O’Rourke knew he was being baited. Fallon was engaging in typical alpha-male bullshit, asserting his dominance. The thing was, he wasn’t wrong.
“It seems Mr Hannity has been secretly videotaping many of his meetings for several years now.” Part of O’Rourke relished seeing Fallon’s smile tighten.
“What?”
“Yes. He had quite the set-up in his back garden where, seemingly, he held many of his meetings. I guess some people thought that being outdoors meant it was less likely to be bugged, but there are hidden cameras and what I’m told are very expensive directional mics – the whole shebang.”
Fallon put down the wineglass and ran his tongue across his lips. “Do you have a recording of the murder?”
“No.”
“Was he recording any meetings elsewhere?”
O’Rourke shrugged. “We don’t know. What we do know is that we’ve got a large bunker full of video tapes in his back garden. It’s currently under Garda protection while the DPP sorts out the legal angle. Obviously, there’s all kinds of issues, given that the people being recorded were unaware. On the other hand, it wasn’t the Gardaí that did the recording … They’re still figuring it all out, but even if there is some question over the admissibility of the tapes in court, we’re still viewing it as the intelligence mother lode.”
“This might be a problem for us,” said Fallon, tugging at his ear.
Not that O’Rourke was going to find himself in a game of poker with Fallon any time soon, but he was confident he’d just figured out his tell. The man was rattled.
“Can you tell me the exact nature of your relationship with Hannity?”
Fallon leaned forward, a little snarl in his voice now. “We were humping in the back row of the pictures. What the fuck do you think was the nature of our relationship?”
O’Rourke held up a hand. “Hey, take it easy. I can’t protect you if I don’t know what I’m trying to protect you from.”
“Yes, you can. It’s not your business to know my business. It’s your job to make sure nobody else does.”
O’Rourke rolled his eyes but instantly regretted it. Fallon was now staring at him.
“Do I need to remind you of the exact nature of our relationship, Fintan?”
He tensed as Fallon picked up a fork from the unused place setting.
“I know that in the past we’ve referred to it as mutually assured destruction, but you get that was a little joke, right? It’s not mutually assured. I have the goods to destroy you and walk away without a scratch on me. But if I go down – if I’m even inconvenienced more than I wish to be – then I will turn you into roadkill. Which of us do you reckon has more friends in Mountjoy?” Fallon reached across and stabbed a piece of O’Rourke’s duck with the fork, before shoving it into his own mouth. He chewed expansively. “Are we absolutely clear, Fintan?”
“Jesus, Gerry. Alright, I get it.”
“I’m not sure you do. Maybe you need me to get Owen to join us, and he can flambé your bollocks right here at the table.”
“Look,” said O’Rourke. “You can make all the threats you like, but none of them are going to help us sort this out. I’m going to assume that you’re nervous about what might be on the tapes, yes?”
Fallon jutted out his chin almost imperceptibly, the only affirmation he was willing to give.
“OK. I suggest you get your lawyers on it. See what they can do. File an injunction, perhaps.”
“Wow. Thanks very much. Invaluable advice.”
O’Rourke puffed out his cheeks. “I’m not sure what else you expect me to do?”
“The amount I have invested in you, Fintan, and the leverage I have … Let me be crystal clear: I don’t pay you for information, not just information. You’d be amazed how cheap I can get that. What I expect from you is creative thinking.” He stood up suddenly, causing the table to shake, and then leaned down so that he loomed over O’Rourke. “I’ll get my lawyers on it. Meanwhile, I suggest you put on your thinking cap.”
“It would help,” said O’Rourke, “if we could find out quickly who actually killed Hannity.”
“Why would I care about that?”
“Because as things stand, those tapes are evidence because the assumption is they speak to motive. If we have a killer, then legally, the grounds for going through them are a lot shakier.”
“Fine,” said Fallon. “I’ll ask around. In the meantime, do not let me down. I’d hate to see a glittering career come to a crashing halt.”
With that, he pulled open the nearly invisible door and disappeared back into the darkness.
O’Rourke sat there for several minutes, staring down at the tablecloth. He was woken from his reverie by a waiter he hadn’t seen enter, and who was diplomatically clearing his throat.
“Is everything OK with your food, sir?”
O’Rourke looked up at him, but said nothing before standing up and walking straight out.
How to Milk a Cucumber
Bunny felt extremely out of place. For a start, he appeared to be the only person in the building who wasn’t wearing some form of Lycra. What’s more, the seats in the reception area at Paragon Fitness were so uncomfortable that he was beginning to seriously wonder if they were supposed to form part of a workout. They hit that sweet spot of being too big for one arse cheek, but far too small for two. As a result, Bunny found himself seated with half his arse floating in the air, as if he was waiting to let rip a monumental fart. Not that anyone would have noticed as scented air was being wafted through the place in an effort to achieve a certain ambience. If only they’d shut off the painfully thumping dance music, it would do the power of good on that score.
He’d been sitting there for fifteen minutes now, and the woman behind the desk had offered him cucumber water with such frequency that he was beginning to suspect she was on a commission to get rid of the stuff. It was just past 8am and a steady stream of individuals full of energy and brimming with life was already flowing through reception. Bloody morning people.
He’d actually seen two men high-five each other. Unironically. Irish people didn’t high-five – they couldn’t carry it off. At least, not at eight in the bloody morning. It was an American thing. Bunny had no problem with Americans – he liked them – but wherever their capacity for unbridled enthusiasm had come from in the cosmopolitan, globe-spanning genetic stew that went into making the US, it hadn’t been from the Irish diaspora.
After talking to Mags last night, he’d gone home and enjoyed one of the worst night’s sleep of his life. The more he thought about it, the worse his situation appeared to be. Coop Hannity was dead and Bunny had a motive, which was bad enough, but his unwillingness to explain exactly what it was made everything much worse.
Added to that, a knife had gone missing from his kitchen. He had ripped the entire place apart last night, in the forlorn hope that maybe he’d just misplaced it, but to no avail. He had to admit that his own stupidity played a large part in all this. He was Bunny McGarry, and most of the time he didn’t bother locking the back door of his house because nobody within twenty miles would be foolish enough to rob him. Sheer absurd arrogance.
He knew the sensible course of action would be to come clean and tell O’Rourke – and God forbid, Tommy bloody Marshall – the whole truth. It was the only way he could get out in front of this, but to do so would mean throwing Gringo to the lions and, for better or for worse, that wasn’t something he was prepared to do.
His only course of action was to find out who really had killed Coop Hannity. Presumably, it was the same person who was now setting him up. The problem was finding somebody to rule out. It was like a twisted version of the time traveller and baby Hitler hypothesis: if you knew you could save the world a great deal of suffering, would you kill Coop Hannity? Mother Teresa might have been tempted.
Finding a suspect was like finding a needle in a needle factory. The more promising line of enquiry appeared to be trying to figure out who kn
ew enough to set Bunny up, but the more he pulled that thread, the less promising it looked. He remembered seeing the suspicious car parked up the road when he’d gone in to see Hannity. It meant anyone could have known about his visit and, from there, fingered him as a potential patsy. In hindsight, making a great show of stealing the man’s gnome might have been one of his dumbest decisions ever. That would be great on his first day in Mountjoy: “What are you in for?” “Who, me? I stole a fecking gnome and things escalated.”
A short woman with a smile bright enough to be a danger to oncoming traffic approached him. “Hi,” she said in an overly cheery voice, “I’m Tracey. Can I show you around the facilities?”
Bunny glanced at the reception desk but the girl had stepped away, possibly to milk yet another cucumber. “Sure,” he said. “Why not?”
What followed was ten solid minutes of confusion on both sides. Tracey and Bunny both spoke English and walked upright but those seemed to be the only two things they had in common. Bunny had never considered what his fitness goals were – he didn’t think he had any. Despite Tracey’s perma-grin, the look of alarm in her eyes at this revelation was as if Bunny had just explained that he didn’t have any internal organs. After a couple of minutes she concluded with, “Right, so, weight loss, then. Great.”
Bunny was too embarrassed to correct her. She then proceeded to show him a confusing array of weights machines, where a truly warped mind had come up with fifty different ways to lift something and put it down again in the exact same spot. Next was the cardiovascular section, which Tracey was particularly proud of, and where she explained that thanks to state-of-the-art video technology, you could run up Mount Everest if you so desired. To Bunny, it just looked like somebody had built a better hamster wheel.
After she showed him the communal sauna – “To be honest, Tracey, I don’t think it’s fair to inflict the sight of my semi-naked body on anybody without buying them dinner first” – and the hot tub – “I’ve always wanted to know what the last few minutes of life as a lobster would be like” – she brought him back to the reception area.
“So,” said Tracey, “have you any questions?”
“Actually,” said Bunny, “I do. What’s the deal with the music?”
Not for the first time during their time together, Tracey looked confused. “What about it?”
“Why do you feel the need to have up-tempo dance music blasting out like we’re in a terrible nightclub?”
She forced out an awkward laugh. “Well, most people love it. It’s, y’know, great music to work out to.”
“Right. Only I couldn’t help but notice that if you look around the entire gym, every last person is wearing headphones. As in, something to block out the music.”
Tracey scanned the room and nodded reluctantly. “Hmmm, that’s interesting. I’ve never noticed that before.” She turned back to him and cranked up the brightness of her smile a couple more notches than Bunny ever would have thought possible. It was like staring directly into the sun. “So, should I grab some paperwork and talk you through our exciting membership packages?”
“Oh, Jesus on a jet ski,” responded Bunny. “God, no. Not in a million years.” He chuckled. “No offence, but I would never join a place like this. Could you imagine?”
The smile tumbled from Tracey’s face. It was like watching a star turn into a black hole. “So what the fuck are you doing here?” she said in a voice that belonged to a very different Tracey.
“I’ve just dropped in to see Marcus. Thanks very much for the tour, though – it was really eye-opening.”
Without another word, she stalked away from Bunny and over to the reception desk. Bunny retook his seat and watched awkwardly as Tracey and the receptionist attempted to have a whispered blazing row, hissing at each other through fixed smiles while simultaneously greeting gym members cheerfully as they walked in.
Bunny noticed a man in a suit appear at the bottom of the stairs behind reception. He was looking in Bunny’s direction. Even from a distance, Bunny could see that the guy’s shirt was uncomfortably tight, because heaven forbid anyone should not know that everyone who worked in the building had put in the requisite amount of effort to achieve physical perfection.
The man slapped on the grin that seemed to be part of the Paragon Fitness official uniform and walked across to Bunny with his hand already extended. Bunny got to his feet and shook it.
“Hi there, I’m the co-manager, Paul Green. How can I help you this morning?”
“I was actually hoping to speak to Marcus.”
The man shook his head. “I’m afraid he’s not in today.”
“Oh right. Only the girl at reception rang him and told him I was here. I heard the conversation.”
Credit to him, Green recovered well. “Yes, that’s right. He was here, but he’s just had to step out. He asked me to help you with whatever you require. What is it you require?”
Bunny slipped his hand inside his coat and pulled out his ID, displaying it at a discreet angle where it was visible only to Green. “I need to talk to Marcus, please.”
Bunny had been hoping that he wouldn’t have to show his ID. Even though he wasn’t impersonating an officer, he could be accused of misrepresentation, given he was on sabbatical. It wasn’t like in the movies – they didn’t make you hand over your badge and gun. He didn’t have a gun, of course – this was Ireland. Certain detectives carried one for protection, but most of the time, if you needed a firearm you had to ring up and ask for one. It resulted in quite a bit of paperwork.
Green, who’d dropped the smile and the sunny disposition, told Bunny to take a seat in their small staffroom while he went to speak to Marcus. A couple of minutes later he returned and showed Bunny into a rather cramped office where a man he guessed was Marcus was seated behind the desk.
As expected, he looked physically fit but, unexpectedly, he had a wary look to him, and bags under his eyes that suggested he could really do with a good night’s sleep. Bunny could sympathise. Bunny also noted the fading bruising on the left side of the man’s face, which tallied with what Mags had told him. He certainly looked like someone a couple weeks removed from getting a good going-over. He introduced himself as Marcus Phillips and indicated that Bunny should take the seat opposite him. Paul Green took a position behind his colleague, leaning against the filing cabinet.
“So, Detective, what can I help you with?”
Bunny pointed at his own face. “If you don’t mind me saying, it looks like you’ve been in the wars?”
“Yes. I’m afraid I got mugged.”
“Sorry to hear that. When did that happen?”
Marcus glanced back at Paul. “About three weeks ago now.”
“Have the Gardaí had any success finding the perpetrators?”
Marcus looked down for a moment and then scratched his chin. “I … I actually didn’t report it. I know I probably should have done, but I didn’t see anything. It would have just been a waste of everybody’s time.”
“You’d be surprised,” said Bunny. “CCTV, witnesses, and a lot of these guys have a tendency to work the same areas. They might have mugged other people before or since. It really is important to report such things.”
“Yes, sorry. You’re right, of course. I guess I was just shaken up, and a bit embarrassed, if I’m honest. Stupid, I know.”
“Oh, not at all. That’s a very natural reaction. After all, you’ve been through something traumatic. It’s very common for victims of violent attacks to deny anything happened or, indeed, to fabricate an entirely different story to explain it. Like, for example, telling people you got mugged when the reality is some arsehole sent the boys around to work you over.”
The room grew very tense. Marcus studied the top of the desk intently to avoid meeting Bunny’s eyes, whereas Paul glowered burning daggers straight at Bunny.
“I don’t know what you’ve heard,” said Marcus, “but I don’t want to press charges or anything like that. It
was all a big misunderstanding.”
Bunny crossed his legs. “And exactly what was the misunderstanding?”
“Sorry,” interjected Paul, taking a step forward. “If Marcus doesn’t want to press charges, then that’s the end of it. I think you should leave.”
“I’m afraid,” said Bunny, “that it isn’t the end of anything.” He turned his gaze to Marcus. “I don’t want to, but if you wish to keep lying to me, then I can charge you with obstruction of justice.”
Paul was outraged. “Are you serious? You’re going to charge the victim? What kind of bullshit is this?”
Marcus patted Paul on the arm and they shared a look. Paul, his face red with anger, took a step back reluctantly and stood there with his arms folded. Marcus took a deep breath and looked at Bunny. “What are you after here?”
“Look,” said Bunny. “I’m not trying to cause you any hassle, I promise. I just want to find out what happened. And, for what it’s worth, I don’t think you need to worry about any of this coming back at you. For a start, as I’m sure you know, Mr Hannity is dead.”
Either both Marcus and Paul were both a great loss to the acting profession, or Bunny would have bet that that piece of information really did come as a shock to them.
“Am I to take it that neither of you knew?”
The pair shook their heads.
“Right,” said Bunny. “But you know who Coop Hannity was?”
Marcus nodded. “I know he is – was – the husband of a client of mine.”
Bunny gave a tight smile. “He was indeed. I guess I meant, did you know what he was?”
Marcus paused and glanced up at Paul before answering. “Only after the fact. Apparently he’s some kind of gangster. We don’t know anything about that world.”
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