Dead Man's Sins

by Caimh McDonnell

  “Right. And he thought you were having an affair with his wife?”

  “Apparently.”

  “And can I ask—”

  “No,” said Paul firmly. “He most definitely was not.”

  He placed a hand on Marcus’s shoulder, who reached up and patted it. Bunny tilted his head back as the realisation belatedly dawned on him.

  “Ah right. Am I to take it Angelina Hannity isn’t your type?”

  “That’s right,” said Marcus. “And even if she was, for the record, I was her personal trainer. I only ever met her in this building. I tried to explain that, but …”

  “I blame that slimy little bastard,” said Paul.

  Bunny’s eyes narrowed. “Who?”

  “There was a guy hanging about the place,” said Marcus. “He came in a couple of times, pretending like he was interested in joining. The staff said there was something off about him. Then, another day, somebody noticed him sitting outside in a car. To be honest, we thought he was some creepy arsehole who was stalking one of the girls. I went out and had a word with him.”

  “And let me guess,” said Bunny. “A few days after you ran him off, some big lads representing Mr Hannity came to visit you?”

  Marcus scratched a hand across his T-shirt and nodded.

  “If I ever see that bastard again,” snarled Paul, “I’m going to rip that ridiculous comb-over clean off his head.”

  “Paul!” said Marcus, before turning back to Bunny. “He doesn’t mean that, obviously. If he did,” he added pointedly, “I’m sure he wouldn’t be stupid enough to say it in front of a Garda detective!”

  “He does mean it,” said Bunny. “And he should. This fella with the comb-over – by any chance did he look like he got dressed in the 70s and hasn’t changed since?”

  Marcus’s eyes widened. “You know him?”

  Bunny shrugged. “I might do. It’s the year 2000 – there aren’t many people still walking around with a comb-over. And of them, I’m guessing there’s only one whose job it is to follow people.” He got to his feet. “Alright, lads. Thanks for the help. Don’t worry, I won’t bring you into anything. Sorry for your troubles, Marcus. Looks like you got an awful lot of shit for no good reason at all.” He was about to head for the door, but turned back around. “Oh, if you wouldn’t mind – could you tell me where you were on Tuesday evening between nine and eleven?”

  Marcus glared at him. “As in, did I kill Hannity?” He pulled back his chair from the table and Bunny realised why the guy had been sitting awkwardly – his left leg was enclosed in a full plaster cast.

  “OK. Point taken.” Bunny turned his attention to Paul. “And yourself?”

  “I was downstairs, as it happens, leading forty people in a Zumba class, before we all went across the road for a drink. I can give you a list of witnesses if you’d like?”

  Bunny shook his head. “No, you’re grand. I just had to ask.” He gave them a smile. “I’ll show myself out.”

  “Detective?” asked Paul.

  Bunny looked back over his shoulder.

  “Do me a favour. If you find the man that killed Hannity, shake his hand for me.”

  Humping Hounds

  DI Thomas “not Tom” Marshall straightened his tie, checked his cufflinks then knocked on the office door. He could hear a voice from inside but it was indistinct and offered no clear indication that he could enter. He looked back at Commissioner Ferguson’s PA for a signal, but she was busy feeding documents to a shredder in the corner.

  He knocked again.

  “Come the hell in, for Christ’s sake,” came the roar from the other side of the door, removing all ambiguity.

  Marshall stepped inside and closed the door behind him. “Commissioner.”

  “Tom,” Ferguson responded, waving a hand at the chair opposite him and on which Marshall duly took a seat.

  Marshall waited to speak because the highest-ranking Garda officer in the country was not making eye contact with him, instead focusing all of his attention on the plate of food in front of him. He was tentatively prodding its contents with a fork, as if half expecting them to leap up and attack him.

  “Do you know what celery is, Marshall?”

  “It’s a vegetable, sir.”

  Ferguson raised his eyes for a brief moment – just enough time to make it very clear to Marshall that was not the correct answer.

  “Yes, thank you, Inspector. What it is, is quite possibly a perfect moment of evolution. It is a piece of vegetation that quickly realised that its greatest chance of survival would be to evolve itself to the point where it has absolutely no taste. Hunter-gatherers would obviously ignore it. Animals would have no use for it. It isn’t even poisonous, as in a threat that needs to be removed. It reached the point of being utterly irrelevant to the rest of existence. On some fundamental level, celery must’ve been smugly pleased with itself – neither friend nor foe to any living thing. It was just there – like that music you get in lifts, or Belgium. The thing that was in between the other, far more important things.” He picked up a piece of the vegetable and held it out before him.

  “It must have been absolutely gutted when enough of mankind managed to scoff itself into a state of morbid obesity, to the point where forcing them to eat Mother Nature’s wet fart is now considered a good idea.”

  Commissioner Ferguson dropped the piece of celery back on to the plate, pushed it to one side and then, after giving it a queasy look, covered it with a folder from the pile on his desk so he wouldn’t have to look at it.

  “If you’re looking for diet tips, sir,” offered Marshall, “I’ve read a couple of very interesting books on the subject.”

  Ferguson gave him a steely look, then lifted the file and spoke directly to the celery. “If it’s any consolation to you, it appears you still have better survival instincts than a detective inspector in the Garda Síochána.” He dropped the folder once more, having made his point.

  Marshall glanced around the room, and only then noticed the dog sleeping in a bed in the corner. He pulled back instinctively.

  “I see you have a dog, sir?”

  “You can’t teach observation skills like that. It’s just something you’re born with.”

  Marshall gave a weak laugh. “Yes, sir. Sorry, it’s just – dogs make me nervous.”

  “You don’t like dogs?” asked Ferguson, incredulous. “Did one rip your face off as a child? Kill a family member? Something like that?”

  Marshall shifted in his seat, deeply regretting this conversational segue. “No, sir. Nothing like that. I’ve just never been a dog person.”

  “What sort of a person doesn’t like dogs? I can only think of two possible groups – serial killers and that bunch of nutters in Rathmines who dress up as cats every weekend. Should I be concerned?”

  “No, sir. I’m sure your dog is lovely.”

  Ferguson thumped his fist on the table, causing the dog to startle. “He’s an utter shit, as it happens, but he’s still a dog.”

  “I … I had a goldfish when I was a child,” managed Marshall, confusing even himself as he said it.

  “Do yourself a favour, Tommy – quit while you’re behind.” Ferguson settled his considerable bulk back in the chair. “And how goes our valiant efforts to bring the perpetrators of Coop Hannity’s murder to justice?”

  Marshall was thrilled to move on to more solid ground. “We’re making progress. I have two of our men trying to trace Cian Fairchild. His brother’s widow said she believed he was in Spain, so we’re checking that out. We’re also looking into the alibis of the Marsh family.”

  “Excuse me?” said Ferguson. “An entire family?”

  “Rita Marsh, who—”

  “I remember her.”

  “Well, she has six sons, who all work for the fire service and who all fit the physical description of the man in the balaclava.”

  “Christ. That’s not a family you’d like to piss off.”

  “Following a meeti
ng last night,” continued Marshall, “a Miss Caroline Keane, the late Mr Hannity’s assistant, has agreed to assist us both in unravelling his business affairs and in verifying which tapes are missing from his collection. The DPP has agreed to grant her immunity from any prosecution in return for this assistance.”

  Ferguson pursed his lips and nodded.

  “I also have a team of four officers, assisted by the two forensic accountants I requested yesterday, who’ve begun trying to unpick the Hannity organisation. We’ve already been able to determine that there are multiple shell companies, offshore accounts and other evasion methods. It may be months, if not years, before we get the full picture.”

  “Given that most of what Mr Hannity engaged in was morally bankrupt but not actually illegal, do we feel all that is necessary?”

  Marshall sighed. “The problem, sir, is that it’s necessary if we’re to understand who owed him money and, therefore, who had motive.”

  “It’s my understanding,” said Ferguson, “that we might be better off trying to find people who didn’t owe him money. It seems like that’s a considerably smaller group. Regardless, please tell me we have something more than a couple of spreadsheets?”

  “Yes, sir. With the assistance of Miss Keane and pre-existing records, we’re drawing up a list of the most likely suspects: any long-running enmities, people who owed him a great deal of money and those who are having difficulty paying it back in particular, and anyone else we can identify as having an axe to grind regarding their previous dealings with Mr Hannity.”

  “That sounds like it’s going to be a very long list. It would also appear to include individuals from two of the emergency services. I imagine that by the time the day is out, we’ll discover Hannity somehow managed to piss off the coastguard too.”

  “We have to start somewhere, sir.”

  “It’s the finishing bit I’m concerned with.”

  The dog barked.

  “Shut up, Kevin,” snapped Ferguson, without looking at the pup. “Anything from the crime scene?”

  “We’ve agreed to release stills of the man in the balaclava to the media today – in the hope that it might jog some memories for the public. Disappointingly, despite the man not wearing gloves, forensics haven’t been able to pull any prints from the wall he jumped over, or anywhere else for that matter. A search of the area has yet to yield the murder weapon.”

  “Yet?”

  “Yes, sir. A detective from DI O’Rourke’s squad was in charge of it, but he overlooked a skip at a nearby building site, which was removed the morning after.”

  “Oh, for shit’s sake.”

  “I’ve already added a reprimand to the file of the officer in question, and first thing this morning, he and a couple of uniforms went out to Dunsink to go through the area of the dump where that the driver thinks he unloaded the skip.”

  Ferguson scratched his belly through his shirt. “Well, it’s nice to know that somebody is having an even shittier morning than I am. Any good news?”

  “I’ve just come from speaking to Dr Denise Devane. Her preliminary autopsy confirmed what we suspected – namely that Hannity was stabbed multiple times, mainly in the lower back. There was also an unexpected finding in the wounds. It appears they contain trace elements of a substance she has provisionally identified as cheese.”

  Marshall tried to hide his confusion as the Commissioner closed his eyes and tilted his head back.

  “God,” Ferguson whispered at the ceiling, “I miss cheese.”

  “Sir?”

  Ferguson returned his gaze to Marshall. “You’re telling me the man was butchered with a cheese knife?”

  “Again, I must emphasise the preliminary nature of the findings.”

  “Yes, thank you, Detective Inspector, I do understand what the word ‘preliminary’ means. I’m having considerably more difficulty understanding what kind of a killer uses a dirty knife?”

  “I would imagine we can rule out professional assassins, sir.”

  “You think?” said Ferguson, not attempting to disguise his sarcasm in any way.

  “It’s still far too early to draw any meaningful conclusions, sir. Also, as far as we can tell, there isn’t anybody obvious lined up to take over Hannity’s business. Not that there’s an org chart anywhere, but what little intelligence we have indicates there are three lieutenants managing different parts of the business, plus a more conventional management structure on the more legitimate side of things. We’re going to have to wait and see whether this looks like somebody making their move.”

  “Christ,” said Ferguson. “What an utter shit show. At this point, presumably Hannity is the only person we can rule out, unless we think this might have been a particularly elaborate suicide?”

  Marshall said nothing, belatedly catching on to the Commissioner’s love of a rhetorical question.

  “And what about the other thing?”

  “The other thing, sir?”

  “Don’t play the innocent with me, Marshall. We are both well aware of the specific reason you were brought up to Dublin to take over the investigation. McGarry?”

  Marshall shrugged. “Currently he’s just one name on a list. However, from Miss Keane’s provisional inspection of the video-tape store, she has confirmed that the tape from Monday night – the one that would have shown McGarry’s visit to Hannity – is missing.”

  “And how many other tapes has she so far identified as missing?”

  “Just the one from the night of the murder, sir.”

  “I see.”

  “And Detective Pamela Cassidy informed me that McGarry contacted her yesterday afternoon, enquiring about the case. As per my instructions to the entire team, she didn’t tell him anything, and she has Detective John Carlson as a witness to the fact. Nevertheless, sir, I will be removing Detective Cassidy from the case.”

  Ferguson leaned forward. “But she followed your instructions?”

  “Yes, sir, but she is a friend of McGarry’s.”

  “As is, I would imagine, a large percentage of the Gardaí in Dublin. This is Cassidy – short girl, red hair?”

  “That sounds like her.”

  “I thought so. I remember her from the ill-fated cross-border police sports day we had with our colleagues from the North a few years ago. The one we held only the once – following the incident.”

  Marshall was fully aware of the circumstances. He hadn’t been there, but the event had gone badly enough to have made the papers. The Republic had won the soccer match three–two, with a couple of sendings-off for each team. The shit had really hit the fan when the captain of the winning team had accepted their trophy and decided to give his whole victory speech in Irish.

  “Cassidy was our representative in the lightweight judo, or whatever it was called. She won that, then, when our heavyweight representative did in her knee playing netball, she stepped up and won that as well. In about thirty seconds too. I’d never watched judo before, but Christ almighty, I enjoyed the hell out of that. Her opponent was that woman from the cross-border cooperation committee – the one whose entire role appears to be to ensure no actual cooperation takes place.”

  “I’m not entirely sure how that’s relevant, sir?”

  “It is relevant, Inspector, because we do not take good coppers off cases for no reason when, as you yourself said, she followed your instructions to the letter. Knowing somebody is not a crime, only assisting them inappropriately is. Do let me know if that happens. In the meantime, let’s allow Detective Cassidy to do her job, shall we?”

  Marshall said nothing.

  “Generally, Inspector, when I ask a question, I do expect some form of answer.”

  “Sorry, sir,” said Marshall awkwardly. “I’m afraid … It’s just … You see …”

  “Good God, man, just spit it out. This is like watching a Hugh Grant movie.”

  Marshall pointed behind the Commissioner. “Your dog, sir … “

  Ferguson spun around in his
chair to be greeted by the sight of Kevin the Labradoodle industriously humping a cushion. “Oh, for …” The Commissioner rubbed his hand against his forehead and then turned slowly back around. “Continue.”

  Marshall looked at the dog and then back at the Commissioner. “I’m sorry, sir?”

  Ferguson sighed a heavy sigh and came the closest he was ever likely to get to looking embarrassed. “I have been informed by my pet behaviourist that this behaviour is stress-related, and that the best way to deal with it is to ignore it.”

  “I see.”

  “I don’t,” said Ferguson, staring forlornly at his desk. “I used to be master of all I surveyed, Tom-Tom. Now look at me. Sitting here eating celery while a Labra-bloody-doodle fucks my soft furnishings. I have been utterly emasculated.”

  Marshall reached for something to say but nothing came. He looked at the dog again. To Marshall’s untrained eye, the animal’s facial expression did not say stress. He appeared to be enjoying himself immensely.

  “So,” said Ferguson, “I believe you and McGarry have a history?”

  “I fail to see how that’s relevant, sir.”

  “And I fail to care what you think is relevant. That’s my job. Now, you and McGarry – what incident sparked this bitter feud? I assume it didn’t start with McGarry pulling down your pants?”

  Marshall considered refusing to answer, then remembered who he was speaking to. Commissioner Ferguson, amongst his other talents, was heralded as the most gifted interrogator the force had ever seen. He could just keep asking the same question again and again until a person broke. Marshall wanted to get out of the room, and the quickest way to make that happen was by telling the truth.

  “We trained together in Templemore.”

  “And? I assume other Garda recruits were there as well. Even you can’t have fallen out with all of them. So what was it? A woman? Money?”

  “No, sir. If you must know, McGarry claimed that at a social, I had made a wager with him that Limerick would beat Cork in that year’s Munster hurling final.”