“You’ll be leaving,” said Jacinta, “but first you’ll be apologising.”
Raging Bull was suddenly much more of a pussycat. “Yeah, sorry about—”
“Not to me,” interrupted Jacinta.
“What?”
She looked down at Maggie.
“Sorry about… good doggie.”
“And you’ll buy her a pint.”
Raging Bull looked around and then begrudgingly took his wallet out of his pocket. Jacinta snatched it from his hands. “That’ll cover it. Now feck off, there’s a good lad.”
“But…” His two friends pushed him towards the door before he could protest any further.
As the door slammed closed behind them, Jacinta reached down and petted Maggie. “Who’s a good girl? Yes, you are! I’ll get you that drink.”
“Thanks, Jacinta,” said Paul.
“All part of the service.” She turned back to the bar, Raging Bull’s wallet held aloft. “Drinks for everybody.”
The whole pub cheered.
“Draught only, don’t take the piss.”
Paul sat back down.
“Jesus,” said Phil, “I don’t suppose she’d be interested in joining your committee?”
“She doesn’t strike me as being much of a joiner.”
“Yeah. Oh, I meant to ask, did Brigit mind taking over the surveillance on that Harrison dipshit this evening?”
“I didn’t ask her.”
Phil looked horrified. “But tonight is Wednesday, that means he’s—”
“Relax, I’ve got my best man on the case.”
Phil looked only slightly less horrified. “Oh God, are ye sure that’s a good idea?”
“It’ll be fine. She’s always saying how we need to get him involved in things. He just needs to take a couple of pictures. What’s the worst that could happen?”
Chapter Four
This must be what it felt like to be God.
Jacob Harrison stretched out his arms and yawned expansively. He was standing on the balcony, with the Christmas lights of Dublin twinkling below him, the world at his feet. He enjoyed the feeling of the cold night air on his skin as the wind tugged gently at his dressing gown. In the background, he could hear the shower running. He’d let Samantha go first, ever the gentleman. Having said that, he’d give it a minute and then, if the beast began to stir again, he might join her. A man of forty-five years of age being able to go again after the previous couple of hours, that truly was impressive. He bet she’d giggle about that with her friends. Mind you, Samantha was quite the muse – twenty-eight and flexible, oh so flexible. The Madison Hotel wasn’t cheap but it was worth it. The dressing gown felt soft and fluffy against his skin and the view was something else. A canal meandered by directly below the window. Yes, this was what it felt like to be God.
Jacob turned at a knock on the door. Room service. “Just leave it outside, thank you.”
He had worked up quite an appetite; they’d ordered oysters.
There was a louder knock. He raised his voice again. “It’s fine, just leave it outside!”
A third knock. Oh, for Christ’s sake, somebody wasn’t getting a tip. Jacob stepped back inside and moved towards the door, past the bed with its tangled sheets. He looked at it and grinned – the scene of his greatest victory.
Then the door came crashing in.
Jacob staggered backwards, shocked, and saw the face of hell heading right for him – a blotchy, bearded face, filled with the mixed reds of anger and alcohol, with a lazy left eye that would have made it look demented even if it hadn’t just kicked in the door of his hotel room. In Jacob’s scattered mind, still buzzing from the champagne he’d consumed earlier, the thought skipped through that room service seemed inexplicably angry.
Then hands were on him, pushing him backwards.
“Howerya, Jacob boy.”
“What are… who are… get off… let me…”
The warmth of the room gave way to the cool air of the balcony. All thoughts fell out of Jacob’s head as his body and his world were tipped upside down. He screamed. The metal bars of the balcony appeared before him and he grabbed on to them for dear life. Strong arms wrapped around his legs. He looked down – the view wasn’t anywhere near as relaxing now. He screamed again.
“Shut up, ye gobshite, or I’ll drop you right now.”
The voice had a Cork accent and sounded remarkably calm given the actions of its owner.
“OhGodOhGodOhGodOhGod!”
“You’re about to die. Your life is over. What do you regret?”
Jacob’s mind raced. “What?”
“What. Do. You. Regret?”
“I regret… I’m sorry, I’m sorry for whatever I did to you.” Jacob screamed again as the hands on his legs dipped him down slightly lower.
“Wrong answer. We’ve never met.”
“I’m… oh God, I’m… I have money, please, I—”
“I’m not interested in your fecking money. What do you regret?”
“I, I regret everything.” A foot kicked at Jacob’s knuckles, clenched around the bar. “Ouch!”
“Try again.”
Jacob’s mind raced through possibilities before it settled on the memory of a picture in his wallet. “Deirdre.”
“Who is Deirdre?”
“My wife.”
“Is that her in the shower?”
“No.”
“That’s right, you dozy prick. You have it all. Wife, two kids and here you are, fucking around like a randy dog with a bag full of mickeys. You had what everybody wants and you pissed it away, because you wanted to get yourself a bit on the side. Well I hope you enjoyed it – because you’re royally fucked now.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
“So you should be. You’ve—”
The voice from above was interrupted by a scream.
Jacob looked through the bars of the balcony to see Samantha, one towel wrapped around her head and another around her body.
“What the fuck?”
“Stay back, love,” said the voice. “I’m just engaged in some marriage counselling.”
“Oh my God, who are— Wait, what?”
“Call the police, Samantha. This guy is insane.”
It was hard to read her facial expression upside down, but she seemed to be standing unexpectedly still, given the circumstances.
“Jacob, what is he talking about? You’re married?”
“I can… can you… for God’s sake, get me up!”
Samantha took another step forward. “Is he married? You’re married? Oh my God, I’m such an idiot. He said he had an ex and he had to be discreet. Oh, for…”
“I can explain everything.”
The voice from above spoke again. “Be really quick, my arms are getting tired.”
Jacob’s whole body screamed in panic.
“Seriously, he’s married?”
“I’m afraid so, love.”
“But he told me…”
“It’s not what you think,” pleaded Jacob, “we barely even talk.”
His stomach lurched as the arms dipped him again. “The missus is pregnant with your third child, so you’re doing a damn sight more than talking.”
“You utter bastard.”
“Please, I can explain.”
“All the bullshit. He was always away on… Oh Christ, I am such an idiot. I can’t believe… Oh God, I’m going to be sick.”
“Baby, listen – I’m getting a divorce.”
“He wasn’t,” said the voice, “but I’m guessing he is now.”
“Will you stay out of this?”
“I can leave if you want.”
“NO!” Jacob looked down at the water below him. He was nine storeys up. Blood had rushed to his head and he was feeling very woozy. “Oh God, please don’t. Just pull me up. You wouldn’t drop a man off a balcony.”
“If history proves anything, it’s that I definitely would.”
“I can pay.”
“Oh, you will. Have no doubt about that, ye waste of space,” said the voice. “Well, I think we’ve all learned a lot this evening. My arms are getting tired, but lucky for you, I don’t want to give the council a messy clean-up job this close to Christmas.”
Relief surged through Jacob’s body as he felt the arms start to drag him back up and over the balcony.
“Drop him.”
The voice was Samantha’s but it didn’t sound like her. That giddy, higher pitch was gone, leaving only cold, hard hate. It sent a shiver down Jacob’s spine.
“’Tis tempting, love, but I’m not actually going to…”
Jacob felt the arms start to pull him back up.
“No!” screamed Samantha. “My whole life, I’ve fallen for arseholes and now when I thought I’d finally… DROP THE PRICK!”
Samantha threw herself at the man, who – Jacob was now fairly certain – wasn’t from room service. Jacob’s stomach lurched as he jerked suddenly downwards again.
“Get off me!”
“Drop him!”
“Samantha, please! Baby!”
Jacob could feel Samantha’s fingernails tearing at the flesh of his thighs as she tried to rip away the hands that were holding him back from gravity’s sweet embrace. He swung to the left as the man tried to fend her off. He tried to scream again but he couldn’t find the air.
“Get off me, ye mad bitch.”
“Drop him.”
“Don’t!”
Jacob could feel the arms holding him begin to shake.
“Ah Jesus, stop tickling me, stop tickling me, stop tickling me!”
Jacob screamed.
Samantha howled.
The man giggled.
Then the canal suddenly pulled away from Jacob’s view as the man heaved him backwards in one violent motion – Jacob’s face whacking the metal railing on the way by. All three of them tumbled messily to the ground, half in and half out of the hotel room.
Samantha was crying, the man panting heavily. Jacob was hyperventilating while watching drops of blood from his nose splash down onto the balcony’s floor. Despite the pain, he was enjoying the incredible feeling of solid concrete beneath him again. He was alive.
He turned over, his back against the bars, suddenly concerned that the maniac might attack him again. The man was lying on the ground, looking at Jacob, his rage seemingly spent. In the background, Samantha was hastily grabbing her stuff in a flurry of movement.
Jacob spoke between gasping breaths. “Who… the fuck… are you?”
“I’m Santa Claus, happy fecking Christmas – you’re on my naughty list.”
“I’m going to… you’ll be hearing from my lawyer.”
The man shrugged. “Ah, big whoop. I’ll never understand fellas like you.”
“Oh, piss off.” Jacob was too flooded with relief to be afraid of this man anymore. “Who are you to judge me?”
“Good point.” The man took a camera out of his pocket and took a picture of Jacob. “Smile.” Then he kept taking pictures. He took pictures of Jacob as he stood up; he took pictures as he moved back into the room; he took pictures as he tried to explain himself to Samantha as she hastily dressed; and he took pictures as Samantha opened her arms to hug Jacob and then kneed him viciously in the testicles.
Jacob tasted the thick carpet in his mouth as he lay crumpled on the floor, watching Samantha storm out of the door and out of his life.
The screen of the digital camera appeared before his face. “That’s a particularly good one of you getting booted in the bollocks, don’t you think? I’m beginning to think I’ve a future as a photographer.”
Chapter Five
“I’m here to see Dr Devane.”
The secretary looked up at Detective Wilson with sympathy. “Aren’t you the throwing-up fella?”
“No. My name is Detective Wilson.”
The woman was in her late fifties and had a matronly air to her, despite the purple bob she sported. “Are you sure? I thought you were the fella who’s always vomiting at crime scenes?”
“Is Dr Devane around?”
“I don’t blame you, personally – all that death. I have to type up the reports. Some of the things I’ve seen, I could tell you.”
“The message said to get here before lunch.”
“There was one from Kildare, death by misadventure.” She leaned forward with a conspiratorial air. “It involved a sex toy – three, in fact.”
“Right,” said Wilson, struggling to find a way to get the conversation heading in the direction he wanted it to go. “Is she in her office?”
“You know how some people,” she continued, as if he hadn’t said anything, “are always trying to cram far too much into a case when they’re going on holidays? Trying to do two weeks with just carry-on luggage?”
“So is her office just down this way?” said Wilson, determined to have the conversation he wanted to have.
“Well, it was like that, cramming far too much in – only, y’know, with sex toys. It happened in Kildare!” Oddly, she said the word Kildare in a stage whisper, like that was the shocking part of the story. “I mean, you expect that kind of thing to happen in Dublin, perhaps, but not Kildare.”
“I guess.”
“Or America. I mean anything can be shoved anywhere in America. It’s the land of opportunity and all that.”
Wilson started walking down the hallway.
“So her office is down this way?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you.”
Wilson started hurrying down the hall.
After a few seconds, her voice carried down the hallway after him. “She’s not there though.”
Wilson stopped and turned around. “What?”
“She’s down in the mortuary. Will be for the rest of the day.”
“But the message said to come and see her before lunch.” Wilson pointed at his watch. “It’s eleven thirty.”
“She has her lunch at ten thirty.”
“But… that’s not lunchtime!”
“It is if you start work at 6am, which Dr Devane does.”
Wilson trudged over to the lift and pressed the down button. “How am I supposed to know that?”
“I thought everyone did. She is a famously early riser.”
“I mean,” said Wilson, “ask anybody, eleven thirty is in the morning.”
“Not for the doctor.”
“I mean, it’s AM – AM is the morning. That’s not a matter of conjecture, that’s just fact. Lunch happens after the morning.” The lift doors opened and Wilson stepped in.
“Nowt so strange as folk, as they say, even in Kildare.”
Wilson pressed the buzzer. Dr Devane looked up and noticed him at the far side of the glass. Her hands were inside the body on the slab in front of her. She was surrounded by three people – Wilson guessed medical students, but it was hard to tell behind the surgical masks and overalls. She nodded in his direction and then lifted what Wilson assumed was one of the more crucial organs from the body and placed it on the scales. He turned away and sat down on the one chair in the room. A long metal sink stretched beneath the window and a monitor sat on a table in the corner.
After a couple of minutes, Dr Devane pushed backwards through the door, her hands held out in front of her, smeared red with blood. She nodded in Wilson’s direction before peeling off her gloves and throwing them into a medical waste bin. He stood awkwardly as she spent a minute thoroughly washing her hands in the stainless steel sink. Once done, she turned to him.
“I was expecting you earlier.”
“Yes,” said Wilson, who hesitated before adding “sorry”, despite his fundamental disagreement about her definition of lunchtime. Dr Devane was the state pathologist, a position of importance that commanded respect. It didn’t mean she could change when lunchtime was though.
“No problem,” said Devane. “And apologies for the behaviour of Phillips and the others at your crime scene. I have
had a stern word. I’m afraid being around so many dead people has a tendency to cause some of my staff to forget the proper respect that should be afforded to live ones.”
Wilson shrugged.
Devane looked suddenly embarrassed as she looked behind her, as if remembering where they were. “Speaking of which, are you alright here?”
“I’m fine, doctor.”
She leaned back against the sink. “If it helps, it does get easier the more you see. You’re no different to anyone else. In fact, Phillips lost several pounds on his first couple of weeks in the job, from not eating. You get over it. You’re welcome to shadow me for a day if you’d like to just get it out of your system – sorry, bad choice of words.”
Wilson shook his head.
“OK, well let me know if you change your mind. I have a compelling example of the dangers of drink-driving inside if you fancy it.” She paused. “It is rather difficult to get into the festive spirit around here.”
“I’ll pass, thank you, doc.”
Devane’s facial expression indicated that “doc” was not a welcome step into familiarity.
“Anyway,” she said, “your mountain men. Subject A – the taller, younger one – hasn’t produced much bar a confirmation that death was by a single powerful stab wound to the heart. Dental work indicated probability of the subject being British or Irish. Subject B, on the other hand…”
Dr Devane walked across to a pile of folders on the metal table in the corner and selected one. “Much more revealing.” She flipped it open. “The gold filling and other dental work are indicative of a North American. The cause of death is where it gets interesting though. As you know, there was a large entry wound in the back of the eye but no exit wound, indicating it was a low-velocity projectile. We have now recovered it – only it isn’t a bullet, at least in the modern sense.” Devane held up a picture for Wilson to see. It looked like a misshapen ball bearing. “It is a shot, most likely having come from a derringer or similar type of weapon.”
“You’re kidding?”
“I am not known for my sense of humour, Detective.”
“Have you ever seen that kind of weapon used before?”
Devane looked as if she were about to say something, but instead she turned back to the file and pulled out another picture. “Fitting with the dental work, we have recovered a ring from Subject B’s finger, which appears to be American – military, in fact. It has ‘Semper Fi’ inscribed on the inside of it with an as-yet unidentified symbol above it – it looks like some form of hammer.”
Last Orders (The Dublin Trilogy Book 4) Page 4
