny?"
"Plenty. That's why I came here to look you in the eye and tell you. You do their bidding, I'll do exactly what ye think."
"Oh, I've no doubt."
"I won't enjoy it."
"You're a feckin' martyr."
Bunny stood up, dropped a tenner onto the counter beside his untouched pint and headed towards the door.
Court watched the big man opening the door to step out into the winter evening’s fading light.
"Here, Bunny."
Bunny turned to look at him. Court could sense several pairs of eyes on him now but he no longer cared.
"Remind me, what’s the difference between you and them?"
Bunny looked him dead in the eye, giving Court the wonky-eyed stare that had broken many the supposed hard nut.
"The difference, Councillor, is that I'm going to win."
Chapter Twenty-Four
Gerry: And we’re back. We’re discussing the shocking death of Craig Blake, a member of the so called Skylark Three. What is this? Vigilante justice? Plain old murder? The switchboard is lighting up, so lets go for a blitz. Clare from Blanchardstown on line one, go!
Clare: Yes, Gerry, I think it’s just awful. Nobody deserves that. You can’t have people going around killing people, that’s not right.
Gerry: OK, Phillip from Glasnevin on line two.
Phillip: This fella is dead but how many people are dead because of what he did? Cheating ordinary people out of their hard-earned money. Let it be a warning to the rest of ‘em, I say.
Gerry: Sean from Balbriggan on line six.
Sean: Viva la revolution! We are the Púca! Fuc—
Gerry: Woah! The revolution will not be televised with that kind of language. Therese from Blackrock on line four.
Therese: People are angry, Gerry but you can’t go about taking the law into your own hands, that’ll lead to chaos.
Gerry: Maybe, Therese, but maybe we need a bit of chaos? Look where the status quo has gotten us? What do you think, Sarah from Balbriggin on line three?
Sarah: Gerry, I’d like to see them all strung up, and to hear the new one from Adele.
Gerry: Ah for—
"I don't understand how you can eat that stuff," said Phil.
Paul placed his chopsticks back into his container of noodles and looked across the seat at him. "Well, it is a lot easier when you stop saying things like that. I offered to get pizza if you wanted some."
"I'm watching what I eat. I've got to fit into a wedding suit."
Paul avoided saying anything he'd regret by resuming shovelling noodles into his face. They were sitting in the front seat of Uncle Abdul's taxi, seeing as there was no way Paul was going to dare to eat in Bunny's car.
Phil looked into the back seat again. "She is still looking at you."
"She can look at me all she wants, she is not getting any."
"I Googled it – a small bit of Chinese food is all right for a dog."
"That's not why she isn't getting any. She is being punished." He looked back at her, "and she knows exactly why."
Phil shook his head in disapproval.
"The two of you need to work on your relationship."
"No, no we don't. I have no desire to have a relationship with the bloody dog. Far as I'm concerned, she is going to the pound at the first opportunity. End of story."
"So you can't forgive Maggie for basically just being a dog, and yet you expect Brigit to forgive you?"
"Really?" said Paul, throwing his container of noodles onto the dashboard and turning to face Phil, "you're seriously comparing those two things?"
"I'm just saying," said Phil.
"Well, stop."
Paul looked out the window at the occasional cars rolling by on the main road. This was his third day sitting in the car park of Casey's pub, and he was now thoroughly sick of the view. He picked up his noodles again. "She had that chicken earlier on, and she's had plenty of water."
The car fell silent, save for Phil's constant finger drumming on his knees and Maggie's panting in the back seat. Paul looked at the noodles. He was fast losing his appetite.
"It's not even real Chinese food."
Paul rolled his eyes. "This again?"
"Da Xin's never even heard of Ora
nge Chicken! It's not a thing. Same as that Egg Foo Yung stuff, it doesn't exist."
"It does exist. What you mean is it isn't authentic. There's lots of fake things from China."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Hartigan!" said Paul, ducking down as low as possible in the passenger seat.
"Don't change the subject," said Phil, his anger rising.
"No," he nodded his head towards the road, "Hartigan."
Phil looked up just as Jerome Hartigan, dressed in black running gear, jogged by alone.
"Holy… who goes for a run this late?"
Paul popped his head up and looked at Hartigan jogging away from them.
"More importantly, who goes for a run with a rucksack on his back."
Paul opened the door and quickly slid out of the seat. He looked back to see Maggie diving into the space he'd just vacated to devour the dinner he'd left behind.
Following Hartigan proved surprisingly easy. Poser that he was, he of course looked the business in his sleek running gear but Paul guessed he'd not actually done that much running previously. Certainly his pace was nothing too taxing, and having the two cars meant even Paul and Phil could keep a visual on him. He jogged along the N31 for about a mile, heading in towards Blackrock, turning left to follow the main road around. All they'd had to do was take turns driving past, then parking up for a bit until he ran by. They were doing more or less what the Blando bible described as a “two car rotation”, although Paul was now wishing he'd paid slightly more attention to the diagrams. Still, on a dark night beside a busy dual carriageway, one passing car looked pretty much like another.
Paul caught a break, being fifty yards behind Hartigan when he turned a corner off into a residential road. He took a right and drove quickly past Hartigan, shielding his face from view as he did so. The street was lined with big houses, mostly hidden behind imposing shrubbery and gates of wrought iron or thick wood. Further roads branched off to the left and right. Paul guessed this area alone could keep half of the landscape gardeners in Dublin busy.
Bunny's car was distinctive, but he'd have to bank on Hartigan being too focused on pounding pavement to notice it. Paul had his headphones plugged into his phone to keep his hands free for driving. "He's turned off, we're on…" Paul craned to see the road sign as he drove by it, "Rosemount Drive."
"Roger that," said Phil. "I've got to circle back but I've got bullseye on your twenty. ETA five minutes."
"Just talk normally, would ye?"
"Roger."
Paul glanced into his rear view mirror. Hartigan had run about halfway down the wide, tree-lined road before coming to a stop at a corner, hands on hips, sucking in air.
Paul parked up about a hundred yards further down, on the far side of the road. He killed the engine and watched in the side mirror. Hartigan seemed to be looking around him. Had he clocked them? He did a couple of stretches and then resumed jogging slowly. Paul ducked down low in his seat, feeling suddenly exposed, as Hartigan drew closer. He had seen Paul a couple of nights ago outside his house, if he caught sight of him here again the whole jig would be blown. After a long minute, Paul looked up to see Hartigan had passed him and was jogging away. Then he stopped suddenly again, forcing Paul to scrunch back down in his seat.
Phil's voice filled his ears, causing Paul to jump. "I'm on your six, over."
"What?"
"I'm on Rosemount Drive."
"Shit," said Paul. "He's stopped running. Don't pull over here, drive past, don't let him see you. And for the love of God, keep Maggie out of sight."
"Roger that, she's lying on the back seat. I don't think that Chinese food agreed with her."
Now did not seem the time for ‘I told you so’.
Sitting just high enough to peer over the steering wheel, Paul watched as Hartigan started walking back towards him. Luckily, he seemed to not be looking in Paul's direction, instead taking a great interest in one of the houses he was passing. He was trying to peer through its high hedge before he came to a complete stop outside of its imposing wooden gates. Hartigan looked around and then stretched himself onto his tiptoes to catch a glimpse over the gate. Paul watched him flinch as a pair of headlights approached, bending down to tie his shoelace as Abdul's taxi cruised past.
"I am past the bogey."
"Loop around the estate, just try not to draw attention to yourself."
"Roger that."
As Paul watched Phil's taillights disappear around the corner at the end of the street, Hartigan stood up and resumed walking back towards him. This time he turned the corner, following the house's high wall around. Hartigan scanned his surroundings again. While Paul was nervous, he didn't appear to be the only one. Hartigan stood there for a minute stretching his arms above his head and then bending from side to side, glancing around as he did so. Then he placed his hands on the wall and began stretching his calf muscles out.
"What's he doing?" said Phil.
"Pretending to stretch. Maybe he's waiting for somebody or… HOLY SHIT!"
"What?"
"He's just hopped a wall."
Hartigan had indeed looked around him one last time, then in one surprisingly swift motion, reached up, caught the top of the wall and dragged himself over.
"Fuck it, this could be it. He might be finally getting his end away."
"D'ye think it's one of them weird fantasies where he pretends to be a burglar and—"
"Shut up Phil."
Paul sat there for a few minutes staring at the spot where Hartigan had disappeared. If he was doing what Paul expected then he'd be in there a while. If he was doing what Paul expected, this was a pretty weird way of doing it. What was wrong with going through the front gate, exactly? Assuming Phil's freaky fantasy idea wasn't worthy of more consideration than he'd given it. He is hardly shagging somebody's missus while the sap is upstairs asleep? Not even the great Jerome Hartigan could be that arrogant, could he? Well, whatever was happening, sitting here wasn't going to get him any evidence. Paul shoved his phone and headset into the pocket of his jeans and exited the car.
Hartigan had a few inches on him, which was why Paul had to take a run up to get a grip on the top of the wall. He pulled himself up, as quietly as he could and then looked over. He could see trees and not a lot else. He got his elbows onto the top of the wall and heaved himself up. Looking down and around there was no sign of Hartigan, although Paul's view was obstructed by the trees that lined the sides of the garden. As quietly as he could, he lowered himself down on the far side, his feet landing softly on the peaty ground. He crouched behind the trunk of a tree and looked around him, letting his eyes adjust to the near-darkness.
A grand lawn wrapped around a large, stylish house. Evergreen trees appeared to line it on every side, ensuring the owner’s privacy from all but spy satellites. Paul could see what he guessed to be a tennis court at the back of it. The house itself had large windows, all of which were dark. The whole thing seemed eerily quiet. Not just sleeping, deserted.
To his right, about fifty yards down from where he was, Paul spotted movement at the treeline. He could see a crouching figure, quickly making its way across the lawn. Paul flinched as a penetrating floodlight burst into life. Hartigan stood in the centre of the lawn, looking around him like a terrified animal. He turned to hurry back the way he came then stopped after a few steps when the light cut back out. Automatic sensor. Hartigan moved towards the house again, this time keeping going as the light came on. He paused at the front door. Only then did Paul notice the yellow police tape stretched across it. "Holy shit," he whispered to himself.
As he watched, Hartigan slipped his rucksack off and started taking things out. He put on gloves before trying to quickly and carefully take the police tape off without breaking it. Paul retrieved his phone from his pocket and put his headphones back in. He quickly dialled Phil, who answered on the third ring.
"We're in big trouble," said Phil.
Panicked, Paul looked around him.
"What?"
"The dog has only gone and thrown up in the back of Abdul's taxi."
"Oh for…" whispered Paul, "I'll get it valeted. I've just realised where this is."
Having finished removing the tape as best he could, Hartigan was now pulling other stuff out of his rucksack.
"What?"
"This house, I think it belonged to what's his face, Craig Blake."
"The dead fella?"
"Yes, the dead fella. There's police tape on the door."
Paul watched as Hartigan selected a key from a keyring and placed it in the lock. He opened the door and quickly entered. Seconds later, the floodlight turned off.
"He's breaking into his old partner's house," said Paul.
"Why the fuck is he doing that?"
"I dunno," said Paul, but his mind was racing. They had lost track of Hartigan on Tuesday night, which was when the Gardaí had said Blake had died. Paul had seen Hartigan's violent temper first-hand when he'd watched him attack Maloney. Was it possible he was returning to the scene of the crime? Paul watched as a flashlight bobbed back and forth around the house, before entering one of the upstairs bedrooms.
"Ah man, this is fucked up," said Paul. "I'm supposed to just be finding out who he's knobbing. This is—"
"Should we call the cops?"
Paul thought about it. Maybe they should? If they did though, bye bye four grand. He was fairly sure getting evidence of Hartigan having sex in prison was not what his client had had in mind. Plus there'd be the whole awkwardness of having to explain to the cops that he was working as an investigator without a licence. "Nah, let’s just see what happens."
"This stinks," said Phil.
"I know, but we've no choice."
"What? No, I meant the spew your dog just heaved up on the back seat. Filthy shit. I bet real Chinese food doesn't smell like this."
Paul crouched there for another ten minutes, running it all through in his head again and again. By the time Hartigan re-emerged from the front door, he'd made a decision. Paul watched him carefully close the door behind him and then begin trying to put the police tape back as he'd found it. Paul fished the digital camera out of his pocket and fumbled for the switch to turn it on. Whatever this was, he probably needed some evidence of it.
The Day That Never comes (The Dublin Trilogy Book 2) Page 17