Bunny rolled his eyes theatrically. “As I’m pretty sure I mentioned in court, Darren swung for me and I merely deflected the blow. What happened after that was a combination of Darren’s poor balance, physics and a fair dollop of karma.”
Kofi shrugged. “You may well be right. Certainly Mr Raker’s defence was not helped by the fact that he is a massive arsehole.”
“Are you not breaking solicitor–client privilege there, counsellor?”
“I do not believe so. Mr Raker being an arsehole is a widely known fact. If memory serves, his own mother shouted the same thing at him from the gallery as he was being taken away to serve a couple of years in Mountjoy.”
“You can’t win them all. Still, your admirable policy of being willing to provide a legal defence to arseholes notwithstanding, I’d still like to explain the situation before we go any further.”
Kofi placed his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers.
“Right.” Now that it came to it, Bunny wasn’t entirely sure how to begin. He studied the wall for a few seconds and ran through his scant options. “Here’s the thing: I would guess that sometime tomorrow, or possibly the day after, the Garda Síochána will be inviting me in for a voluntary interview about the murder of James ‘Coop’ Hannity.”
Kofi did an admirable job of keeping any surprise from his face.
“I don’t need to tell you,” Bunny continued, “that, technically, I can decline to help them with their enquiries. I say technically because, although I’m on sabbatical, I’m still a guard. So, me not wishing to cooperate – well, it would look dreadful. My legal rights aside, I can’t not go – not if I still want to have a future in the Garda Síochána afterwards.” He shifted in his seat nervously. “The thing is, there are questions I’m not willing to answer, so I can’t attend an interview.”
“I see,” said Kofi, furrowing his brow. “That is a problem.”
“Yes. I—”
“You don’t have to explain your reasons to me.”
“Actually, I do. You see, I met with Hannity the night before he died. We discussed an issue in relation to a friend of mine that, if it became public knowledge, would be disastrous for this friend.”
“Would this information not come out in the end, anyway?”
Bunny bit his lip. “Maybe it will, but I’m hoping it won’t. I’m hoping to buy a little time. The thing is, I’m ninety-nine percent certain somebody is trying to frame me for Hannity’s murder.”
This time Kofi did not attempt to hide his shock.
Bunny looked him directly in the eyes. “I know you can’t ask this question and you don’t want to know the answer, but …” He leaned forward. “… I didn’t kill Coop Hannity.”
Kofi’s voice was quieter now. “OK. For what it’s worth, I believe you. Still, as someone who is about to become your legal representative, I strongly urge you to explain that to the police as soon as possible. I know you want to protect your friend but—”
Bunny shook his head. “I can’t. My only course of action is to figure out who really did kill him. And fast.”
Kofi drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “You do seem to be in quite the pickle. If you don’t want to talk to the police, I’m not entirely sure how you’re asking me to assist you. I do want to help. While you are nice enough not to mention it, I owe you a debt.”
“No, you fecking don’t.”
“Yes, I do. We both know that if you hadn’t intervened, I might not be here.”
“Don’t quote me on this – it alone might get me kicked out of the Gardaí – but those willing to defend the accused are an important part of the legal system. The problem with being willing to defend those individuals accused of crimes is that, occasionally, you’ll come into contact with a genuine criminal. That prick who tried to slash your throat with a shiv when you couldn’t get him off? It wasn’t your fault. Him managing to get that into the courtroom was somebody else’s monumental screw-up. You’re entitled to the same protection as anyone – probably more so, in fact.”
“All true, Detective,” said Kofi with a smile. “Still, thank you again for slamming my client’s head through that wall.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“Still, I’m not seeing a course of action here.”
Bunny shifted nervously. “It occurs to me that if I am called in for a voluntary interview, I am entitled to legal representation.”
“Of course.”
“However, if my legal representative happened to be unavailable at the proposed time of said interview, it would be reasonable to reschedule for a time when he was.”
Kofi tilted his head. “Ah, I see. The thing is, legally, I am not allowed to lie about such things.”
Bunny puffed out his cheeks. “Oh. Right.”
Kofi spun around in his chair and faced the wall.
“It was just—” started Bunny, but he shut up as Kofi raised a finger.
After about thirty seconds, Bunny’s soon-to-be lawyer turned back around and smiled. “Have we ever discussed my bowels?”
Bunny scratched his head. “No, funnily enough, they have never come up.”
“I’m surprised. They have been quite the issue. My bowels are highly irritable.”
While he was well aware that Kofi Mensah could be more than a little eccentric, Bunny was at a loss as to where this conversation had suddenly taken a turn.
“Yes,” continued Kofi. “In fact, I am on a new and very restrictive diet. However, seeing as my ex-wife and I have entirely given up telling each other what to do, there is nobody to stop me from going off the rails tonight.” He stood up dramatically. “This evening, I dine at the Tandoori Palace, and I do not take any of the sensible options on the menu.”
“While I appreciate the effort, is this a good idea?”
“No. It is a terrible idea, but a useful one. I hope you will not be requiring my services tomorrow – I’ve a sneaking suspicion I may be unavailable. The next day may be touch and go as well, but if anyone enquires, I will, of course, express my heartfelt belief that I will be fine.”
“Well, if you’re sure?”
Kofi rubbed his hands together gleefully. “I am one hundred percent certain. God, I have missed dishes twenty-three, forty-six, and especially eighty-seven. Me and some old friends are going out on the town tonight.”
Bunny stood up. “Thanks, Kofi. I appreciate it.”
“Don’t mention it.” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “And rest assured that if matters become of a more urgent nature – say, for example, you are arrested – I will be there. In a nappy, if necessary.”
Bunny laughed. “Now, that’d be a sight worth seeing.”
Kofi extended his hand and Bunny shook it. “Welcome to O’Leary, Mensah and Goldberg.” He indicated the ornament sitting on the desk. “Please enjoy this complimentary snow globe.”
Boxers in Briefs
Butch nodded her hellos to the mostly familiar faces that were gathered in the upstairs briefing room of Sheriff Street Station. As always, the heating was a feast or famine, and on this occasion it was leaning towards famine. She took a seat beside the stone-cold radiator and silently wished that she’d kept her coat on. Some of the older and smarter heads around her had done just that.
Detective Carlson was still trying desperately to locate the skip that contained the possibility of a murder weapon, and the probability of career disaster if he didn’t find it. His absence meant Butch was the most junior detective in the room. It had been a long day already and there was no end in sight. She noted the clock on the wall showed 6pm, which meant she’d been on the go for over twelve hours.
In line with the procedure that DI Marshall had already outlined to her, Butch had informed him about the phone call from Bunny. Despite having followed his instructions to the letter, more or less, she was still made to feel as if she’d done something wrong. Marshall was nobody’s idea of a people person.
As the last couple
of seats in the room were taken, Marshall came striding into the room with DS Paschal Burke trailing in his wake. O’Rourke entered next, and closed the door behind him. The buzz of conversation ceased as Marshall took his position at the top of the room.
“OK. For those of you who don’t know, I’m DI Thomas Marshall. I have assumed command of this investigation from DI O’Rourke. Given that we are in a live-fire situation, I’ll dispense with the niceties and introductions. Put simply, you do everything by the book and we’ll get on fine. There will be an update on where we are, led by DS Burke and I, but before we get to that, this investigation has some unusual circumstances, as you are no doubt aware. I have already spoken to some of you directly …” Butch endeavoured to remain stony-faced as Marshall’s eyes fell upon her. “… But let me reiterate for the entire group: Every last detail about this investigation must and will remain confidential from anyone who is not in this room. That includes any and all other members of the Garda Síochána. Anyone breaks this rule and rest assured, I will do everything in my power to make sure you’re not only off this case, but off this force ASAP. Any questions?”
There weren’t any.
“Right, then,” continued Marshall. “Forensics is ongoing, but I’ve just received a provisional report and it contains little we don’t already know. Hannity was stabbed in the back multiple times after his bodyguard, Joseph Stowers, was incapacitated by a heavy blow to the back of the head with what has been confirmed as a fire extinguisher. We still do not have a murder weapon, possibly due to our own incompetence, but Detective Carlson is currently working to remedy that.”
Butch picked up on the slightest of twitches from O’Rourke. The different leadership styles of the two men was already evident. O’Rourke was unafraid to deliver a bollocking, but he was not a big fan of public humiliation for the sake of it.
“They weren’t able to pull any prints off the wall the suspect crossed twice, which is a disappointment. We’re still waiting on the full autopsy.” Marshall turned to Burke. “DS Burke, if you’d like to update us on your conversation with the tech bureau regarding CCTV.”
Burke stood as Marshall sat. “They verified that the time stamps on the recordings are correct, which means our suspect in the balaclava did indeed enter the property from the neighbour’s garden at 9:14pm and exited via the same route at 9:21pm. They can’t give us definitive numbers, but they’ve pegged him as somewhere between six foot and six foot three. Detective Martin is now working his way back through the recordings from the past week to establish a definitive list of visitors to the property.”
Burke took a step back.
“Where are we on the wife?”
Burke looked at Detective Keogh. “Vinnie?”
Keogh cleared his throat before speaking. “I went out to Cedarwood. They’ve got her visiting her father between 8.15pm and 9.26pm last night. Not only is there footage of her coming and going, backed up by the receptionist who was on at the time, but we also have her on tape sitting beside her father for the duration. They record everything that goes on in all the communal areas. I’ve also contacted the friend she said she went to visit on the way home and, so far, everything checks out.”
Marshall nodded. “Moving on, where are we with the Fairchild brothers angle?”
Burke pointed at a man sitting at the front whom Butch didn’t recognise. He had the look of a boxer about him – the dog breed rather than the pugilist. “DS Anglesey, who worked the original investigation, is here to bring us up to speed.”
Anglesey turned awkwardly in his chair and addressed the room. “June fifteenth of last year, 999 got a call that two shots had been fired at a vehicle on Collins Avenue – from the back of a passing motorcycle. We identified the target as a vehicle containing Coop Hannity. Nobody was injured but a bullet shattered the back window. Mr Hannity was uncooperative with our investigation. We heard rumours through unconfirmed sources that Cian and Oisín Fairchild may have been behind it.”
“Where did these sources come by this information?” asked Marshall.
“We heard that Hannity’s people were very keen to find the Fairchilds, so despite him telling us he had no idea who was behind it, clearly he thought it was them. Apparently, they were into him for a bundle. An ill-judged expansion of their second-hand car business had resulted in Hannity owning the lot. Ten days later, we found Oisín’s body in an oil drum on wasteland in Finglas. He’d been sealed in and burned alive. A particularly nasty way to go.
“And the brother?” asked DS Burke.
Anglesey shrugged. “Dead too, or, if he’s got any sense, he’s gotten as far away as he can.”
“Did you get anything linking Hannity to the murder of Oisín?” asked Marshall.
“No. Forensics were a dead end, and despite shaking as many trees as we could, not a sniff of a witness. For what it’s worth, it’s been nine months now and there’s been no word on the whereabouts of Cian Fairchild. The only reason we don’t think he’s dead is that they didn’t exactly try to hide the body of the brother. Hannity was sending a message. No reason not to make it as loud as possible.”
“In which case,” said Marshall, “we’ll be starting from scratch and trying to locate Cian Fairchild. Maybe Hannity’s demise will mean he’ll feel comfortable coming up for air. Either that, or he decided to come back for another go.”
Anglesey nodded but his body language made it clear he didn’t think either possibility was likely.
“Finally, Mrs Rita Marsh.”
Burke stepped forward again. “Some of the older heads in the room might remember this one. I worked it. Truth be told, there wasn’t much of an investigation to be made. Rita Marsh, an honest-to-god housewife, attacked Hannity on his way out of a dental appointment of all things. She came at him with a carving knife. He suffered some relatively minor defensive wounds. She ended up being charged with attempted murder because she made it very clear in her subsequent statements that was what she was trying to do.
“Her son, Mark, the second youngest of seven, had got himself into an awful lot of debt to Hannity. The Marsh family blamed Hannity for the lad’s suicide. She was a nightmare for her legal team. Wouldn’t go for a diminished responsibility defence. Wouldn’t apologise. She even said, if given the opportunity, next time she’d make sure she finished the job. The case was kept away from the media by an injunction from Hannity himself. I guess he thought a mother’s tears in the papers would be bad for his image.”
O’Rourke chipped in. “Weren’t all the sons—”
“Yes,” said Burke. “All seven of them were firemen. As was the father. The word at the time was that Hannity had better pray his house never caught alight. The Dublin Fire Brigade would turn up en masse with marshmallows and sing campfire songs as they watched it burn. Probably why Hannity kept a fire extinguisher out in his back garden. Much to the chagrin of his bodyguard.”
This raised a laugh from the room but Marshall glared at Burke.
The detective sergeant gave a contrite nod and continued, “Rita Marsh was sentenced to seven years. Served four. I’ve made the call, and myself and Detective Cassidy are popping over to see her after this.”
“Anything else?” asked Marshall, looking around the room. Nothing came back. “Alright, then. We’re hoping to get access to Hannity’s files and tapes soon, which will no doubt throw up more suspects, but for the moment, let’s work the leads we do have. And again, not to labour the point, but this investigation must remain hermetically sealed.”
With that, DI Marshall got to his feet and strode straight out of the room.
The assembled officers watched him go. Not one of them had asked the question they all wanted answered, and Marshall had pointedly not addressed it directly. As soon as the DI was out of earshot, almost as one, the room looked at O’Rourke.
“Boss,” said Burke. “We’re not seriously looking at Bunny, are we?”
“Not my investigation, lads and lasses,” he responded. “Just do
your jobs. If Bunny hasn’t done anything, then he has nothing to fear.”
“And if he has?”
O’Rourke turned to leave too.
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t ask me that, Sergeant.”
R A W K
For the second time that day, Bunny found himself trudging up several flights of stairs. Given that it seemed pretty likely he was already being framed for murder, it felt like an unnecessary karmic boot in the arse. He could really do with somebody somewhere being on his side. The closest thing he had so far was a lawyer who was willing to seriously irritate his own bowels on Bunny’s behalf. It was turning into quite the day.
Having to take the stairs this time was pure bad luck. The building was nice, but the lifts were out of order owing to an electrical short. There’d been an extremely apologetic sign up that promised an engineer was on his way. Such problems were an uncommon enough occurrence that three residents were standing in the lobby complaining excitedly to each other about it. Bunny had been in enough shitty buildings in his time to know that when the lifts were out there, nobody stood around complaining. With so many stairs to climb, they simply didn’t have the oxygen to spare.
It had only taken a couple of phone calls to find the person he was here to visit. He knew she lived in Rathfarnham because Angelina Hannity had told him so, and one of his old contacts had been able to give him the exact address. Mags Walsh hadn’t had the easiest start in life, so Bunny was pleased to see she was now living in a nice place.
He reached the fourth floor and stood there, panting heavily. A woman in Lycra running gear pushed through the fire door. He took out his phone and pretended he was about to make a call and was not some sweaty interloper who shouldn’t have been there. He’d managed to get in by tailgating a delivery driver through the main door. It wasn’t that he thought Mags Walsh wouldn’t want to speak to him, but experience had always shown him that it’s much harder for people to avoid somebody who is standing on their welcome mat than a disembodied voice at the other end of an intercom.
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