Days into her stint in charge of the NBCI, and ambition and integrity had been facing in opposite directions. For what it was worth, she'd chosen integrity. She wouldn't have her investigation used for political ends, not when she couldn't justify it. Her instincts – those things she didn't believe in – told her that the ‘McGarry as Franks's vengeful angel’ idea was so much wishful bullshit. Still, a refusal to play along had no doubt scuppered her career as soon as it had reached the capital. When you rise fast, those you passed will take particular delight in the fall. Maybe she should jump now? See if somebody in the private sector likes the idea of making the woman who slapped sense into the Limerick gangs their new head of something?
She pulled her phone out of her pocket and then looked to her right. The bronze figures of the Famine Memorial stood frozen, walking towards her, bundles in their hands. Five emaciated figures, with a stick-thin dog trailing in their wake. Some moron had left a half-eaten packet of crisps tucked into the crook of one of their arms.
She considered ringing the Incident Room for an update, but it was important to let people get on with the job. They had a team out going over McGarry's house, another retracing his last known steps in Howth where the car was found, and a third poring over his phone records, which she had already been informed contained the numbers of several escorts. She'd also received a report on at least some of the incidents that had been noted on McGarry's file. She could see why the force were nervous; there was an awful lot there that would be embarrassing to explain, for a multitude of reasons. She had also dispatched officers to re-interview everyone involved in the Rapunzel case, in light of the new information. Sharpe had, however, overruled her on calling Brigit Conroy and Paul Mulchrone in for questioning. He was working on the theory that McGarry’s two ‘known associates’ might be assisting him in his current killing spree. He had also applied for taps on McGarry's phone, which they would get, and Conroy’s and Mulchrone’s, which they shouldn't get; but given the current hysteria, no doubt the right, swayable judge would assist.
Her brief moment of peace was interrupted by the sensation of her phone vibrating in her jacket pocket. She fished it out.
"DSI Burns speaking."
"Where the hell are you?" It was Sharpe.
"I'm just outside sir, I was about to—"
"I don't care," interrupted Sharpe, "get in here now."
"Yes, sir. Is everything all right?"
"No," said Sharpe, speaking as if through gritted teeth. "Nothing is all right, Franks is dead."
Chapter Thirty-Five
Gerry: I tell you, folks, I’ve been sitting here listening for weeks, months, years in fact – and it does feel like something is changing. Maybe people have had enough. Maybe 100 years or so since the last one, the Irish people are due another revolution. A very different kind of revolution, one about social justice. Father Franks has his Ark at one extreme, and at the other there’s the Púca – whose actions neither I nor the station are condoning – but it feels like… it feels like we’ve reached some kind of tipping point, doesn’t it?
I’m in the mood for playing some Dylan, because it feels like the times, they are a changing. Unfortunately, it isn’t on the playlist, so instead we’ve got… (sighs) Ronan Keating with ‘When You Say Nothing at All’.
"OK," said Brigit, "I know it isn't going to be easy, but just try and stay calm."
Paul nodded solemnly, or at least as solemnly as it was possible to be while licking an ice lolly shaped like a grinning green frog. They were sitting on a bench in Herbert Park, waiting. The bench they had chosen sat beside a path in the shade of a large tree, partly because they didn’t want to be seen, and partly because it was the hottest day of the year and neither he nor Brigit had sunblock. Catching a few rays had not been in either of their plans when they’d started the day. In the background, a bunch of teenagers were enjoying a languorous game of footie, where estimates of the score varied wildly.
"I mean," continued Brigit, "you've got every right to be furious, obviously, but let's focus on what's important here. Bunny."
Paul nodded again. She was absolutely correct. He did have every right to be livid. Duncan McLoughlin had made a strong effort at destroying Paul's life. He'd hired someone to drug him and then take very compromising pictures of him. A part of Paul really was angry, but that was only one of many voices currently shouting for attention. There was an overwhelming sense of relief. He'd spent the last forty-nine days buried under a crushing sense of guilt and self-loathing, for being a truly awful human being. Now, he had proof that he wasn't. The guilt was still there though, like the phantom feeling of an itchy big toe from a foot that had been amputated. He had repeatedly tried to remind himself over the last couple of hours that he wasn't an arsehole, but so far he’d not managed to talk himself into it.
Then there was the happiness. Brigit was talking to him again. They weren't exactly them again, but at least they were within ten feet of each other and nobody was shouting. Brigit had been somewhat distant, as if her phantom fury, like his guilt, hadn't entirely gone away. If anyone had a right to be angry it was him, but then, he couldn't really blame her for believing what had been presented to her. It had never occurred to him that it was a set-up either. There was the irony. The only person who'd believed Paul was better than that, had been Bunny McGarry. He felt a wave of affection towards the mad old bastard, then a wash of sadness. He had been missing now for ten days. The belief that he could just have gone off on the lash or for some romantic getaway was getting harder and harder to hold onto. This brought Paul right back to anger. Bunny was gone, and Duncan McLoughlin was probably one of the last people to see him alive.
Maggie strained at her lead as a woman in a breezy summer dress walked by with a Yorkshire Terrier yapping at her heels.
"Did we really need to bring her?"
"Trust me," said Paul, gently dragging Maggie back, "you do not want to leave her alone in your car."
After they had agreed that talking to Duncan was now priority number one, they'd headed over to the offices of the architects he worked for.
"And you’re sure about this?" asked Paul, not for the first time.
"Yes," said Brigit, annoyance pulling at the corners of her voice, "The receptionist was very clear about it.”
"When she’d said he was out of the country?"
"It was the way she said it. Like she wanted me to know that she’d been told to say that."
"Why didn’t she just tell you he wasn’t out of the country?"
"Because that would be unprofessional."
"But—"
"Clearly, she doesn’t like Duncan because…" Brigit left that hanging and even Paul didn’t need her to fill in the blanks. If Duncan was such a relentless hound dog with the ladies, he’d have undoubtedly pissed off the receptionists at his work. Receptionists were the canaries down the coal mine of the modern office; there was nothing worth knowing that they wouldn’t know first.
"And then she’d said he’d be going there?" Paul pointed in the direction of Debonair Grooming, a shop whose signage proclaimed it was ‘so much more than a barbers’ in such an ostentatious tone that the newsagents next door had a hand-written sign stuck in the window that said ‘just a newsagents’.
"No," Brigit sighed, "I asked if he still went once a fortnight to get a manicure at that male grooming place—"
"And she said yes?" Paul knew she hadn’t, but some part of him was enjoying annoying Brigit.
"No, she said ‘well, he didn’t go last week.’"
"Oh well that makes perfect—"
Paul stopped talking, because although he’d only met him once, even he could recognise that the man who had just emerged from Debonair Grooming was Duncan McLoughlin. He wore expensive-looking sunglasses, over an expensive-looking suit and a pair of shoes that Paul guessed fitted in well with the overall theme of expense. On top of it all sat a fine head of hair, most of which was no longer with its original owner.
"Shit, should we—"
Brigit put her hand on Paul’s knee to stop him moving. While Duncan was walking towards them, he wasn’t looking in their direction. Two female joggers were warming up in the sunlight, and Duncan was… distracted was the wrong word, that implied they’d temporarily drawn his attention. Duncan was locked onto them with such laser-like focus that you’d swear he’d just got out of prison, or was an alien from another planet where they had not yet invented the breast. Whatever subtlety sunglasses might offer anyone having a gander, it didn’t work if you turned your head to look directly at the thing you weren’t supposed to be looking at.
Brigit, Paul and Maggie moved onto the pavement, and stood there as Duncan walked right into the one woman, one man and his dog that had come to mow his meadow.
"Watch where you’re—" The words automatically apportioning blame on someone else stalled in Duncan’s throat, as he took in who was standing in front of him. He looked at Paul, then looked at Brigit, and realised exactly what them standing there together meant.
After a moment’s reflection, he screamed and bolted between them, running down the path as fast as Italian leather could carry him. Before Brigit or Paul had time to react, Maggie had slipped the lead and was off in hot pursuit.
The shadows cast by the tall trees divided the path into near-even patches of light and shade. Paul was a little impressed that Duncan managed to make it all the way to the second patch of sunlight before Maggie caught up with him.
It was like a scene from a nature documentary, one where wolves hunted down besuited bastards of the wild frontier. Maggie leapt onto him, and bodily took Duncan to the ground. He fell messily, arms splaying out, glasses tumbling off – the grip offered by Italian leather shoes having never been their biggest selling point. He tried to turn his body around, better to fend off his attacker. Maggie clamped her jaws around his throat.
Absolute stillness. For a second nobody moved.
"Christ," said Paul.
"Holy—" said Brigit, "Get her off him!"
"I'll… I'll try…" said Paul.
He slowly moved up the pavement, stepping with the care of someone in the midst of a minefield. "OK, Maggie, just relax. Good dog. I'm just… picking up your lead now…"
Paul bent down towards the lead. A low growl issued from around Duncan’s throat. Paul gently picked up the lead. "OK now, Maggie… let go."
Nobody was more surprised than Paul when she did so, sitting calmly back, while never taking her eyes off her opponent. She licked her chops extravagantly. It may have been purely for intimidation purposes, but Paul guessed that she was probably trying to get the taste of expensive aftershave out of her mouth.
Duncan made to move, and another ominous growl told him it was an inadvisable course of action.
Brigit looked down at him.
"Hi Duncan, how’ve you been?"
"I’ve, well, I… I can tell you’re upset."
Brigit looked across at Paul. "He could always read me like a book."
"I… I don’t… I’m really sorry—"
"Really sorry about what? That you tried to destroy my life? That you drugged Paul and— I can’t even find the words for the next bit."
"I’ll pay. Like I told your friend, I’ll pay."
"Oh you’ll pay, alright."
"Brigit," said Paul.
She looked at him and he nodded his head back down the path. Unsurprisingly, a man being taken down by a German Shepherd had garnered a bit of attention. Two mothers pushing prams were discussing them, and the game of football had ground to a halt for everyone bar the fat kid, who’d found himself inexplicably able to burst through from midfield and slot one home past a statue-like defence.
"Everything is fine," said Paul with a wave, "It’s just a dog training exercise. All under control."
He delivered it with as much confidence as he could muster but one of the mothers still eyed him suspiciously before retrieving a mobile phone from inside her handbag.
Brigit looked down at Duncan again.
"Tell us about how you met our friend, exactly."
"That nut job?!"
Brigit nodded.
"I wake up, and the dude is standing over me. I mean, actually on my bed standing over me, poking me with a bloody hurley."
Well, thought Paul, at least they were all definitely talking about the same nut job.
"When was this?" asked Brigit.
Duncan stopped to think. Maggie leaned in slightly, close enough that her breath played across his face.
"Friday. Friday week ago."
"Time?"
"About ten. I was in bed. I’d an early tee time the next morning down at the K Club, those are really hard to get."
There was something almost admirable about the fact that Duncan had managed to use his current predicament as a bragging opportunity.
"What did he say to you?"
"I…" Duncan’s eyes darted back and forth like a trapped animal. "Is he here?"
"No," said Brigit. "In fact, he’s been missing since that night, and you’re damn near the last person to see him alive. What did you do?"
Paul didn’t think it would have been possible for Duncan to look more alarmed, but there it was. "I didn’t do anything. I… I woke up and he was there! On top of me. Said he… said he knew all my sins. What I’d done and… to be honest, I thought maybe it’d all been a really vivid bad dream. Look, could you please take the dog away."
"I’m afraid," said Paul, "that the dog has a mind of her own, and it appears she doesn’t like you."
Paul noticed Brigit’s glance towards the two buggy mummies, one of them was on the phone now.
"Who did you tell?" said Brigit.
"Tell what?"
"Tell that he’d found out what you’d done?"
"Nothing, nobody. Who am I going to tell? He told me he’d found me. He showed me his doo-dah."
Paul and Brigit exchanged a quick look.
"Excuse me?" said Brigit.
"His doo-dah," said Duncan. "It was a small black box with a, a little green man on the side. Said he’d used it to find me. That’s all I know. Please, call the dog off. It was a joke, it was all a joke."
"A joke?!"
Paul had seen that look in Brigit’s eyes once before, the fact that it wasn’t directed at him this time made it only marginally less terrifying. He looked at the buggy mummies again. The proactive one was off the phone now, and they were looking around like they were expecting somebody to arrive fairly soon.
"Brigit?"
"The only joke here is you, you pathetic, narcissistic, limp-dicked scumbag. I hope it drops off. In fact…"
Duncan reflexively clamped his hand around his nether regions as Brigit lifted her foot in a menacing manner.
"Brigit, don’t," said Paul. She looked at him, a mixture of anger and confusion on her face. "You’re better than that, don’t sink to his level."
She gave him a look that Paul couldn’t read, then lowered her foot.
Paul subtly dipped his head back in the direction of the buggy mummies. "I think our audience may’ve called the cops. Head up that way, I’ll be with you in a sec."
Brigit nodded and with one last look down at Duncan, she started slowly walking away.
Paul bent down as if about to help Duncan up but not actually doing so.
"She’s worth ten of you, ye pathetic little shit." Duncan’s pained expression was less to do with the put-down, and more to do with the crunching noise of Paul’s foot destroying some high-class eyewear.
"See ya."
Paul started to walk off, but was halted by a tension on Maggie’s lead. He turned back to see her looking up at him, while sim
ultaneously cocking her leg and relieving herself on Duncan’s expensive suit. Its owner merely whimpered at the sheer injustice of it all.
Once done, Maggie calmly trotted off up the path towards Brigit.
After a few feet, Paul looked down.
"Really? I’d got that whole crushing the shades thing with the ‘see ya’ and all that, but oh no, you had to go and one-up me, didn’t you?"
Maggie did not respond.
Chapter Thirty-Six
DSI Burns sat outside the room of the third floor of the Ark. Somebody had brought herself and Assistant Commissioner Sharpe a couple of chairs. They were sat there like grieving relatives. It had been four hours since the raid and, if it wasn't the worst four of Sharpe's life, Burns guessed it must be up there.
"It was, basically, when you think of it, just bad timing. Natural causes really." said Sharpe. He was a different man now, seeking assurance at every turn.
Burns nodded. Sharpe was right, of course. Franks having a heart attack wasn't the same as somebody shooting him, of course it wasn't. No doubt the Garda Ombudsman, who was in there right now with the medical examiner and an independent doctor, would clear the Gardaí of any responsibility for his death after a long and thorough investigation. All of this was true. All of it was also entirely irrelevant. They'd sent heavily armed men into a peaceful protest, and one of the most famous men in the country was now dead. Spin that how you liked, and best of luck for the future.
They could have all the training days they liked, but the reality was, when push came to shove, the higher-ups had no concept of how social media worked. They were trying to batten down the hatches and think everything through before commenting. All well and good, but as a near-tearful Gettigan from the Press Office had already tried to explain to Sharpe three times over the phone – truth is time dependent. Beyond a certain point, if you don't put it out there, the lies have taken up too much room. Twitter was already ablaze with the idea that Franks had been shot dead by a Garda hit squad. Rather than refute that and give nuance to the situation, Sharpe had been scrambling for political support that was suddenly nowhere to be found. The Taoiseach’s office had already issued the boilerplate ‘the government does not comment on ongoing police operations.’ Right now, Assistant Commissioner Sharpe was all about Garda solidarity, but Burns had no doubt it would occur to him soon enough that Burns could be a handy solution to his perception problem. She also guessed he'd recheck his e-mails at that point. She had been very clear in lodging her objections to the current course of action. He was dangling off the side of the building, and she was watching from inside with a nice cuppa on the go.
The Day That Never comes (The Dublin Trilogy Book 2) Page 22