Dead Man's Sins

by Caimh McDonnell

  “Jesus, Butch, I know you martial-arts types love smashing bits of wood with your bare hands, but could you not practise on my front door? Use the doorbell like a civilised human being.”

  Despite his weakened state, Bunny caught the look in Butch’s eyes and took half a step backwards. She had the air of a woman who would delight in punching out his lights and her exquisite self-control was the only thing stopping that from happening.

  “Funny you should mention that, Bunny. I’ve been standing here for fifteen minutes. I gave up ringing the doorbell after the first ten.”

  Bunny rubbed a hand over his face. “Oh. Right. Sorry about that.” A thought struck him. “This isn’t about Janice and Alan, is it?”

  “No. She hasn’t rung me yet.”

  “In which case, what’s so fecking urgent? I was enjoying a nice lie-in.”

  Butch rolled her eyes. “Would you listen to yourself? Enjoying a nice lie-in? Pull the other one – I could see you through the letterbox. The only reason I haven’t called an ambulance yet is that I clocked you scratching your nuts every now and then.”

  “This feels like a shocking invasion of privacy, Butch.”

  “I will invade your privacy with my boot in a minute.” She looked around surreptitiously. “Now, stop being an idiot and invite me in.”

  Bunny opened the door fully and stepped to one side. Butch walked past him.

  “And, if at any point you feel like rearranging your underwear so that it covers at least some of your genitalia, I, for one, would be delighted.”

  Bunny obliged as Butch walked down the short hallway and into the front room.

  “Holy shit, if you were keeping a panda in these conditions, you’d have the World Wildlife Fund camped out on your doorstep by dinner time.”

  She had a point. The room was not looking its best. “I’m between cleaners at the minute.”

  “Was the last one killed by the Black Death?” Butch kicked a couple of the empty bottles sitting beside Bunny’s chair in front of the TV. “Well, the good news is, if any shops are still paying for the return of empty bottles, this room will be worth a fortune.”

  Bunny sagged against the doorframe. “To be completely honest with you, Butch, I’m not feeling great. Is there any chance you could drop by again in the afternoon and give me this bollocking then?”

  “First off, I’m afraid I have to inform you that it is already the afternoon. And secondly, no this cannot wait.”

  Bunny sighed. “Well, can’t blame a guy for trying.”

  Butch narrowed her eyes and turned her head to one side quizzically. “What on earth is going on with your mouth?”

  Bunny raised his hand to his face self-consciously. “What are you talking about?”

  “What am I talking about? It’s blue! How is your mouth blue? Have you been drinking Drano or something?”

  “No, I …” He ran his tongue around his mouth again. “I don’t think so. Not unless bleach is a lot sweeter than you’d expect. My gob feels like the Honey Monster and Bertie Bassett have been shagging in it.”

  Butch wrinkled her nose in revulsion. “Evocative imagery as always, Detective.”

  “I didn’t get that gig as poet laureate for nothing.”

  Butch leaned forward across the armchair and picked up a bottle from the floor. It was about the size of a beer bottle but its label depicted what appeared to be a Smurf riding the sun. From somewhere in Bunny’s subconscious a little alarm bell of guilt tolled.

  “Were you drinking alcopops last night?” Butch made no attempt to keep the disgust from her voice.

  “No,” said Bunny, ignoring the evidence before his eyes. “Of course I wasn’t.”

  Butch reached down and picked up several similar-looking bottles from the floor and held them up accusingly. “You were! You were drinking alcopops.”

  “For Christ’s sake, woman, would you keep your voice down? I have a reputation to preserve.”

  “As what exactly?”

  “If memory serves, I may have run out of all other options.”

  “How did you even have these in the house?”

  Bunny ran his hand through his hair. Even his hair felt painful. How could your hair hurt? “I caught some young lads with them a couple of weeks ago. I confiscated them.”

  “That makes sense. I’m pretty sure nobody over the age of eighteen has ever drunk one intentionally. Well, until now, that is.”

  “I’ve been meaning to get rid of them.”

  Butch dropped the empty bottles on to the chair. “Mission accomplished.” She waved her hands over the detritus. “Can we agree that this must be rock bottom? I mean, I know you’ve been playing out this Hunter S. Thompson thing for a while now, but even you must see that it’s gotten way out of hand?”

  With a groan, Bunny pulled himself upright and walked towards the double doors that led into the kitchen. “I’m going to get myself a drink of water, so, if you’d like to follow me, you can continue to dance on my grave in there. Sorry, where are my manners? Can I get you anything?”

  Butch followed him. “Yes, please – I’ll take a tetanus shot if you’ve got one.”

  “Very good. You know, some people in your position might feel inclined to go easy on a fella.” Bunny considered the pile of washing-up in the sink then turned the tap to one side so he could get his mouth to the stream of water.

  “I am going easy on you. By now, a lesser woman would have made a comment about the state of the back of your underpants.”

  Bunny leaned against the counter and belched. His mouth filled with the taste of unhappy memories. “Thanks. You’re like Mother Teresa meets Chuck Norris. I’ve always said so.”

  “What did you do after training last night?”

  “Seriously, I’m a little too long in the tooth to be getting my botty spanked by my mammy.”

  Bunny saw the genuine anger writ across Butch’s face. “Just answer the bloody question.”

  “If you must know, I came straight home – just like I promised you I would. I was here all night like a good boy.”

  Butch folded her arms. “Shit. I was afraid of that.”

  Bunny scratched at his three-day-old stubble with both hands. “I’m not exactly at my sharpest, Butch. Would you mind filling me in on what I’m missing here?”

  “Coop Hannity was murdered last night.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. And O’Rourke asked me to come around and officially ask you if you have an alibi.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t. Although, Coop is not exactly a big loss. Is he?”

  Butch gave an exasperated sigh. “Try not to look quite so happy about it.”

  Bunny shrugged. “What do you expect? Mankind hasn’t had news this good since they announced they had a vaccine for polio.” His eyes widened suddenly. “Is his wife OK?”

  “Other than a bit shook-up. She found the bodies when she came back from visiting her da.”

  “Bodies?”

  “Sorry. Body. The bodyguard got knocked out but he’ll live. Hang on – you know Coop’s wife?”

  “Since she was a kid. Saw her for the first time in years when I dropped over on Monday evening.”

  “Speaking of which. Why were you there?”

  “Private matter.”

  Butch put her hands on her hips and furrowed her brow. “Bunny – don’t be an idiot. The man is dead. You know that won’t fly.”

  “I was there on somebody else’s behalf. I’m not at liberty to discuss it.”

  “Fuck’s sake. Seeing as you just admitted that you have no alibi, and the authorities have some rather embarrassing footage of you leaving the corpse’s abode on Monday night and acquiring without permission the man’s garden gnome on your way off the premises, I’d perhaps try to come up with something better than that.”

  “Thank you, counsellor. I’ll take that under advisement.” Bunny opened the back door. “Excuse me a moment, please.”

  “Oh, don’t mind me. I�
��m just here briefing a murder suspect about the investigation. I’ve got all the time in the world.”

  Bunny stepped out into his back yard. He was surprised to discover that he had some washing on the line. It consisted mainly of a couple of vests that had seen better days, and a few pairs of underpants that had seen too much. The paving stones were wet beneath his bare feet and he was not dressed for the cold March air, but the breeze did at least have the effect of clearing his head somewhat.

  “Howerya, Bunny,” came a female voice that he recognised instantly. Margaret Byrne, his neighbour on the left, was leaning over the fence, a cigarette dangling from her lips. “You need to get yourself a dressing gown. You’ll catch your death.”

  Another head popped up over the right-hand fence. It belonged to Mrs Cynthia Doyle, his other neighbour, wearing her hair in curlers under a pink headscarf.

  “Good afternoon, Bunny.” The warm smile dropped from her face. “Margaret.”

  The air around Bunny grew colder still. The two women had a long-running feud – so long-running, in fact, that Bunny doubted anybody could remember how it started. It was ever-present, a constant level of passive-aggressiveness interspersed with occasional peaks of actual aggressiveness for a bit of variety.

  He tried to give each woman a winning smile but his face wasn’t up for it. “Apologies for my state of undress, ladies. I was just nipping out to bring in the washing.”

  “You’ll catch your death,” said Cynthia.

  “That’s what I said,” Margaret chipped in. “He needs to get himself a good dressing gown.”

  Cynthia nodded her head reluctantly, conceding the point. “Actually, I have a lovely one that belonged to my Albert. He’s not using it any more, God rest his soul, so you’re welcome to it. He was a smaller man than yourself, but it was always very big on him.”

  “Thank you very much for the kind offer, but I have one already. It’s just in the wash.”

  Bunny was fairly sure he did indeed have a dressing gown, although the chances of it being in the wash were remote. Odds on it could do with it, though. Still, wherever it was, it seemed a better option than a dead man’s hand-me-downs.

  “You would want to be taking better care of yourself, though, Bunny,” advised Margaret. “I’m going to drop round a casserole.”

  “I’ll do you another one of those lasagnes you like,” offered Cynthia.

  “Lasagne,” said Margaret, derision dripping from her voice. “Would you hark at her ladyship and her fancy foreign food.”

  “Oh, here we go. Don’t go getting all offended just because Bunny has a more sophisticated palate on him than you do.”

  “Sophisticated palate, my arse. You’re only getting pretentious ’cause you can’t do a basic decent coddle.”

  Coddle was what Dubliners – “proper Dubliners” – called stew. It was like a shibboleth for those whose blood ran truly navy blue. Back in his early days in the capital, Bunny had made the mistake of saying it was just stew. For his trouble he had got a clip around the ear from an eighty-year-old. It was different to stew, although nobody could explain how.

  “Shows what you know, Margaret Byrne. My coddle is the talk of the town. The parish priest loves it.”

  “Yes,” said Margaret. “Did you hear he was in hospital again? They don’t know what it is yet.”

  “It has nothing to do with my coddle. I’ll tell you that for nothing.”

  Bunny held up a hand. “Sorry to interrupt, ladies, I just need a moment to …” He turned around and did what he had come out to do because he simply couldn’t hold it in any longer. That’s to say, he threw up down the drain.

  “Jesus!” exclaim the ladies in unison.

  “Are you OK?” asked Margaret. “You’ve not been eating badly prepared Italian food, have you?”

  “You keep talking, Margaret Byrne, and I’ll come over there and give you something to be sick about.”

  “You’re all mouth. By the time you get halfway here you’ll be retreating, just like the Italian army.”

  Bunny wiped a hand across his mouth. “Apologies, ladies, I’m not feeling the best. Now, there’s no need to fall out and, please, let’s leave the Italian army out of this. They’ve had a bad run of it over the years.”

  With a wave, Bunny turned and headed back inside. The last thing he heard was Cynthia Doyle speaking in a stage whisper. “God, how was it blue?”

  Inside the kitchen, Butch was leaning against the counter. “Did you just—”

  “Yes,” said Bunny, “I did, and it has done me a power of good. Before I forget …” He reached into a jug on the windowsill and took out a set of keys, which he handed to her. “Save you booting the door in next time.”

  Butch went to say something but stopped. She noticed that “B’s place” was written on the tag in Gringo’s distinctive handwriting.

  Bunny picked up the remains of a sliced bread from the counter and sniffed it warily. “It’ll do.” He turned to her. “I’m having myself a cheese toastie. Do you want one?”

  “You threw up, like, thirty seconds ago.”

  “I know. Cleared a bit of room. Now I’m gonna put down a solid foundation to see me through the rest of the day. So, do you want one or not?”

  “I’m alright, thanks.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “Look,” said Butch. “We need to talk about —”

  Bunny opened the fridge and removed a block of cheese that was about the size of a small suitcase.

  “What on earth is that?”

  Bunny dropped the slab onto the counter heavily and looked over his shoulder at his colleague. “What? Have you not seen cheese before?”

  “Yes, I am familiar with cheese. I just didn’t know that you apparently own all of it. What in the hell are you doing with that much cheese?”

  “As it happens, I won it off a fella in the pub.”

  “How exactly?”

  “It was a bet about how much cheese one man could eat,” said Bunny with a grin. “Not for the first time in my life, I exceeded expectations.”

  “Congratulations. You’re now the proud owner of the EU cheese mountain.”

  “You should have seen how big it was when I got it. Took me ages to get it down to a size that could fit in the fridge. My diet has been rather cheese-based recently.”

  Butch made a retching face. “Wow. If you listen carefully, you can hear the sound of your arteries screaming.”

  Bunny held up a finger and cocked his ear. “No. All I can hear is two women who should know better, arguing about Italian food.” He looked along the counter. “Where the hell is my big cheese knife?”

  “Maybe it went all Fantasia, grew legs and danced out. I can’t say I’d blame it.”

  Bunny stuck out his blue tongue at Butch and started to open drawers. “I must have another one somewhere.”

  “Seriously. Forget about the bloody cheese. This is serious.”

  “No, it isn’t. I didn’t kill anybody. I know I didn’t kill anybody. You know I didn’t kill anybody. Even DI O’Rourke must have a fairly good idea that I didn’t kill anybody.”

  Bunny pulled a clean butter knife out of a drawer and held it up in triumph before turning back to his massive block of cheese.

  “And, while, not unlike this implement, I’m not the sharpest knife in the drawer, even I wouldn’t nick a guy’s gnome then go back the next night and kill him. I mean, I don’t want to brag, but I’ve been around enough investigations to avoid making such an obvious mistake.”

  Butch leaned forward and punched him on the arm.

  “Ouch! What the feck was that for?”

  “Do you think I’d be here if this wasn’t serious? Laugh it off all you want but they’re taking it seriously enough. They’ve brought in somebody to take over the investigation. O’Rourke is stepping aside. If you’ve been dismissed out of hand as a suspect then they wouldn’t be doing that, would they? Oh, and you didn’t hear this from me, but apparently, Hannit
y’s been recording all of his meetings for years, so your chat with him is about to become evidence.”

  Bunny turned from hacking ineffectively at his cheese monolith. For the first time, he looked at Butch with actual concern in his eyes. “Really?”

  “Yes, really, you big, cloth-eared idiot. Assuming it isn’t on one of the tapes that we think the murderer swiped. And if it is on one of those, well, that’s bad for other reasons.”

  Bunny scratched his head. “Right. Yeah, that’s not great.”

  That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

  “Who’ve they brought in to take over the investigation?”

  “I don’t know him,” said Butch. “Well, other than by reputation. O’Rourke’s asked me to pick him up from the train. I’m heading straight there. It’s the guy from Limerick who turned in those three guards for fixing speeding tickets.”

  Bunny dropped the knife on the counter loudly. “Marshall?”

  “I take it you know him?”

  Bunny sighed heavily. “You could say that.”

  Butch arched an eyebrow. “Is there anything I should know?”

  “Yes. If there’s a man in existence who wants to put me in jail, it’s Tommy bloody Marshall.”

  Meet the New Boss

  Butch was trying to keep an open mind about DI Thomas “not Tom” Marshall. She had tried not to form an opinion when she’d picked him up from the train station and, after a grunt of acknowledgement, he’d handed her his suitcase to carry back to the car. She had tried not to form an opinion when he’d got into the back seat and had her drive him to the Hannity residence as if she were a taxi driver and not a detective in the Garda Síochána. She had even tried not to form an opinion on the man when she realised why he looked so familiar: it was as if somebody had made an extra Baldwin brother out of bits of the Baldwin brothers that nobody wanted. The effect it yielded was peculiar – even though each of the man’s features was fine when taken in isolation, they somehow combined to make a highly punchable face. His hair was gelled efficiently into place and, although he looked as if he was in decent shape, there was something overly jowly about him. Despite all of this, Butch was not allowing herself to form an opinion.