Begging to Die

by Graham Masterton

  Their green Hyundai was parked on the opposite side of the street. Marku and the man in the grey leather jacket helped Danut into the back seat and then they climbed in themselves. The man in the grey leather jacket sat behind the wheel for a moment before he started the engine, breathing hard. Then he thumped the wheel with his fists and said, ‘Futu-i! Why is God always punishing me?’

  Marku shrugged, and sniffed. ‘Maybe God is worried that you will take His place.’

  24

  Katie was dreaming that she was walking along the beach at Garrettstown, on the Old Head of Kinsale, where now and again they used to take Barney and Foltchain for a run. She was trying to catch up with Conor, but he was walking so fast that he seemed to get further and further away, and smaller and smaller, until he was almost out of sight.

  Her bedside phone rang. When she sat up to answer it, she saw that it was three minutes past seven already, and she usually woke up at six.

  It was Detective Inspector Mulliken. ‘Hope I haven’t disturbed you, ma’am. I left it as late as I could. There’s been a fatal shooting in Crane Lane. A rough sleeper we know as Bowser. It happened about two thirty this morning.’

  ‘Oh, God. He’s been shot, you say?’

  ‘Twice, in the head. Most days he used to sit begging outside the General Post Office but at night he dossed down in the back doorway of the Crane Lane Theatre. When he was found, though, his blankets were thrown about all over the shop and he was lying dead in the road. His full name’s William Barrett. I’m told that he used to be quite a useful professional boxer before the drink got to him.’

  ‘Any witnesses?’

  ‘Not so far. But the two shots were reported at two twenty-six by a fellow who lives over Counihan’s Bar on the corner. He said he used to be in the army, so he recognized a gunshot when he heard it.’

  ‘This doesn’t sound like our killer driller, does it? We’re hardly likely to mistake two shots in the head for hypothermia, are we, or a heart attack?’

  ‘There’s three technicians here now, anyway, ma’am, and the street’s cordoned off.’

  ‘Don’t move his body until Dr Kelley has a chance to examine him in situ. She’s a bit of a stickler when it comes to shootings. She likes to work out where the bullets were most likely fired from, in case it was a suicide or there was more than one shooter.’

  ‘Well, I seriously doubt it was suicide. There was no gun in his hand and I don’t think he would have been able to shoot himself twice in the head. Most of his brains are plastered all over his bedding. I’ll send you some pictures if they won’t put you off your breakfast.’

  ‘All right, Tony. I’ll be in by eight thirty because I’m going up to Ballynahina to interview the McQuaide sisters. You should be able to ring Dr Kelley now. She’s usually up at the crack.’

  Katie rolled out of bed, showered and dressed. Today she chose her black trouser suit and a grey polo neck sweater. She wanted to look as severe as possible. She also put on her black suede concealed-wedge boots, because they made her taller.

  She fed Barney and Foltchain with Irish Rover beef burgers. She would have loved to take them for their walk this morning. but she knew that Jenny would give them all the exercise they needed, and with any luck she would be able to take them out when she returned home this evening. Dog-walking was always good for thinking.

  She didn’t eat any breakfast herself, but she sat at her kitchen table with a mug of lemon tea, checking her emails first and then looking at the photographs that Detective Inspector Mulliken had sent her from Crane Lane.

  Bowser was lying on his back with his arms by his sides, staring up to the night sky with one glistening eye. Where his other eye had been, there was nothing but a black hole. In the background Katie could see one of the technical experts in his white Tyvek suit, on his hands and knees, caught in the camera’s flash like a strange animal glimpsed in the forest.

  Why in the world shoot a rough sleeper like Bowser? she asked herself. Granted, he might have had a profitable day outside the post office, because it was on the corner of Oliver Plunkett Street and opposite the corner of Winthrop Street, which made it a prime location for begging. But even so, it was doubtful that he would have made sufficient money for anybody to risk killing him for it.

  It was still possible that Lupul and his gang had shot him, so that they could take over his pitch. Maybe they had realized that the Garda were wise to their drilling technique and now they simply didn’t care if they killed Cork’s domestic beggars openly. Even if they brazenly replaced them with Romanian beggars, Katie knew from experience what a tedious and long-drawn-out process it would be to deport them. EU law protected the weak and the vulnerable, and so she couldn’t simply arrange to have them driven up to the airport and put on the first Ryanair flight back to Bucharest. It was what Assistant Commissioner Frank Magorian called ‘that human rights shite’ – although he had never said that in front of the media.

  So long as the Romanian beggars didn’t admit that they were part of Lupul’s begging ring, and they didn’t lose their nerve and commit violent assault like Andrei Costescu, they would probably be able to delay deportation long enough to make their trip to Cork more than financially worthwhile. For Lupul, anyway.

  Katie tugged Barney’s ears, which he loved so much that it made him growl in the back of his throat, and then she stroked Foltchain under her feathery chin. She shrugged on her coat, left the house and drove towards the city. It was a steel-sharp morning, cold and cloudy but dazzlingly bright, and she felt that today was the day when she was going to make a dramatic difference in her life.

  *

  By nine thirty a.m., Dr Kelley had examined Bowser’s body where it lay in Crane Lane, and authorized it to be taken to the morgue at CUH. Afterwards she texted Detective Inspector Mulliken to tell him that Bowser had been shot from a distance of less than three metres – both shots from the same direction and fired by the same gun, most likely a semi-automatic loaded with 9x19mm Parabellum bullets. She had not yet discovered any other significant injuries, apart from the usual scabs and bruises associated with rough sleeping, but she would carry out a more extensive examination in the morgue.

  Detective Inspector Mulliken was waiting for Katie when she arrived at Anglesea Street. He had loosened his tie, his hair was sticking up at the back like a middle-aged cockatoo, and he needed a shave. Katie noticed how many of the prickles on his chin were silvery-grey.

  ‘Still no witnesses, ma’m,’ he told her. ‘There’s no CCTV covering the back of the Crane Lane Theatre, but I’m having the footage from Oliver Plunkett Street and South Mall checked through. You never know, that may give us a lead – for instance, if we see any of the same vehicles that were parked along Oliver Plunkett Street or Pana after that rough sleeper Matty Donoghue was murdered.’

  Katie sat down at her desk and peeled the lid off her cappuccino. ‘What about our nasty little coffin-maker?’

  ‘Apparently he was shouting and banging on his cell door for a while, but then Sergeant Molloy told him to shut his bake or he’d give him the mother of all clatters, and you know the size of Sergeant Molloy. After that your man was quiet for the rest of the night and he hasn’t uttered a squeak all morning. He’ll be up in front of the District Court this afternoon and I expect he’ll be granted legal aid.

  ‘Little—’ he added, but then he stopped himself. Katie was sure he had been going to add ‘bastard’ or ‘scumbag’ or something similar, but he rarely allowed himself to express his feelings out loud.

  ‘Go on,’ she said. ‘Go away home and get yourself some sleep. I’ll catch up with you later when I’m back from Ballynahina.’

  She called Kyna and Detective O’Crean to make sure they were ready to accompany her to Foggy Fields. Sergeant O’Farrell told her that two uniformed gardaí were standing by, and Bill Phinner confirmed that his two forensic experts were all set up, too.

  She was standing by the window finishing her coffee when Detective
Inspector Mulliken came back into her office. He was wearing his bronze-brown anorak with its nylon fur collar, so he was obviously ready to go home, but he was holding up a clear plastic evidence bag.

  ‘Sergeant Delaney just handed me this,’ he said. ‘One of his officers was clearing up Bowser’s mucky old blankets and he found it lying in the back of the doorway. It’s a necklace, and I can’t see Bowser being the kind of fellow to be wearing it himself, like. And take a lamp at what’s on it.’

  Katie went over to her overcoat and took out her black forensic gloves. Once she had snapped them on, she tipped up the evidence bag and dropped the necklace into the palm of her hand. The catch of its tarnished silver chain had been broken but attached to the chain was a circular silver pendant, scratched and worn, about the size and thickness of a Krugerrand. The pendant was embossed with a face that Katie immediately recognized. It was identical to the face on Ana-Maria’s mother’s ring – the sorrowful-looking woman with a deep cleft in one side of her forehead, Saint Philothea of Argeș.

  ‘This can’t be a coincidence.’

  ‘Exactly what I thought,’ said Detective Inspector Mulliken. ‘Same as that ring that was found in the mince. Whoever did for this Bowser fellow could have been wearing this necklace, don’t you think? Like I said, Bowser was an ex-boxer, so maybe he put up a fight, and it could have snapped off during the struggle.’

  ‘I’d agree with you, Tony. Because where else did it come from, if it wasn’t taken off poor little Ana-Maria’s missing mother? What are the chances there’s been more than one woman who’s been walking around Cork with some unpronounceable Romanian saint on her jewellery. And, besides, what would any woman have been doing round the back of the Crane Lane Theatre in the middle of the night, when a fight was going on – even a brasser? You know me. I don’t like to theorize, but I’d say this is a fierce strong indication that it was Lupul who killed him, or one of Lupul’s gang anyway.’

  Katie took out her iPhone, took a picture of the necklace, and then handed it back to Detective Inspector Mulliken. ‘Take this down to the lab, Tony, so that Bill can take DNA samples. I’ll show Ana-Maria this photo of it, and see if she recognizes it. I don’t want to distress her any more than she is already, but we need to know for sure.’

  ‘Well, I hope we have the time to interview our coffin-maker again today. Jesus – he must know where we can find Lupul.’

  ‘It depends. I should be back from Ballynahina around four or five, but even if he’s granted legal aid this afternoon I’d be amazed if any duty solicitor will show up until tomorrow morning, if then. Still and all – it might soften your man up if we let him stew in his own juice for a few hours. And there’s another thing. Did Robert tell you about that Făt-Frumor fellow? He wouldn’t say where Lupul was himself. Probably scared of being shot himself if he did. But he did tip off Robert and Patrick O’Donovan to have a word with some Romanian barman up at The Parting Glass.’

  ‘Yes, he mentioned it, like. But I don’t know whether they’ve managed to.’

  ‘Not yet. The barman didn’t show up for work yesterday, so Robert said, and nobody up at the Glass knew where he lived, but he’s expected to come in for his shift this evening. So – with any luck at all – maybe we won’t need our coffin-maker to tell us how to track down Lupul. I hope not, to be honest with you. After what he did to Bedelia, I hate to think that we might have to rely on him for any help at all. In fact, the thought of even looking at him makes me craw sick.’

  ‘How is Bedelia? Have you heard?’

  ‘She’s had emergency surgery, and she’s in recovery, but that’s all I know. It’s going to be devastating for her, being blinded in one eye like that, and such a clever girl. There are times when I wish we were back in Old Testament days. You know – if your enemy hurts you, show no pity – hand for hand, foot for foot, and eye for eye.’

  25

  ‘It’s a fierce pity we’re on duty,’ said Detective O’Donovan, as they walked down Castle Street to The Parting Glass. ‘I could murder a pint of Murphy’s.’

  ‘On this occasion, I’d say you’re allowed,’ Detective Inspector Fitzpatrick told him. ‘We don’t want to be drawing attention to ourselves by only ordering a Tanora, or a cup of tea. It’s not the Roundy. Besides, I’ve a desperate throat on me myself.’

  The Parting Glass was halfway down Castle Street in the city centre, a dingy maroon-painted pub with bars over its windows. Above the lintel hung a faded sign depicting a raven perched on a bearded man’s shoulder as he lifted a pint of beer, with the legend ‘An Gloine Slán’. Detective Inspector Fitzpatrick and Detective O’Donovan pushed open the door and stepped inside.

  The bar was small and crowded with thirty or forty drinkers, mostly men. There were half a dozen tables on the left-hand side with multicoloured art nouveau lamps on them, which gave the faces of all the men sitting around them a mottled appearance, as if they were afflicted by some medieval skin disease. On the right-hand side there was a curved counter behind which two people were serving, a short, black-haired woman with a deep cleavage and white wobbly arms and a skinny young man with an undercut hairstyle, a scobe tache and a faded red T-shirt with the Cork GAA badge on it.

  Conversation in the bar stopped when Detective Inspector Fitzpatrick and Detective O’Donovan walked in, and everybody turned around to stare at them. Detective O’Donovan was relieved that he didn’t recognize anybody, and after a few moments the drinkers’ backs were turned again and the craic carried on as before. Cork was a small enough city, and there was nothing more mortifying than walking into a pub undercover and finding that he had arrested half the whole clientele at one time or another for assault or robbery or falling dead drunk into the gutter.

  Detective Inspector Fitzpatrick went up to the barman and said, ‘Two pints of Murphy’s, would you, please?’

  Then, when the barman was pulling the pints, he said, ‘Vasile, is it?’

  The barman glanced across at him suspiciously. He didn’t say yes, but then he didn’t deny it either.

  ‘I’ve been looking for Dragos. The last time I saw him, we were talking about doing a bit of business together, like. He gave me his number but like an eejit I deleted it.’

  The barman set the two pints on the counter. ‘Dragos, you say?’

  ‘That’s your man. Dragomir Iliescu. Most people call him Lupul.’

  ‘I don’t know. Well, maybe I do know. But—’ The barman inclined his head towards all the drinkers, and Detective O’Donovan could see that at least two of them appeared to be watching them.

  ‘How much for the drinks?’ asked Detective Inspector Fitzpatrick.

  ‘Ten euro.’

  Detective Inspector Fitzpatrick took a €10 note out of his wallet and held it up in front of the barman’s nose, but before he handed it over, he said, ‘How much for letting me know where to find Lupul?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s not safe.’

  ‘How about a hundred?’

  The barman looked down at the counter and shook his head.

  ‘How about two hundred?’

  There was a long pause. One of the drinkers sitting nearby had been telling a joke, and when he came up with the punchline – ‘You stupid bollocks, Tonto! I said “posse”, not “pussy”!’ – all the men sitting at his table roared with laughter, and the barman took advantage of the noise by saying, very quickly, ‘You finish your drink, okay? Then I meet you around the corner, in the Cornmarket Street, by the bicycles.’

  Detective Inspector Fitzpatrick and Detective O’Donovan found a small sticky-topped table under the window and sat down.

  ‘You should go for promotion,’ said Detective Inspector Fitzpatrick. ‘We could use some sergeants with your kind of experience.’

  ‘No, thanks,’ said Detective O’Donovan. ‘I don’t like being the one who’s telling everybody else what to do. My da was on the council and always shouting at everybody and I swore to myself that I’d never end up like him. Besides, I
like being out on the streets and talking to people. That way, I can find out what their problems are – drugs or drink or the lack of a job or whatever – and then I can advise them how to get themselves some help. I think I can do more good like that. It’s like solving crimes before they happen, do you know what I mean?’

  Detective Inspector Fitzpatrick stared at him for a long time, almost regretfully, as if he were remembering the time when he was only a detective garda. Then he said, ‘Sup up. We’ve a murderer to find.’

  He downed the rest of his drink, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and looked across at the counter. The barman must have seen that they were almost finished, because he had already disappeared.

  *

  When they turned the corner into Cornmarket Street they found the barman sitting under the trees by the bicycle stands, smoking. He was wearing a black hoodie pulled down so low that they could only see his nose and his chin. He stood up when he saw them, and looked over their shoulders, to make sure they weren’t being followed.

  ‘You have the two hundred?’ he asked Detective Inspector Fitzpatrick.

  ‘Sure like, when you tell us where we can find Lupul.’

  ‘What you said is true – you met him before and he wants to do business with you?’

  ‘Spot on.’

  ‘I want to see your money first, before I say.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Detective Inspector Fitzpatrick. He took out his wallet and counted out four €50 notes. He made sure the barman couldn’t see the other six €50 notes that he had brought with him in case he demanded more.

  The barman took the money and tucked it into the back pocket of his jeans. He looked around again, and then he said, ‘Sidney Park, third house. I don’t know number.’