Dead Man's Sins

by Caimh McDonnell

  Bunny’s words resulted in Diarmuid looking a mixture of embarrassed and delighted.

  “To be crystal clear,” Bunny continued, “I’m buying grub for the team, not half of north Dublin.” A thought struck him. “Although, Eoin, if your little sister and brother would like to come, we could use some enthusiastic cheerleaders.” Bunny made a mental note to drop over to their house soon with another hamper of food someone had inexplicably given him. He clapped his hands. “Right, boys. Straight home, no messing. Here at 10am on Sunday for the bus.”

  The team began to disperse.

  “Alan with one L, hang back a second.”

  The rest of the boys walked off, engaged in the random jibber-jabber and sporadic violence that was the mainstay of pre-pubescent boys’ lives.

  Bunny looked down into the nervous face of the kid, all blond hair and a smattering of freckles. Anger and sadness swirled in his gut. Alan was small for his age, too. Never mind that, though – any twelve-year-old was far too small to face up to a full-grown man, and a professional boxer to boot. The kid had that nervy edge to him, as if life had already taught him that all he could expect from it was bad.

  Bunny gave him a big smile. “Don’t look so worried, fella – you’ve not done anything wrong.” He put his arm around Alan’s shoulder and started walking him towards the gate. “Quite the opposite, in fact. I just wanted to say that I’ve noticed how hard you work in training, week after week. If we had fourteen more of you, we’d be national champions.”

  Ahead of them, the parents who’d already been waiting had collected their chattering offspring, while the group of lads making their own ways home had drifted towards the exit. Alan’s mother stood there alone, her arms folded, looking nervous. She had that same twitchy look to her.

  “Howerya, Janice.”

  She gave a tight smile. “Hi, Bunny. Is everything alright?”

  “Oh yeah, great, thanks. I was just commending Alan here on how good he’s getting. He’s a dynamo on our wing.”

  Janice’s smile transformed into a proud beam and Bunny swore he could feel the warmth of the blush off her son.

  Bunny caught himself and turned around. “Ara, feck it. I forgot I’ve to pick up all these cones. D’ye mind if Alan gives me a quick hand?”

  “Sure,” said Janice. “No problem.”

  “Fantastic.” Bunny wafted a hand to his left. “By the way, this is my friend Pamela.”

  Janice turned to see the short redhead who’d been standing around. She’d wondered who she was, knowing all the other parents already. They smiled hellos.

  Bunny ruffled Alan’s hair. “C’mon so, dynamo, I’ll race ye. Most cones collected wins.”

  Butch cleared her throat. “That’s a great young fella you’ve got there.”

  Janice’s eyes crinkled. “Yeah, he’s a good boy.”

  “Twelve is a brilliant age, isn’t it? Still a kid, full of beans, none of that teenage angst yet.”

  Janice turned her body to face Butch. “Have you kids yourself?”

  “No,” Butch admitted. “Lots of nieces and nephews, though, and I used work with children a lot.”

  “Oh right,” said Janice with a nod. “So, you and Bunny are friends, then?”

  “Yeah, we’re …” Butch stopped herself and blushed as she realised what Janice meant. “Not like that.”

  “You could do a lot worse.”

  “True.”

  The two women watched in silence for a few seconds as Bunny chased Alan round, trying to grab the cones he’d picked up. “You’d never know from looking at him that he was a guard, would you?”

  “He does hide it well.”

  “That’s how I know him. We work together. Well, he’s having a bit of time off.”

  “That’s right,” said Janice. “I know he was involved in that bad business last year, wasn’t he?”

  “Yeah. Lost his partner.”

  Janice tutted. “Awful thing.”

  Bunny had now grabbed Alan by the legs and was holding him upside down, the kid snorting with laughter as he did so.

  “If you don’t mind me saying,” said Janice, “you don’t look much like a guard yourself.”

  Butch smiled. “Between you and me, that’s kind of the point. You’d be amazed how handy it is not to have the ‘my older brother got the farm so here I am’ look that most guards have. Nobody is picking me out as a copper.”

  “Ah right, yeah. That makes sense. For undercover stuff and the like?”

  Butch nodded. “And before that I worked a lot with domestic-abuse stuff. Child protection – that kind of thing.”

  She felt the other woman tense – a sure sign.

  “It’s a tough area,” continued Butch, keeping her tone steady. “Things have improved a lot, though. There’s a lot of ways these days to ask for help if you need it.”

  Janice said nothing, but turned her attention to Alan.

  “A lot of it’s being taught how to spot the signs in a victim. Becoming withdrawn, moody. Unexplained bruising, of course.”

  Janice checked her watch. “We should probably get a move on.”

  “All the time I spent working in that area, d’ye know what I learned? Nobody hits a kid by accident. They hit a kid because they’re the kind of arsehole who hits a kid. And they never ever do it just once.”

  Janice’s head lowered and she sniffled. “It’s not like that.”

  Butch softened her voice. “If I’d a pound for every time I heard that. It’s not just the kid he hits, is it?”

  “He promised that he’d—”

  “Janice, they always promise.”

  Anger flared in Janice’s eyes as she turned to Butch. “It’s nothing to do with you.”

  Butch took a step back, wanting to give the other woman room. “All I’m saying is, I understand. I really do. Just say the word and we can help.”

  “Yeah, because the law does such a brilliant job of protecting women and kids, doesn’t it?”

  Butch shrugged. “No, it doesn’t. Nobody knows that more than I do, but I’m telling you, we can get you some place safe tonight and—”

  “He’d find us.”

  “He wouldn’t.”

  “How many women have you told that bullshit to?”

  Butch held up her hands. “OK. Look, I get it. You don’t know me and you don’t trust the law.” She pointed to where Bunny was now giving the laughing Alan a piggyback. “But you do know him, and you know he’d go to hell and back to protect one of his boys.”

  Janice bit her lip as tears trickled down her face.

  “I understand,” said Butch in her calmest voice. “You’re scared to leave, but deep down you know it’ll happen again.” She took a card out of her pocket and held it out to Janice. “Here’s my number.”

  The other woman looked at it but didn’t move to take it.

  Butch pointed at the printed wording on the card. “Look, it says Atlas Cosmetics. If he sees it, just say you got asked to do some make-up parties for extra cash. Even if he rings the number, that’s all he’ll get, I swear.” She looked over at Bunny and Alan. “I think they’re finishing up.”

  Janice turned her face away and wiped the tears from her eyes. As she looked back again, she took the card and slipped it into her pocket.

  “Any time,” said Butch. “Day or night.”

  “C’mon,” shouted Janice, waving at Alan. “We’d better get a move on or your dinner will be burned. Say goodbye to Bunny.”

  Alan and Bunny shared a high-five then the lad ran off after his mother, who was already hurrying towards the exit.

  Bunny put down the pile of cones he was carrying. He walked over to stand beside Butch and they watched the pair leave.

  “Well?”

  “I don’t know, but at least she took the card.”

  Bunny shook his head. “I don’t get it. Any of it.”

  Butch glanced up at him and then looked away. “I know you don’t.”

  “You
could probably use a drink after that?”

  Butch gave him a stern look. “No. I’d rather vent my frustrations by going for a jog, and you promised me if I helped out with this, you’d go home and get an early night.”

  “I worry about you running around on your own at night.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Always training. Nocturnal. Be honest with me – are you Batman?”

  Butch laughed and then pursed her lips. “I’ll tell you what, I do look good in leather.” She punched Bunny on the arm.

  Under a Blood-red Moon

  Coop Hannity looked down at his pride and joy. She was a beauty. The last time she’d been sent across to a race in Europe, Guillaume, the annoying Frenchman, had tried to make him an offer for her. He hadn’t even let him get as far as proposing a figure. Athena was his first truly great bird. A three-time winner.

  The music swelled pleasingly in the background. He ran the back of his index finger over her breast feathers then unfurled his palm so that she could peck the seeds out of it. All of the birds needed exercising but he allowed Deirdre, the college kid who came around on weekdays to check on the animals, to handle most of it. She wasn’t as good as Peter, but he’d noticed the guy smiling at Angelina and he couldn’t have that. People needed to know where the lines were.

  This was why he preferred his birds. Pigeons were blessed with a singular focus: the desire to return home as efficiently as possible. There was a cleanness to it. In contrast, people were messy. He knew it shouldn’t bother him, but it did. After all, if people could make simple logical decisions, he wouldn’t have a business.

  In fact, his understanding of the human capacity to screw up had been the driving force behind everything he’d done. To take advantage of it, he himself had to be able to anticipate people’s behaviour and think several moves ahead. To see the turn in the road where the reckless driver would inevitably fail to slow down and the black ice would do the rest. Coop prided himself on being a strategic thinker in a world full of over-emotional fools, blundering from crisis to crisis.

  The wind changed and a chill passed through him. March was such an annoying month. It could be bright sunshine one day and snow the next. He spoke without looking around. “Joe, move that lamp over beside this coop.” He couldn’t have his prize girl feeling the chill.

  Coop heard a clunking noise behind him.

  “Be. Careful.”

  Joe did not respond. The man was undeniably useful. Just the look of him was enough to stop all but the foolhardiest from trying anything. In essence, the big man was just a visual reminder of Coop’s power. People might make stupid decisions all the time, but the sight of the big, dumb, musclebound clod stopped them from making a terminal one. That’s not to say that having him around didn’t come at a cost. Apart from his salary, he had to be fed, and that was a sizeable amount. However, Coop objected to the spectacle more than the cost. He’d seen to it that big Joe now ate his meals in the kitchen where he didn’t have to watch him masticating his way through enough food to feed a family of six.

  Coop himself was, of course, capable of acts of violence. You had to be, to be in this game, but it had been a long time since he’d had to do anything personally. He had taken life, because it had been necessary to send a message, but also because he wanted to know that he could do it, if required. The whole thing had been a tremendous anti-climax. These days, he preferred not to touch people at all. He’d noticed that his opinion of people had sunk further and further over the years, perhaps a result of constantly seeing them at their worst.

  Earlier today, he’d let Dean and McDaid go. Hired muscle who got themselves embarrassed by one man, even if that man was a police officer, were of limited use. Dean, the fool, had decided to start issuing threats on his way out the door. Saying he knew where the bodies were buried. One glance in Joe’s direction had been enough to remind him of his situation, but it hadn’t stopped him from talking about the “severance package” to which he felt he was entitled. The man simply talked too much, so Coop had set the wheels in motion. Before the end of the week, Mr Dean would be reminded of the other meaning of the word “severance”.

  Coop also appreciated that Joe was good at the art of silence. A grossly under-rated skill. Previous occupants of his current role had been stupidly keen to butt in. They’d felt the need to make threats on Coop’s behalf, to literally throw their weight around. In contrast, the man mountain just stood there. He had a blissful disinterest in small talk of any kind.

  Coop felt the presence behind him.

  “Just put it over—”

  He noticed it was wrong. All wrong. But too late.

  He felt the blade in his back. The word “frenzy” popped into his head randomly as the weapon pistoned in and out of him repeatedly. He slumped forward against the cages, looking into Athena’s eyes as he tasted his own blood in his mouth. The knife continued to beat out the rhythm of his death.

  His coat caught on the side of the cage and spun him around as he fell. As the last breath escaped his body, he looked into the face of death.

  He hadn’t seen this coming.

  Mourning Has Broken

  DI Fintan O’Rourke got out of his car and looked up at the eyesore that was Coop Hannity’s castle – a gaping abscess on an otherwise perfectly ordinary suburban street. If you ever wanted an example of how having all the money in the world couldn’t buy an ounce of class – well, look no further. If anything, the police tape improved the aesthetic. Turrets – how in the hell did Coop Hannity get planning permission to build fucking turrets? O’Rourke was a DI in the Garda Síochána and last year the county council had turned him down flat when he asked to build a shed.

  He signed in to the scene. He wouldn’t admit it, but a part of him still enjoyed the thrill of the uniforms standing upright and doing their best to look alert upon his arrival. There was something gratifying about being a man people wanted to impress. It was 7am and they’d be at the end of their shift, looking forward to their beds.

  O’Rourke himself had been due to take the day off but Coop Hannity being dead was interesting. Him having been murdered was downright fascinating, and it wasn’t the first time somebody had attempted to make that happen. The man enjoyed the kind of popularity normally only experienced by dictators.

  Strictly speaking, Hannity and his operations did not fall under the remit of the organised crime task force O’Rourke now headed up. It was a temporary one, assembled to deal with the Carter gang, but had now proved itself useful enough to get a twelve-month audition to become a permanent fixture. However, O’Rourke had said they wanted the Hannity case as soon as he got the call. Hannity lived in the margins, but the tentacles of his empire spread far and wide.

  Organised crime hadn’t changed since the days of Capone. Following the money was still the easiest way to find out what was really going on. There had long been suspicions that Hannity was laundering money for some of the gangs but, as always with Coop, all lines of enquiry led to dead ends. To give the dead his due, with the notable exception of taste in architecture, the man had been highly intelligent and perceptive. He’d made himself untouchable – at least, until now.

  Whoever was responsible for his murder was the most fascinating of all the pieces of the puzzle. If the task force was to survive and O’Rourke’s meteoric rise to continue, then he was under no illusion – they needed to take down some big game. Coop Hannity might just be the blood in the water needed to attract some really big prey.

  Detective Pamela Cassidy was standing on the doorstep waiting for him, blowing into her hands and stamping her feet to keep warm. He made a point of not using her nickname. If asked, he’d say this was a propriety of management thing, but in reality, he hated his own nickname that he’d been saddled with for fifteen years – Rigger – and honestly, he was hoping the whole practice would die off. For Christ’s sake, they were law enforcement, not a university rugby team.

  “Pamela.”

&nbs
p; “Boss. Sorry about messing up your day off.”

  “So you should be. I’m missing out on three hours traipsing around after the wife as she tries on silly hats for a wedding I don’t want to go to. The sacrifices this job forces us to make are brutal.”

  “Sounds it.”

  “How are you the initial on this?”

  “DS Quinn has got that dental thing and Burke is in Belfast for the—”

  “Right,” said O’Rourke. “Makes sense.”

  “I’m holding the fort until Quinn gets here.”

  He stopped for a second, then nodded. “No offence to anyone, but I’m going to call Paschal back from Belfast. This thing is too high profile.”

  “Understood. The main event is out in the back garden.”

  She led him through the house. O’Rourke was surprised by the lack of suits of armour and stuffed buffalo.

  The garden was a hive of activity as the tech bureau worked the scene. O’Rourke pulled on the requisite overalls and stood beside Cassidy. “Alright, take me through it.”

  “Yes, boss,” said Cassidy, referring to her notepad filled with precise details written in a tight hand. “The wife, Angelina Hannity, came home last night at 11:30pm after her regular Tuesday-night visit to her father at Cedarwood Hospital and then dropping in to see a friend afterwards. She first noticed something was wrong when she got up to her bedroom and realised the lights in the back garden were still on, as was the music.”

  “Was the absence of her husband from the bed not a clue?”

  “Apparently not. She and the hubby have separate bedrooms.”

  “How long are they married?”

  “Three years.”

  Cassidy turned back towards the house and pointed to the right-hand tower. “Her bedroom is up there.”

  “Let me guess,” said O’Rourke. “He sleeps in—”

  “Yep, the other tower.”

  “Jeez. If the murder weapon’s a glass slipper, I’m going to lose it.”

  Cassidy continued to flip through her notes. “No murder weapon as yet. Coming to that.” She started to walk across the neatly trimmed lawn beside the paved path. “Mrs Hannity comes out, first thing she sees is the bodyguard – a Joe Stowers – who is sprawled on the ground, alive, having been walloped on the back of the head with a large blunt object while sitting there.” She indicated an overturned chair. “There was a fire extinguisher near by with blood on it. Forensics have taken it away to confirm it was the weapon used on him.”