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

by Caimh McDonnell

  He found the right button and zoomed in on Hartigan. Paul let out an involuntary yelp as the flash went off, unforgivingly bright in the otherwise near-pitch darkness. Hartigan looked around.

  Paul took the wall in one swift jump and he didn't look back as he sprinted to the car.

  "You all right? What're you doing?" said Phil in his ear.

  "Getting the hell out of here," responded Paul.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Verity Ward considered herself to be a very practical girl. No, scratch that, a very practical woman. She was nineteen now, and nearing the end of her first year as a university student. She had set herself the goal of no longer being a virgin by the end of it and time was running out. That had not been her only goal for the year, as that would be tediously tragic. In fact, she'd had six. She had already won a fresher’s debate, read a book on Buddhism, drank shots, learned enough bass to join a rock band (truth be told, owning and being willing to play a bass had turned out to be the major qualification there) and lastly, made three proper friends. All she had to do was get number four off the list and it was a clean sweep. She had already revised her timetable slightly, having decided that the deadline should not be exam time but the start of her second year. Still, the clock was ticking.

  Some people have very fluffy bullshit ideas about this kind of thing, Verity did not. She wasn't expecting earth movement and choirs of angels. The last thing she wanted to do was wait for someone special. She wanted to know exactly what she was doing when that someone showed up. She was a great believer in preparation.

  That being said, she was of course not willing to let just anyone assist with the removal of her virginity. She rejected utterly the concept of some man ‘taking it’ – it gave them far too much control in the situation. Come to that, she wasn't losing it – she was carefully disposing of it. Loss implied carelessness.

  This was why, following an appropriate three-date structure, she was allowing Matt Willis to assist her in this matter. He was nice. He was also, she felt reasonably sure, a virgin. Certainly, judging by the last fifteen minutes, he was not what you'd call experienced. He had spent a great deal of time locating things – the lever to put the seat back, an appropriate radio station, her vagina…

  …and then there'd been the whole kerfuffle with the condom. Honestly, that bit there was no excuse for. Matt could have practised that beforehand, it did not require her presence. Fail to prepare, prepare to fail – that was Verity's motto – not that she said that out loud of course. University had so far been a very successful relaunch of the Verity brand. If asked, her supposed life motto would be ‘eating is cheating’ – patently ridiculous though it was.

  Matt had been vigorously applying himself to the task in hand for some minutes now, and had been considerate to the point of fatigue in his constant querying of 'is that all right? Are you ok? How is that for you?’. He was a nice guy, his mother had raised him well. Verity was not surprised by this, the fact that Matt's mother owned a Smart car spoke very well of her character. Having said that, it was perhaps not the most appropriate vehicle for their current activity.

  If she was to plan this again – which by definition she wouldn't be – she would have taken geography into account more. In particular, she would have selected a virginity-removal partner who came from down the country, or better yet, abroad. That way, they would have their own student digs. Matt, like herself, came from Dublin and hence lived at home. This meant the only venue open to them had been his mother's car. Even with that, there had been the extensive search for a quiet location. This was the third spot they'd tried, dog walkers having proven a shocking blight in the previous two. The night had been less romantic and more heavily logistic.

  Verity was aware that soon she should begin vocalising some enthusiasm. Matt had gone to a lot of trouble and fair was fair, she should give him the impression that female orgasm had been achieved. She'd done some research on this. As one blog had put it, 'the fact that he's so concerned to make sure it happens is why he deserves to think it has'. She groaned. This did indeed seem to raise Matt's spirits and consequently his tempo. Verity held him a bit closer while simultaneously carefully moving her long, black hair so it wouldn't get pinned under his elbow again.

  She looked out the window. This location was ideal, a long way as it was from anywhere and shielded from view by two large billboards. They were near a large housing complex but as anyone who had seen a paper knew all too well, it was not occupied. As she groaned again, she looked over at the hulking outline of the Skylark complex. Some of the buildings were still cocooned in scaffolding. Such a waste.

  She threw in an 'oh, yes…' to indicate to Matt her continued approval of proceedings and let her eyes wander. Just then the clouds parted, and a full moon threw illumination onto a previously overcast night.

  Verity looked up at the back of the billboard and her mind froze. It tried to deny what it saw, reason against the likelihood. Someone was watching them. Then she'd looked again, looked lower, past the wide, staring eyes to see the body below it, tied to the billboard's supporting struts. Cables hung down from it, glistening in the moonlight. Her eyes followed their path, down to the ground and then back up to their source. They were emerging from the watcher's lower torso. Then the tiny voice, that had known all along that what she was looking at wasn't cables, had finally made itself heard.

  Verity Ward screamed. For the first time in her life, a full-on proper scream of terror.

  Due to Matt's inexperience in these matters, he crucially misinterpreted this as a scream of pleasure. This would lead to issues in later life.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Gerry: Caller, you’re on the air.

  Caller: (Distorted) My name is Tyler Durden, and I am the official spokesman for the Púca. This is the day that never comes. Prepare yourself for the revolution.

  Gerry: Right, well, Mr Durden, before we go any further with this conversation, I should point out that we’ve a very sophisticated call logging system here at the station that records the numbers of all calls we receive.

  Caller: (Distorted) Ehm… what?

  Gerry: And obviously we will be passing that information directly to the Gardaí.

  Caller: (distorted) Ah Jaysus, don’t do that, me ma will kill me!

  Paul tossed Phil a can of beer. It said something of his mental state that he'd somehow forgotten the legendary Phil Nellis reaction speed, or rather lack thereof. The can walloped him on the right shoulder.

  "What the fuck?" said Phil.

  "Sorry, sorry man – my mistake."

  Phil grumbled to himself as he bent down to retrieve the can from under the desk.

  For the first time in several days, Paul was back in the offices of MCM Investigations. Phil sat behind the table opposite him. The chair behind the third table was occupied by Maggie, who was currently staring at him in that unnerving way she had.

  "No," said Paul.

  Maggie said nothing.

  "You wanted that Chinese food earlier and look what happened there – you spewed all over the back of Abdul's taxi."

  "That smell is going to take forever to shift," said Phil from beneath the table.

  "See, Phil agrees with me."

  Maggie said nothing.

  "Leave me out of this," said Phil.

  "You'll be ill again."

  Maggie said nothing, pointedly.

  Paul leant down and picked her bowl up and placed it on the table in front of her, then he cracked open a can and poured it in.

  She watched impassively until he'd finished and then started lapping it up immediately.

  "Pace yourself, ye mad bitch."

  She managed to casually growl without looking up. Paul moved his chair further away to give her more room.

  Phil sat back up in his seat, opened his can and promptly sprayed lager all over himself.

  "Fuck’s sake," he said.

  "At least it'll cover the smell of dog vomit on ye."
/>   "True enough."

  They both took long glugs of their drinks in silence.

  "Remember how I said I found that number for that Simone woman in Bunny's car?" asked Paul.

  "Did she ring back?"

  "No."

  "Do you reckon Bunny is off getting his hole?"

  "No," said Paul, "he's been gone a week for Christ sake."

  "He'd be red raw by now. Oh God," said Phil, "can we talk about something else? I've had enough upsetting images tonight to last a lifetime."

  Paul had tried to show Phil the picture he'd taken of Jerome Hartigan breaking into the house of his former colleague and current very dead guy, Craig Blake. When he'd looked in the memory of Phil's uncle Paddy's camera, he'd found a blurred picture that showed a bit of a tree and some grass - and no Hartigan. Ergo, no evidence. He'd then scrolled back through the camera in disbelief at his own ineptitude. That was when they'd come across the other pictures. The camera had not been used for a couple of years, since Phil's uncle Paddy had died of a heart attack. A quick scroll through the memory had revealed that the last time the camera had been used, Uncle Paddy and Auntie Lynn had been ‘capturing a special moment’ involving no clothing and a fair amount of ‘implements’. Phil had seen things he couldn't unsee.

  "I'm freaking out," said Paul.

  "So am I," said Phil.

  "I don't know what to think."

  "Neither do I. How can I ever look her in the eye again?"

  Paul rolled his eyes. "Oh for Christ’s sake, not that. I've just seen the guy we're following break into a dead guy's house. He could be a murderer!"

  "But," said Phil, "them Púca lot, they killed whats-his-name?"

  "Craig Blake."

  "Him. They killed him."

  "But who are they? Nobody knows. Anyway, my point before was… when I found that Simone's number, it was stuck to a gun in Bunny's boot."

  "Like a ‘gun’ gun?"

  Paul pulled a face. "No, a water pistol, dumb arse. Yes, a gun."

  "Can I've a go on it?"

  "What? Don't be daft. My point is, I've seen a killer—"

  "Possible."

  "Alright, possible killer, breaking back into the scene of the crime."

  "Possible."

  "Shut up with the possible. Should I, like, have a gun for protection?"

  "You know," said Phil, "all them Americans who have guns for protection?"

  "Yeah."

  "They end up shooting themselves."

  "Yeah, but not deliberately."

  "Shot is shot."

  "Yeah," said Paul, "you're probably right. I took the bullets out. It freaked me the fuck out, to be honest with ye."

  "So," said Phil, "are you going to the cops about Hartigan?"

  "With what? We've no evidence and if we've to explain why we were following him, we'll be the ones getting arrested."

  "Are you going to keep following him then?"

  "I dunno. I do need the four grand."

  Paul was sitting in the chair that the Devil in the Red Dress had been sitting in; he reckoned it still smelt faintly of her.

  "I'll tell you what you need," said Phil. "You need to talk to somebody smart, who actually understands this kind of stuff."

  "I'd love to," said Paul, "but she won't answer my calls."

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  "And this is definitely the last one?" said Dr Sinha.

  "Absolutely," said Brigit, nodding emphatically. That was true, at least for today. There were still the three numbers she hadn't got a response from, including whoever this Simone woman was, but she didn't think the good doctor's patience would stretch to help her with them. It hadn't been the easiest sell in the first place, convincing him to spend his Sunday afternoon visiting prostitutes.

  She'd had the idea after meeting Father Franks the day before. His exact words had stuck in her head, ‘he'll lie, cheat, blackmail - do whatever it takes to get what he wants.’ It put a whole new context on not just her view of Bunny McGarry, but of his phone bill. Perhaps the whole thing with the escorts he'd rung was something entirely different from what she had originally assumed. He may have been trying to blackmail somebody, and if he was, that person would have every reason in the world to have wanted Bunny to disappear, permanently.

  And so she'd begged Dr Sinha to front for her and ring the numbers that had appeared on Bunny's bill. The idea being that he'd book an appointment, and then Brigit could go with him and ask the ladies of negotiable virtue what they knew about Bunny McGarry. In practice, it had proven a little bit more tricky than that.

  They had arrived at the first one, at a rather nice apartment on the Quays, at 2 pm. They'd buzzed and been let up but then the woman had refused to let them in. 'I don't do couples' she had said through the closed door. Brigit looked at the peephole and cursed her own stupidity. Left with no choice, she'd explained that they were looking for their friend. The woman told her to go away. She had felt bad doing it, but it wasn't like she had much choice.

  “OK, but do you mind if I knock on the rest of the doors on this floor? I just need to check if anyone saw my friend visiting the prostitute in Apartment 708.”

  The door had then opened as wide as the chain would allow and the girl had scowled out at her. She had long dark hair, mid-twenties, with a slight Belfast accent that got more pronounced when she was annoyed, which she now definitely was. “Fucking hell, there's no need to be such a bitch about it.”

  Brigit had apologised and then shown her the picture of Bunny. She'd squinted to look at it and then told them to wait. A minute later she returned, this time wearing glasses. She looked at the picture again, her eyes widening in recognition.

  “Oh yeah, that big prick.”

  “He was here?” Brigit had asked.

  “Aye, briefly. He walks in, takes one long look at me and then walks out again. Tells me I'm not what he's looking for.”

  “Is that unusual?” asked Brigit, only realising how bad that sounded after she'd said it. “Not that I mean… you're lovely for a… I mean, you're lovely.”

  The woman gave her a look that could freeze lava. “Occasionally, very occasionally… you'll get someone who is disappointed because, y'know, the pictures on the website don't show your face.”

  “Why not?” asked Dr Sinha.

  The woman didn't even answer that. “So, is that everything?”

  “And he didn't say anything else?” asked Brigit.

  “Nope. Walked in, insulted me, then left. Real fucking charmer your friend, so he is.”

  “And when was this?”

  “Christ,” she said, looking up at the ceiling. “Thursday or Friday a week ago, I s'pose.”

  “Thank you very much, you've been very…” The door closed firmly in their faces, “…helpful.”

  And so it had gone. Following the earlier experience, Brigit now let Sinha knock on the door and make contact before she put in an appearance. The second woman had been an unnerving, chipper girl from Poland, who'd told much the same story. She'd opened the door, Bunny had looked at her, then he'd apologised and left. ‘It was a shame, I like a big man,’ she'd said. She had then explained to Brigit and Dr Sinha that she did do couples and they were already here so… They'd left, and then been unable to make eye contact for a good twenty minutes while having a remarkably detailed and enthusiastic discussion of the weather. It was unseasonably hot – record setting – though not as hot as it got in India. Still hot though, yes, very hot for Ireland.

  The third girl had been French, and considerably more enterprising. It had taken fifty euros in cash to get her to talk. Brigit hadn't got it on her, but she'd sworn that she'd pay Dr Sinha back as soon as they passed a cash machine. He then explained in an embarrassingly loud voice that he was paying for information only, worried that this might be some form of a sting operation. The woman had taken the money, shoved it into the cleavage of the basque she wore under a silk robe and then explained how Bunny had turned up on Wednesday a we
ek ago, said she was supposed to be a brunette and promptly left. The girl explained that she had recently dyed her hair blonde. Brigit and Dr Sinha had then assured her that it did look very nice, and really suited her. Brigit also noted to herself that the other two women were indeed brunettes.

  The fourth girl, a brunette from Dublin, swore blind she'd never seen Bunny, although when Brigit had explained Bunny's rather distinctive accent, the girl's face had lit up. “He might've been the one I had booked in a couple of Fridays ago. Never showed. Fucking time waster! He owes me two hundred euros.” She'd looked at them expectantly. They'd thanked her and left.

  The fifth one was the last on the list, bar the numbers like Simone's that hadn't answered or responded to Sinha's voicemail. This apartment was over in Drumcondra, in a very swanky building. Come to think of it, the crappiest apartment Brigit had been in today had been her own. She stood around the corner and then nodded at Sinha, who sighed and knocked on the apartment door.

  "Just a second," came the shout from inside. Sinha stood there nervously for about a minute before the door opened.

  "Hello, big boy," said a soft female voice. Then Brigit put her head around the corner and looked at the source of the voice.

  Revelation hit her like a brick to the head.

  She had seen this face before. It was burned into her memory.

  The woman's look turned to one of confusion as Brigit strode towards her.

  Then Brigit punched her right in the face.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  DSI Susan Burns looked up at the body again. Whoever the sick individual or group behind the Púca were, she'd say this for them, they certainly knew how to make an impression. The body of Councillor John Baylor had been found crucified, thirty feet in the air on the back of a billboard with his intestines dangling down. The billboard in question had once advertised the Skylark complex to passing motorists on the M50. The sickos weren't exactly subtle in their messaging. If anyone was in any doubt, there had been a note in the victim’s pocket, wrapped in a sandwich bag for safe-keeping, claiming the credit on the Púca’s behalf. The wording had been identical to the last note. It was off in the lab being analysed, but Burns wasn't holding out much hope.