“People think Muhammed Ali was so great,” slurred Gary, continuing a monologue he’d started while taking a piss in the toilets, “but he wasn’t all that. He’d get eaten alive in the modern game. Wouldn’t last two rounds with me.”
Jason nodded. He’d always found that was the best course of action when confronted with statements of such monumental bullshit.
Given the late hour, he was confused to see two nuns, holding collection boxes, standing on the pavement ahead. They looked quite comical, if you were in the mood for a laugh, which Jason definitely wasn’t. One of them was a very large girl, and the other was small and thin. They also looked surprisingly young for nuns. He’d been educated by nuns at St David’s, but he’d never seen one that looked under fifty – at least, not unless they were African. Africa seem to be the only place in the world still producing nuns. They were a dying breed, like box-to-box midfielders and affordable housing.
As Gary and Jason approached, the two women shook their tins enthusiastically.
“Donation for the orphans,” said the little one in what sounded like a Northern Irish accent. “Help save the orphanage.”
Gary laughed. “Would you fuck off out of that. Orphans? I’m not giving away my hard-earned money just because somebody else doesn’t want to take care of their kid. I’m already taking care of one that isn’t mine.”
While Jason was used to Gary being an arsehole, this was a whole new level. These women were nuns. If his education had taught him anything, and God knows he had not learned much, it was that you never, ever fuck with nuns.
Gary shoved his way roughly between the two women, causing the bigger one to stumble backwards and throw out an arm to prevent herself from falling. Jason cringed behind Gary’s back and made an apologetic face. He couldn’t actually apologise, not without pissing off Gary, but he tried to convey his regret through the medium of mime.
Gary strode on for a couple of steps.
Then he slowed to a drunken stroll.
Then, a stumble … An unexpected pirouette, during which he looked back at the nuns, a look of stupefaction spreading across his face, then he fell back, hard. Anyone who had attended Gary’s last couple of fights would have experienced an overwhelming sense of déjà vu as he crashed to the ground like a felled redwood. This time, though, there was no uppercut, no right hook. He just went down.
Jason looked at the nuns and could have sworn he saw the little one shove something back into her pocket. She caught sight of him and favoured him with a quick smile before looking down at the unconscious form of Gary Kearney.
“Dear oh dear. Isn’t drink a terrible thing? Some people just can’t handle it.” She nodded to the other nun. “Come on, Assumpta. We should be getting back.”
As they walked away, the little one touched her ear. “He’s down.”
The two nuns disappeared around the corner, leaving Jason alone in the street with the supine form of Gary Kearney.
“Gary? Gary, are you alright?”
He didn’t move. Jason bent down to check him. He was still breathing, there was no blood. It appeared that he’d just fallen unconscious. Jason wasn’t sure what to do next. It would take four of him to pick up the man and take him home. He could go back into the pub and ask for help but Gary was not a popular man. The only reason he hadn’t been barred was because nobody was brave enough to do it.
Jason looked around and considered his options. Then, a voice inside his own mind that he’d never heard before spoke to him.
He reached inside Gary’s jacket and pulled out his wallet. One hundred quid. The prick had a hundred pounds just sitting there and he’d made no effort to pay Jason back. Jason snatched the notes, closed the wallet and shoved it back inside the pocket.
After a quick glance around to confirm he wasn’t being watched, Jason stood up and started to walk quickly away.
He got all the way to the street corner before stopping. What the hell was he doing?
As he hurried back to Gary Kearney, he checked again that nobody had witnessed what he’d done.
“Gary? Gary, can you hear me?”
No response.
Jason glanced around one more time then gave Gary Kearney the mother of all boots in the bollocks.
That Sinking Feeling
What was the phrase? It’s not the despair, it’s the hope that kills you. Bunny tried to calm the thumping heart in his chest as he fumbled with the keys to his own front door. It wasn’t Simone. It couldn’t be. Still, the hope, the terrible hope.
He opened the door and raced down the hall towards the sitting room, where a light had been visible through the closed curtains.
He burst into the room then slouched against the wall when he saw Detective Pamela Cassidy sitting in his armchair, looking back at him. “Butch,” he said, failing to keep the disappointment from his voice, “it’s you.”
“Yeah. Did you forget you gave me a key? Were you expecting somebody else?”
Bunny ignored the question, took off his coat and slumped down onto the sofa. The text from Mrs Byrne had read, Your lady friend is back. He had jumped to conclusions.
“So, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”
Butch extended her leg carefully, so as not to wake the cat that was sleeping on her lap, and kicked Bunny in the shin.
“Ouch! Jesus, Butch. What in the fecking hell was that for?”
“It could be for a lot of things. Like, for example, how I had to drive over here, and then go round the area for an hour, making sure you weren’t under police surveillance, before I came in. Anyone finds out I’m here, forget my career being over, I could go to jail too.”
Bunny looked at her. “So why are you here?”
She took a deep breath before speaking, as if she were trying to keep her temper under control. “Lots of reasons. I guess I’m here to warn you. To convince myself I haven’t done something stupid. But mainly, I’d like the explanation I think I deserve as to what the hell is going on?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Bullshit!” snapped Butch. “Guess what I found out today? The autopsy on Coop Hannity came back with an unusual little finding: traces of cheese in the stab wounds. You know, like he’d been stabbed with a large knife that had previously been used to cut cheese.” She jabbed a finger in the direction of Bunny’s fridge in the next room. “I’m guessing like the massive fuck-off slab you have in your fridge. For Christ’s sake, I was here when you realised that knife was gone.”
Bunny went to speak but she cut him off.
“And before you say anything, you rang me to confirm that Hannity had been stabbed to death. You must know that somebody is trying to frame you for this thing, so why the hell are you dodging coming in for an interview? I could even give a statement confirming that I was here when you realised the knife had disappeared. All of this you know, so seriously, Bunny, what’s going on?”
He lowered his eyes to the worn carpet. “I’m sorry, but I can’t say.”
“This is Gringo, isn’t it?”
Bunny said nothing but glanced up at her briefly.
“Jesus,” said Butch. “Only you would get yourself into this much shit in order to protect a dead man.” She petted the still-sleeping cat and then looked back up at Bunny. “I’m not an idiot. He was my friend too, but we both know whatever the hell happened in that investigation, it stank to high heaven. Gringo and the others getting into a shootout somewhere they had only the weakest of justifications for being? And you and him ending up on that beach? I don’t know exactly what happened and, to be clear, I don’t want to know, but I’ve lost one friend already and, annoying prick that you are, I’d rather not lose another.”
Bunny gave his famed wonky-eyed smile. “Are you hitting on me?”
Despite herself, Butch laughed. “So help me God, McGarry, I am this close to hurling your own cat at you.”
He nodded. “Would this be a bad time to bring up the fact that I d
o not own a cat?”
Butch considered the sleeping feline. “What? But the thing was sitting on your doorstep and walked in like it owns the place?”
“Yeah,” said Bunny. “It’s a cat. That’s what cats do. As a lesbian, I thought you had a fundamental understanding of cats? Aren’t they like the national animal of Lesbania?”
“OK, well, first things first – fuck off. Secondly, I probably shouldn’t have fed it, then, should I?”
“No,” agreed Bunny. “That was less than ideal.”
“Why didn’t you say something when you walked in?”
Bunny shrugged. “I thought you were going for a sort of Bond-villain vibe.”
“Why would I … Never mind. Forget about the cat,” she said, while stroking the cat. “What are we going to do?”
“We aren’t going to do anything. This has nothing to do with you.”
“That’s a shitty thing to say. I came here to help and whether you like it or not, I’m going to. You do know Marshall is this close to having you arrested? Sure, they haven’t got enough to pin Hannity’s murder on you, but I know for a fact that he and Rigger O’Rourke went a couple of rounds this evening – about whether or not he could bring you up on charges for obstructing the course of justice.”
“That’s a bit of a reach.”
“Which I believe was O’Rourke’s point. Still, this is Marshall’s show, and from what I hear, you gained access to Mrs Hannity’s hospital room through unconventional means.”
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Yeah,” said Butch. “On an entirely unrelated note, you remember I have met your assistant manager previously?”
“And heaven help anybody who brings him in for an interrogation.”
“Do you reckon he’ll stay quiet?”
“Oh no. I guarantee he’ll talk. And talk and talk. Incidentally, have they any idea who took a shot at Angelina Hannity?”
Butch shook her head. “Investigations are ongoing, and I can confirm that all manner of resources are being thrown at it. The higher-ups are freaking out that we’ve got a new gang war in the offing, and we don’t even know who the players are. By the way,” she added, looking at her watch. “Training finished a couple of hours ago. Where have you been?”
“Janice Craven.”
Butch’s eyes widened. “She never rang me. Is everything …”
Bunny nodded. “It wasn’t, but it is now.” He considered his words. “Well, I hope it will be eventually. They’re somewhere safe, which is the main thing.”
“Jesus. Even with all this going on, you find time to try and deal with that too, huh? You’re some man for one man, McGarry.”
“And they say men can’t multitask.” He leaned forward on the sofa. “There is one thing you can help me with. Let’s assume I am being set up for this murder. What I can’t figure out is why haven’t I been properly set up for murder, if you see what I mean? There’s the murder weapon, which I’m guessing has my fingerprints on it, and I believe there’s a tape of my meeting with Hannity … Is it just me, or does it seem odd that neither has been found?”
“Well,” said Butch, “I don’t know what’s happened to the tape, but there is a possible explanation for why the murder weapon hasn’t been found. The new lad, Carlson, messed up on the search, and a skip from up the road from Hannity’s house got taken to Dunsink without being checked. If I was to dump the murder weapon – I mean, somewhere I wanted it to be found but believable enough not to look obvious – that’s where I’d have put it.”
“Ah, I see.”
“Yeah, I was out there today. It’s the shit duty Marshall gave me as a punishment for knowing you. To be honest, if it is there we should have found it by now, but there were some unexpected delays.”
“Like what?”
“I’ll tell you about it when this is all over. Just be thankful that, despite DI Marshall’s protestations, it was too big an area to bring in lights to search at night. But we’re due back out there at eight in the morning with a much bigger team. If it’s there, odds on we’ll find it. The clock is ticking, Bunny.”
“I know. I just need a little more time.”
“I hope you’re right,” said Butch. “Because a little more time is all you have. I should probably get going.”
“Thanks for dropping in. Can I interest you in a massive block of cheese?”
Butch shook her head. “No, thanks.” She looked down at the feline still sleeping on her lap. “Have you ever considered maybe getting a cat?”
Sex Dungeons in Suburbia
Garda Mark Finlay clapped his gloved hands together and hugged himself, trying to generate some warmth.
“Why are we here?”
Garda Alan Maguire scratched at his goatee beard and considered the question. “Do you mean in an existential sense?”
Finlay scrunched up his face. “What?”
“As in, what is our place in the universe? What is the meaning of life? Is what we consider to be our lives actually our lives or maybe a projection from another state of existence?”
“No, ye fuck-trumpet. I just meant why are we standing out here at three in the morning in a back garden in Santry?”
“Oh,” said Maguire, failing to hide his disappointment, “we’re here to guard this door.” He pointed a thumb back over his shoulder at the door in question to emphasise his point.
“Yes, smart arse,” said Finlay. “I know we’re here to guard that door. My question was: why are we here to guard a stupid bloody door?”
“Actually, that wasn’t your question. What you said was ‘why are we here?’. That’s a very different question with a lot of possible interpretations.”
Finlay glared at him. “This garden has already been a murder scene once this week; are you trying to go for the double?”
Maguire turned his head and, when Finlay couldn’t see, stuck out his tongue. It was fair to say that neither man would be the other’s first choice for spending a night standing a post together. Still, got to get along to get along.
“I heard it’s a sex dungeon.”
“No way.”
“That’s the word on the street.”
“The street?” scoffed Finlay. “How would you know? Does your book club meet on it?”
The reason Finlay disliked Maguire, at least as far as Maguire could tell, was that he’d taken the unusual step of dropping out of a philosophy degree to join the Garda Síochána. Either that or Finlay could smell the books off him. The man’s determination to avoid all levels of intellectual engagement was almost impressive. Maguire guessed he hadn’t read anything more involved than the instructions on the back of a microwave pizza packet in a decade.
“If it’s a sex dungeon,” continued Finlay, “then why is it under twenty-four-hour guard?”
“Obviously it played some part in the murder.”
“No, it didn’t. I was here on the first morning. Coop Hannity’s body was found over there, by the bloody pigeons.”
“It doesn’t mean the sex dungeon wasn’t involved.”
“And who would even build a sex dungeon in their back garden?”
“Well,” said Maguire, “sexual deviants. Obviously.”
“Right, yeah. You’d definitely put your sex dungeon down here, just between the pigeon coops and the washing line. People don’t do the freaky-deaky stuff in their own back yard,” said Finlay knowingly. “They go somewhere else to do that.”
“Like where?” Maguire deeply regretted asking the question as soon as it came out of his mouth. What followed from Finlay was tediously inevitable.
“Amsterdam.”
It took every ounce of Maguire’s self-control not to shove his gloved hand into his mouth and scream. Two months ago Mark Finlay had gone on a stag weekend to Amsterdam with his football team, and had been laboriously shoehorning it into conversation ever since.
As it happened, Maguire himself had done a weekend in Amsterdam a couple of ye
ars ago, but he didn’t bring it up, primarily because it was very obvious that, unlike his trip, the stag do had not taken in the Van Gogh Museum, the Anne Frank House or the Royal Palace Amsterdam. It might have involved a canal, but only if somebody threw up in it.
Still, the stag weekend had made Finlay one of the world’s leading experts on the cornucopia of human sexual desires. Seeing a woman dressed as a French maid shoving a feather duster up somewhere unexpected apparently had that effect.
Maguire turned around to look directly at the innocuous-looking blue metal door. “So, what do you reckon is behind the mysterious door, then?” he asked, keen to move the conversation away from the Dutch capital at any cost.
“I reckon it’s a vault. Got to be.”
“A vault?” said Maguire. “Do you mean as in a crypt?”
“No, idiot. Like a bank vault. Behind that door is millions of quid in gold bars, and probably priceless works of art and all that.”
“Right. And they’re leaving two unarmed guards and a padlock here to protect it, are they?”
Finlay gave him a huffy look and folded his arms. “I’ve nearly got my firearm certificate”
“Brilliant,” responded Maguire. “I hope you brought the documentation with you. You can show it to the robbers when they turn up. It’ll be a real conversation piece.”
“Do you know what your problem is?”
Before Maguire could find out, their conversation was rudely interrupted by the tip of a silencer being placed against the nape of his neck. He knew it was a gun because out of the corner of his eye he could see a figure dressed head to toe in black camouflage gear holding one to the back of Finlay’s head too.
A calm, English-accented voice spoke from somewhere near by. “If you want to live, you don’t move, you don’t speak. Understand?” The voice actually laughed. “You may nod your heads extremely slowly to indicate compliance.”
They did.
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