Dead Man's Sins

by Caimh McDonnell

  Bunny looked around. “Ah, it was nice to see how the other half lives, though. I got a chocolate digestive with my tea. What a level of service!”

  O’Rourke headed towards the door. “Do fill out a comment card on the way out.”

  “Any chance of a lift?”

  “You don’t need one,” said O’Rourke. “Messrs Fadden Junior and Senior are sitting out in reception, chatting to the desk sergeant. They refused to leave.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes. Just a thought, but judging by the look on the poor man’s face as I came in, you might want to get them out of here in case he has access to the gun locker.”

  Bunny nodded. “Good tip.”

  Red Letter Day

  Bunny rang the doorbell and took a step back.

  “Who is it?” asked a tremulous female voice from inside.

  “It’s Bunny, Mrs Spain.”

  “I don’t know anyone by that name.”

  Bunny nodded, as if a part of his mind were confirming to himself why he dreaded coming here. The woman could try his patience at the best of times, and now was certainly not that.

  “It’s Detective Bernard McGarry, Mrs Spain. You rang me earlier.”

  But then, you knew that, he thought to himself. Even at the gates of heaven the woman could complain to St Peter about the wait.

  “I see. Just a moment.”

  Bunny turned and looked back at the car. The Deccie Fadden Collective was sitting in the front, watching him. He gave them a wave. They’d offered to drive him to where he needed to go and, seeing as he currently had no means of transportation, he’d taken them up on their kind offer. He really needed to sort himself out with at least something temporary. His car had been in the shop for months now. It turned out that driving a vehicle off a cliff and into the sea caused all kinds of damage – James Bond’s underwater car must’ve been a nightmare to maintain.

  It had necessitated more time than it should have to convey to them both that their assistance was very definitely not required in talking to Mrs Spain. Without a doubt, the two Deccies and Diana Spain conversing would be a spectacularly watchable car crash, but Bunny had come here looking for answers, not entertainment.

  The door opened a couple of inches, held in place by the chain.

  “Good afternoon, Mr McGarry.”

  “Howerya, Mrs Spain. Could I come in, please? We need to talk.”

  The one eye visible through the crack stared at him intently. “Will you be behaving in a dignified manner?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The last time you were here, you were brawling on the front lawn. I was mortified. I mean, what would the neighbours say?”

  Bunny bit his lip. Clearly, Diana was having one of her good days. Couldn’t fault her memory when it came to other people’s faults. Many possible responses to her question offered themselves up, but none of them would go down well in the current circumstances. Seeing as Bunny knew for a fact that she had, on various occasions, reported the neighbours to the local police for an overly loud radio, a cat shitting on her lawn, excessive horseplay from children, playing ball on the road, and, Bunny’s favourite, suspicious gardening, he had a fairly good idea what the neighbours would say.

  “We just need to have a chat.”

  She huffed for a moment before conceding. “Very well, then.”

  The door closed and reopened fully. Mrs Spain waved him in quickly, as if she were keen to get him inside before anyone saw. As he stepped into the hallway, he noticed Fionnuala standing at the top of the stairs, peering down at him while hugging her cardigan around herself. Bunny didn’t know much about the woman, other than she had never married and was the very definition of mousy. He had tried to be friendly to her every time he’d visited, but she still acted as if she were terrified of him. He had no idea if she was like this with everybody or just him.

  Bunny made his way into the front room. Mrs Spain had made pointed noises about wanting to redecorate it as soon as they’d moved her in, but Bunny had determinedly ignored them. He and Gringo had spent a weekend decorating the entire downstairs when Gringo had first bought the place and the flock wallpaper was a reminder of happier times.

  She directed him to the sofa and took a seat in the armchair opposite. She was wearing a summer dress, unsuited to the current season, but then Bunny knew that she point-blank refused all entreaties to go out for a walk as the area was “far too dangerous”. So, in a house where the heating was always up full whack, it was indeed summer every day.

  Every time Bunny looked at Diana Spain, he was reminded of Gringo’s ex-wife’s description of her mother-in-law: “She has a face on her like the whole world is one great big, blocked toilet and it’s not her job to fix it.” It did sum her up perfectly.

  Seeing as the divorce hadn’t gone through when Gringo died, Mary wasn’t technically his ex-wife, but Bunny noticed that she referred to herself that way and so, out of respect, he did the same. Perhaps she preferred it to thinking of herself as a widow. Still, he remembered her collapsing in floods of tears at the funeral. Bunny knew more than anyone that Gringo hadn’t been a perfect man, but, despite the couple’s problems, there’d been love there – any fool could see that.

  Bunny and Mary had never been close, but she’d been very decent in helping out with the mess that her soon-to-be-ex had left behind – not least, what to do about the woman now sitting opposite Bunny. In contrast to Mary, Diana had spent the funeral stony-faced, even glancing with disapproval at her former daughter-in-law’s display of emotion.

  Diana herself had been widowed at an early age, after her husband, the accountant-cum-investment-guru to Ireland’s rich and famous, had committed suicide after it was discovered he’d been embezzling money from his friends and clients. Gringo had found him in the garage. The topic only ever came up when Gringo had been really in his cups, and Bunny was certain he’d never discussed it with Mary.

  Diana regarded Bunny with the air of a school principal about to deliver a strong reprimand, “I hope you have an explanation for that debacle this morning?”

  “Actually,” replied Bunny, “I was rather hoping you did. Those two fellas seemed to think there were some outstanding debts. Do you know what they’re talking about?”

  She dismissed the question with a wave of her hand. “I don’t concern myself with such things. Timothy always dealt with the finances, and before that, his sainted father – God rest his soul – handled all the family’s affairs.”

  Bunny nodded. Mrs Spain was very sensitive about her late husband, particularly when it came to any suggestion that he had been involved in any impropriety or had taken his own life. In her version of the world, he’d been hounded over some bookkeeping errors he’d been in the middle of correcting then died tragically while cleaning a shotgun. Bunny still remembered well the moment Gringo hadn’t been able to take it any more and had laid out for his mother the cold truth of how and why his father was no longer with them. The pair hadn’t spoken for almost a year and their stalemate was broken only when, out of the blue, Diana had rung Gringo to inform him that the washing machine wasn’t working. That was as close as you got to an apology from Diana Spain.

  “The thing is, Mrs Spain, apparently those two gobshites—”

  “There is no need for that kind of language.”

  “What should I call them?”

  “Gentlemen.”

  Bunny paused. “OK. Those two gentlemen from this morning – the ones you were kind enough to turn the hose on …”

  Her eyes flashed with anger.

  “They had some paperwork. Have you been receiving any letters?”

  “All manner of things. So much comes through the letterbox these days. Honestly, why the Gardaí aren’t doing anything about it I don’t know.”

  “Right. Any letters with red writing on the front of them?”

  She tutted. “I don’t know. I leave all of that in the drawer in the kitchen.”

  “Grand,�
� said Bunny. “Am I alright to go and look in the drawer?”

  Mrs Spain thought about this. “Very well, but please refrain from touching anything else.”

  “Do you think I’m going to rob the place, Diana?”

  For a moment Bunny fancied that even she thought her last remark might have been a step too far.

  “No, I … I’m just very particular about how everything is.”

  Despite the china-doll vibe she liked to give off, Diana Spain must have been stronger than she looked. There was so much post rammed into the drawer that it took Bunny three attempts to open it.

  “Careful!” she admonished.

  He ignored her and focused his attention on the treasure trove of unopened correspondence before him. Letters from the Garda Representative Association; bills – most of which Bunny knew, thankfully, were handled via direct debits; the normal charity mailers; flyers for double-glazing companies; pizza menus; a letter from Áras an Uachtaráin, the office of the President of Ireland herself no less; and there, buried at the bottom, were the letters Bunny had felt with leaden certainty in his stomach he would find.

  As he opened them, he noted that, for a woman who seemingly paid no attention to her post, the envelopes with the big scary words in red lettering on them were shoved right at the bottom, as if they could be crushed out of existence by the weight of banality on top of them.

  Bunny read the first one, cursed under his breath, loud enough to earn a tut from behind him, and then ripped open another one. It was the same, only worse.

  Bunny sighed. “This is bad. Very bad.”

  He turned to see Diana Spain standing half in and half out of the kitchen, as if preparing to run.

  “What is it?”

  “Well, I need to talk to a lawyer, but according to these letters, the company those men work for aren’t saying that Tim owes them money.”

  “That’s good, isn’t it?”

  “Unfortunately not. What they’re saying is that they own this house.”

  Mrs Spain went pale. “That is utter nonsense. This was – is – Timothy’s house. Why would he sell it?”

  “I don’t think he sold it as such. Like I said, I need to look into it further.”

  “I’ll hire a lawyer to deal with this.”

  Bunny nodded. “Alright, Mrs Spain, but unless you have some money to pay them, I can’t see how that’ll work exactly.”

  “But … but … I am a respectable woman.”

  For a moment, behind the acid tongue and haughty disapproval of the world, Bunny saw a glimpse of the real Diana Spain: a scared woman in her seventies whose carefully built-up world was being rudely ripped down from around her – and not for the first time. Oddly, when she showed just a hint of vulnerability was when she looked most like Gringo. It was something in the eyes.

  Then, the flash of the ghost of his old friend vanished just as quickly as it had appeared, only to be replaced by anger. Diana jabbed a finger at Bunny. “How could you let this happen?”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you. Timothy left you in charge of his estate.”

  “Timothy didn’t leave me in charge of anything. What he left was a mess, which I’ve been endeavouring to sort out.”

  “I think you’re stealing his money!”

  Something in Bunny snapped. “Am I? Really? Not that you’d know, Diana, but I’ve been paying your electricity bill out of my own pocket for the last couple of months. Believe me, there is no money to steal. Tim left behind a lot of debts …” He picked up the letter and waved it at her. “… More than we realised, because you haven’t been opening the post. So don’t go taking a pop at me about how everything’s gone tits up. I can’t sort out what I don’t know about.”

  Mrs Spain turned on her heel, stormed down the hallway and back into the front room.

  Bunny stood there, seething, and annoyed with himself for having lost his temper.

  He decided to give it five minutes, and used the time to check through all of the post again and make sure there were no other nasty surprises. The only one seemed to be from Better Tomorrow Lending Limited. Bunny had a strong suspicion who that really was: Coop Hannity, whose muscle he had met earlier in the day.

  After he had judged enough time had passed, Bunny knocked softly on the door to the front room. There was a pregnant pause before Mrs Spain said, “Come in” in a quiet voice.

  She was sitting in the same chair she had occupied earlier. She was trying to hide it, but Bunny guessed she had been crying. He felt truly awful.

  “I apologise for losing my temper, Mrs Spain.”

  She gave a curt nod and rearranged a doily that did not need adjustment on the nest of tables beside her. She cleared her throat. “How bad is it?”

  “I honestly don’t know. Like I said, I’ll have to look into it. I’ll talk to the lawyer from the Garda Representative Association and see if they can help with it.”

  “Very well.”

  “If those men from earlier – or anyone else you don’t know – turn up and start asking questions, or whatever, ring me. Day or night.” Bunny took a tentative step forward and held out a piece of paper. “If you can’t get me, call any of the three numbers on this piece of paper.”

  She took it and looked at it.

  “They’re other guards,” said Bunny. “I’ll let them know you might be in touch.”

  “I don’t want other people knowing our family’s business.”

  “I understand. These are all friends of Tim’s. They’ll be discreet. It’s only in case of emergency.”

  She folded the paper and placed it on the doily. “Very well.”

  “And if any other post turns up, just let me know.”

  “I will.”

  Bunny shuffled his feet. “Alright, then. And try not to worry.”

  When Diana Spain didn’t say anything, Bunny turned and made his way towards the front door. “I’ll see myself out.”

  He’d just placed his hand on the handle when she called his name. He turned to see her standing in the doorway to the front room.

  “My Timothy was a good man. Wasn’t he?”

  “The very best.”

  She pursed her lips. “He gambled, didn’t he?”

  Bunny was taken aback. Until now, Diana had seemed determined to stay wilfully ignorant of that fact. “He did, yes.”

  She looked down at the carpet. “I suppose we all have our flaws.”

  “We do,” agreed Bunny. “Lord knows, we do.”

  She looked up at him and gave him that same piercing look Bunny had seen Gringo use a thousand times when trying to break a suspect. “But he was a good man?”

  Bunny nodded and turned back to the door, but paused. “Oh God, sorry. With all of the fuss, I forgot.” He took the other letter out of the back pocket of his jeans, flattened it out on his chest and then handed it to Diana. “Congratulations. It looks like the President would like to give him a medal.”

  Castles and Monsters

  As soon as the car turned the corner, Bunny couldn’t help but bark a laugh.

  “What’s funny?” asked Deccie Sr.

  “I just got it,” replied Bunny. “When I rang my old friend to ask for Coop Hannity’s address, he’d only give me the road name. Said I’d know it when I saw it.”

  Deccie Sr pulled up in front of the large house that dominated the end of the cul-de-sac.

  “Do you want us to come in with you, Bunny?” asked Deccie Jr. “As back-up, like?”

  “No need for that,” said Deccie Sr. “I’m sure Bunny can handle everything just fine on his own.”

  The two men locked eyes and Bunny gave a nod of acknowledgement. Senior knew the Hannity name and being here made him understandably nervous.

  “Your grandad is right, Deccie. I’ve got this from here. The two of you should head home for your dinner.”

  Senior did a bad job of hiding his relief. “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely. I’ve an old mate up the road that
I might pop up and visit after.”

  “But,” protested Deccie, “how’re we supposed to find out what’s happening?”

  “I’m sure Bunny will tell you about anything that is your business to know, Deccie. C’mon. Your granny will be getting annoyed. It’s sausage night.”

  “It was sausage night last night,” said Deccie.

  “It’ll be sausage night all week.” Senior looked at Bunny. “I got a very good deal from a lad down the pub. Forgot the missus doesn’t actually like sausages.”

  “Oh right.”

  “How was I supposed to know?”

  “You’ve been married for forty-eight years,” said Deccie, earning him a dirty look from his granddad. “What? I’m only repeating what Granny said.”

  “And what have I told you about doing that?”

  “Anyway,” said Bunny, opening the car door. “Thanks very much for the assistance, gentlemen. Deccie, I’ll see you tomorrow at training.”

  Deccie nodded huffily.

  “We’ll do fitness work and I’ll let you be in charge of the whistle.”

  His assistant manager’s face lit up at this. “Brilliant!”

  Bunny said his final goodbyes and watched the car pull away, the Deccie Fadden Collective no doubt already deep in two parallel but separate conversations.

  Bunny turned to look at the house behind him, illuminated by various strategically placed lights to fend off the early evening darkness. The reason an exact address was not needed was obvious as soon as you saw it. James “Coop” Hannity had grown up in the seven towers of Ballymun, the lights of which were just visible in the distance. Clearly, he’d not wanted to move too far away from his roots, so down the road in Santry was as far as he’d felt comfortable venturing. This left him with the issue of being rich enough to afford a mansion but only having the housing stock in a fairly run-of-the-mill middle-class suburb to choose from.

  The solution Hannity had hit on was to buy up the neighbouring houses and expand. He now owned an almost palatial spread that sat incongruously between the other three-bed semi-detached houses on the street. Bunny guessed the neighbours weren’t wild about it but had the sense to keep those thoughts to themselves. On the upside, he’d wager very good money that no houses on this street ever got burgled. Even the dimmest of local independent operatives in the field of unlicensed acquisitions would have more sense than to do anything that would bring them to the attention of Coop Hannity.