A Man With One of Those Faces (The Dublin Trilogy Book 1)

by Caimh McDonnell

  “What’s your point?”

  “Bunny is a bit like Bud, the hot-headed cop Russell Crowe plays. And you’re like… thingy, the bloke who was in neighbours…”

  “Jason Donovan?”

  Stewart slapped the car, suddenly remembering. “Guy Pearce. He plays this strait-laced cop. They start off as bitter enemies but in the end they team up to take down the bad guys.”

  Wilson started to stand up slowly, using the side of the car for assistance.

  “You think me and him are going to end up as friends?”

  Stewart considered this as he looked at Bunny standing patiently in the queue for the ice-cream van, yacking away to two old ones.

  “No. Bunny doesn’t have friends, and if he did, you’d not be one of them.”

  “So what’s your point?”

  Stewart looked up as if trying to remember.

  “I’m not sure I had one.”

  Wilson glared at him.

  Stewart sipped his tea and looked off into the distance.

  “Is that yer one who does the news in Irish?”

  Chapter Twenty

  “Just… calm down.”

  Brigit was wearing flat shoes but she was still finding it difficult to keep up with Paul, as he zigged and zagged his way out of the park. He was headed for the Leeson Street exit, through the busy Friday evening pedestrian traffic. He didn’t even look back as he spoke.

  “Calm down? Calm down she says!”

  “There’s no need to panic.”

  Paul stopped and turned abruptly, his sense of outrage at the inaccuracy of that statement momentarily outweighing his compunction to flee. His about-turn caused a mini pile-up. A lady with a pram had to veer into oncoming foot traffic to avoid hitting Brigit. Nobody said anything, but there was some definite tutting at the lower edges of the aural spectrum.

  He glared at Brigit with such ferocity that she took a step backwards.

  “No need to panic? People are planting bombs – BOMBS mind you, under my car. I’ve no clue why but gangsters, real life gangsters, are trying to kill me. I can’t go home, I’ve no money, no… no anything, except this!” In the air in front of him, he waggled the shopping bag containing two framed photographs, a vinyl record, a pack of three itchy pants, and the recently acquired copy of the book Hostage to Love. It represented all of his worldly possessions not currently within the blast radius of unexploded ordinance.

  “As far as I’m concerned, there is a need for panic. In fact, it was for situations exactly like this, that panic was invented!”

  “You could go to the police?”

  “Oh please!” said Paul. “I do that and Greevy will…” He stopped.

  “Who is Greevy?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Alright then, where are we going?”

  “We? You can go wherever the hell you like.”

  “No,” said Brigit. “Screw you. You can’t keep blaming me and then not let me help.”

  “I can and will. What help could you possibly be?”

  “I’ve got money, a car, I know a lot about… the case.”

  She’d actually been going to say crime in general, but chickened out when she realised how stupid citing an addiction to American detective shows and crime novels would sound. She decided to move on before he could respond. “I got you into this and I’ll help get you out. I’m not letting you wander off like a clueless eejit to get yourself killed, leaving me to feel guilty about it for the rest of my life.”

  “What if I don’t want you following me?”

  “Tough. Just you try and outrun me. I’ll tackle you to the ground. I played rugby for the county.”

  Paul raised his eyebrows and Brigit’s eyes narrowed in response. Her voice lowered to one of those whispers that sound louder than ordinary speech.

  “Go ahead, make a joke about that – I dare ye.”

  Paul took a deep breath. “Alright fine, come on then.”

  “Right, but enough of the power walking. We need to blend in.”

  Paul nodded and headed towards the exit at a more reasonable pace, Brigit walking alongside him.

  They got lucky and hit the pedestrian lights on green, crossing over amidst the throng. They walked up Leeson Street in silence, both looking around them nervously to see if anybody was following. Earlier, Brigit had found this fun – now it seemed all too real. It was only enjoyable checking for homicidal maniacs tailing you when you didn’t really believe deep down that they’d be there.

  Brigit jumped as the phone in her pocket vibrated. She took it out and looked at the screen.

  “It’s Stewart again.”

  Paul stopped walking. “Don’t answer it – no, hang on – do, I want to know if my car and thing is OK but… but – Don’t… no, screw it – Do.”

  Brigit stood there with her finger poised over the screen. She turned her eyes to heaven before looking back at Paul.

  “Alright, do.”

  She hit the button and put the phone to her ear. As she did so, she stepped up onto the stone steps leading to one of the grand old Georgian terraced houses that lined both sides of the street. A shiny plaque indicated they were standing on the doorstep of the Embassy of the Republic of Cyprus. She briefly had the thought everybody else probably had when they first saw it. How many Irish people get drunk and do something silly on holidays to justify that?

  Paul moved in beside her, leaving both of them out of the steady flow of passing commuters.

  “Hello… ohh…” Brigit looked confused. “Yes, I mean no, I mean — hang on a sec.”

  She took the phone away from her ear and put her hand over it.

  “It’s for you.”

  “What? How’d he know I was with you?”

  “I dunno. I never said I was meeting you. Besides, this isn’t Stewart. I could tell them you’re not here?”

  “Right, and who have you been talking to for the last ten seconds? Give it here.”

  Brigit handed the phone over to Paul.

  “Hello.”

  “Paulie boy, sounds like you’re having quite the day.”

  The voice on the other end, while unexpected, was instantly recognisable.

  “Bunny – how the hell did you know I was here?”

  Paul and Brigit instinctively looked around them again, scanning the street for signs they were being watched.

  “What can I tell ye Paulie boy, I’m a master fecking detective. Also – if you remember – yourself, meself and the Leitrim lovely had breakfast together this morning.”

  “Oh right well. It’s been fun catching up but we’re busy.”

  “Feck sake Paulie, don’t be a gobshite. Whatever you’ve done to piss off Fallon…“

  “I didn’t do anything.” Paul interrupted. “There you go, instantly blaming me…”

  “I’m not blaming you for feck… Look, just come in and we can sort it out. You have my word.”

  “Your word! Are you joking, Bunny? I learned long ago I can’t trust you.”

  “This is… this is different, Paulie. Jesus boy – they’ve already killed some poor girl and they put enough C4 under your car to make you the first Mick in space. Cop yourself on.”

  At that moment, an itchy sensation at the back of Paul’s brain, the certain something that’d been bothering him ever since Brigit and he had sat talking on that bench, made itself known. A couple of facts finally collided and formed into a coherent thought.

  “Here’s the thing, Bunny. Brown or McNair or whatever the hell you want to call him. He’d been a patient at St Kilda’s for what, three weeks?”

  Paul looked at Brigit as he spoke. She nodded to indicate he’d got that right.

  “In that time he didn’t have one single visitor, not one. At least not until last night when I dropped in to say hello.”

  “What’s your point?” asked Bunny.

  “My point,” said Paul,” is that it doesn’t sound like Gerry Fallon had any idea that McNair was there, d
oes it?”

  “Well…” Bunny was sounding less sure of himself now, “I guess that’s a possibility.”

  “In fact, when you think about it. All of this chaos kicked off today – when the police figured out who Brown really was.”

  “That’s…”

  Paul cut across him, determined to finish his point. “Your lot find out that one piece of information and, suddenly, I’ve got a big target on my back. Forgive the cliché, Bunny, but with friends like you, who needs enemies?”

  Paul hung up the phone.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Jimmy Stewart hit redial on the phone and placed it to his ear. After a beat, he heard the cheerful tones of Brigit Conroy yet again telling him she was awful busy doing God knows what right now, but to leave a message and she’d get back to him. He stabbed at the disconnect button angrily and resisted the temptation to hurl the handset at the wall opposite.

  Himself and detective sergeant Bunny McGarry stood huddled in the mouth of an alleyway away from the throng. More gawpers had turned out to watch the shenanigans on Richmond Gardens as the evening had progressed. It’d been three hours now and the crowd were getting restless. Stewart was only guessing, but he imagined this was the first time in their careers that the bomb squad had been slow handclapped.

  Throughout DI Stewart’s several attempts to ring Nurse Conroy’s phone back, Bunny McGarry had remained absolutely still beside him, a far off look in his eyes.

  “It’s no good. They’re not picking up,” said Stewart.

  “Here’s the thing,” said Bunny, “he’s not wrong is he?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We find out that your stiff is McNair, and all of a sudden the last eejit to speak to him and the corpse’s only living relative are both dead, save for a hiccup in the plan.” Bunny nodded his head towards the bomb squad.

  “What’re you saying?” Stewart asked.

  “I’m saying something here stinks worse than a wino’s arse on Sunday.”

  “Are you questioning my integrity, Bunny?”

  “No, Jimmy,” said Bunny. “We’re not bosom buddies but I’ve known you long enough to understand that if you were dirty, you’d not be thick enough to put yourself front and centre like this.”

  Jimmy exhaled. “Thanks very much for that ringing endorsement.”

  “But there’s a rat here and somebody needs to find the little cheese-bothering prick.”

  Stewart looked hard at Bunny’s good eye.

  “What’s your interest here, Bunny?”

  “I told ye, Paulie Mulchrone is one of my boys.”

  “Half a wing of Mountjoy Prison could say the same, Bunny. You trained hurlers, not altar boys.”

  “Ha. Do ye have any idea how many former altar boys I’ve locked up over the years?”

  “My point is…” Stewart hesitated, then said the thing that had been bothering him since Bunny had shown up. “I’ve seen Mulchrone’s arrest record. I’ve seen his role in the Madigan’s job.”

  And there it was. Stewart watched the other man carefully. Bunny looked understandably embarrassed. Stewart would bet the farm that he was the first person to dare bring this subject up for a very long time.

  Madigan’s had been the biggest security van company in the country a few years ago. Their complex out in Swords had been dubbed ‘the Irish Fort Knox’. Impenetrable, or so they’d have had you believe. That had been proven spectacularly wrong nine years ago when some boys had paid a visit and made off with the pre-Christmas cash take from half the pubs, clubs and restaurants in Dublin. Two million and change. They’d used state of the art technology, mixed with military-style precision timing, and a level of ingenuity far beyond your everyday gobshite with a gun.

  It’d been the first big test for the freshly minted organised crime unit, and nearly killed it stone dead. Bunny McGarry had been one of the chosen Untouchables. His years of invaluable street-side know how were seen as a shrewd addition to the force within a force. Rumours flew and pretty soon it came down to Paddy Nellis. A former housebreaker who’d steadily moved up and up the criminal ladder, due to being considerably smarter than the average bear. Dublin was a small town and that level of talent had always marked him out as one to watch. Madigan’s was seen as his graduation to the big leagues. The Gardaí had quickly been able to trace a couple of boys with an ex-British forces history who’d been in and out of the country at about the time of the job. Outside help made sense. Nellis was known to distrust the standard of talent available on the local market. Most jobs like this, somebody’s big mouth more often than not got everybody a trip to the funhouse. Loose lips couldn’t sink ships if they were several thousand miles away at the time.

  That wasn’t to say the police hadn’t had leads to go on. One of the raiders had been required to show his face when he’d driven the stolen van containing his team into the compound. His hat had fallen off to reveal a head of bleach-blonde hair. The CCTV tapes had been destroyed with an industrial magnet within 60 seconds of breach, but two security guards had seen him. One of the crew had also slipped up; three members of staff all hearing him say ‘C’mon, Paul, pull your finger out son.’ It was the only thing any of the crew had said during the whole two minutes and fourteen seconds they were in there. The police had been in the midst of pulling together jackets on any and all known associates of Nellis, when the investigation had caught a break.

  It had always amazed Stewart how otherwise smart criminals couldn’t resist coming back to a crime scene for a gloat and a gander. The problem with being clever enough to get away with it is other people not knowing how clever you are. That’s why it is standard procedure at most crime scenes to take pictures of the crowd of onlookers. The trawl of the crowd outside Madigan’s had turned up Paul Mulchrone. There he was standing about, gawping away like a tourist. His recently dyed bleach-blonde hair made him stand out. An 18-year-old kid, too impressed with himself to keep his distinctive head down.

  Bunny was the one who spotted it. In hindsight, he’d almost certainly been meant to. Mulchrone was dragged in and placed in an identity parade. The security guards were 100% certain he was the man.

  They grilled Mulchrone for 24 hours. He denied all knowledge, said he couldn’t remember where he’d been that night. They figured charging him would make it real, burn away the misplaced confidence of youth. They would soon turn the strong silent type into the supergrass needed to bring everybody down. Senior sources in the investigation let it be known to the press, dominos were falling.

  They waited until the morning after he’d been charged before the trap was sprung. Mulchrone had an alibi. Not just an alibi, the mother of all alibis.

  At the time of the heist the Minister for Justice, no less, had been out in Tallaght watching the first production in a new community theatre, an am-dram panto of Snow White and the Seven Dwarves. RTE had been there too, getting some footage for a piece about the new facility, and to buff up the Minister’s ‘man of the people’ credentials. Amidst all the dropped lines and double entendres, there was Mulchrone, giving a fairly underwhelming performance as Dopey.

  There was absolutely no way he could’ve been in Swords on the other side of Dublin holding a shotgun to a manager’s head while his buddies cleared out a safe. The investigation team tried to suggest it was somebody else in the footage, but no dice. The cast all verified his identity. Out of desperation, they even checked whether Mulchrone, with his complicated family history, could have a previously unheard of twin brother. Again, nothing. Some made the case for trying to charge him with wasting police time but senior command knew a PR disaster when they saw it coming. Not only had they spent days on a humiliating dead end, but Paddy Nellis’s lawyer was able to scream blue murder about police harassment.

  That was how smart Nellis was. Stewart remembered being told about it a few years ago at the retirement do for one of the detectives involved. They had figured it out months later. Nellis must’ve noticed that the nephew of
one of the ex-British Special forces boys looked quite like Mulchrone. He’d probably met the young fella when he’d travelled to Preston six months previously. That’s what’d given him the idea. Some hair-dye and finding a convenient film crew and voila, he made the problem of a member of the gang having to show their face, into a booby-trap to destroy an investigation. It’d been clever, damn clever. Nellis had counted on Bunny, and he’d duly walked the whole investigation right where he’d wanted it to go.

  Sure, they had kept going but now that they’d got two eyewitnesses who’d given unsound identifications, they had worse than nothing. Quietly it went away, and Bunny went back to Summerhill Garda station where he’d started, and where he’d stayed ever since.

  Bunny took a small flask out of his coat pocket, unscrewed the cap and offered it to Stewart.

  “Fancy a warmer?”

  “No thanks.”

  “Suit yourself.” Bunny took a quick nip, smacked his lips and gave Stewart a long hard look.

  He screwed the lid back on and the flask disappeared back inside his vast coat. Bunny moved in close enough that Stewart could smell the harsh whiskey on his breath and feel the spittle as he spoke. “Mulchrone was a bit of a langer a few years ago and If it turns out he’s back playing the gurrier, I’ll boot his arse into jail and go get a cream bun. But if he isn’t, then I’m not going to let shites like Fallon go gallivanting about shooting down one of my boys in the street. It sets a fecking precedent. D’ye get me?”

  Stewart backed away slightly. “Point taken.” He figured that was as much as he was likely to get. Bunny seemed angry. Bunny always seemed angry, but for whatever reason, his anger didn’t seem to be directed at Mulchrone.

  “It got pushed upstairs,” said Stewart, his own anger making his decision for him.

  “How so?”

  “As soon as the name Rapunzel appeared, the top brass got involved. I was told to hold off doing anything. While I was sitting there with my thumb up my arse, somebody was killing poor Pauline McNair.”

  “Christ. Do you reckon they’re going to hang your skid-marked panties out to dry?”