This unofficial smoking area, really just a shallow alcove between buildings, was normally the exclusive habitat of the nursing staff. They shy away from the officially sanctioned areas as the public tend to get hypocritically judgemental if they find themselves puffing away beside a medical professional.
Dr Mullins looked around awkwardly, like he'd forgotten what it was he had come out for.
"Don't worry," she said, "I'll be out of your way in a minute." She held up her half-finished cigarette. "I know you're not supposed to fraternise with the condemned."
"Relax," he said. "I'm not here. I also don't smoke."
Brigit gawped at him for a couple of seconds before she picked up on the hint. She opened the pack of ten she was holding and extended it. The thought briefly flickered across her mind to not offer him one but it seemed mean-spirited. After all, it wasn't his fault she was here.
Dr Mullins took the cigarette and bent to cup his hands around her proffered lighter. He awkwardly puffed it into life. She guessed he was only an occasional smoker, which was probably a good thing in a heart specialist. They stood beside each other and looked out across the lawn.
"So," he said, "unhappy romance?"
Brigit gave him a sideways look. "No thanks, I've already had one."
Dr Mullins nodded. "That's what I thought."
"Two in fact, now that you mention it. What's that got to do with anything?"
"I was just wondering."
Brigit looked across at his calm face and felt herself bristle. "Oh really? Trying to explain the irrational woman's crazy actions, are we?"
Dr Mullins held his hands up in placation. "Relax, Nurse Conroy, I come in peace. I've been sitting in that room for three hours being lied to, and I was just curious is all."
"Well," she said, turning and flicking her nearly finished cigarette towards the drain, "now you know."
"And for what it is worth," he said, "it was hilarious."
Brigit paused, slightly taken aback. "Thanks. I don't suppose you could take that into consideration?"
"No. We are sadly here to determine whether your actions constituted gross misconduct, not if they were highly amusing."
"Just my luck," she said.
"They were also, unfortunately, very stupid."
Brigit turned to fully face him. "You're going to stand there, smoking my cigarette and call me stupid? Really?"
Mullins remained steadfastly staring off into the middle-distance.
"Yes I am," he said. "Dr Lynch is a Grade A arsehole and we both know it. We also both know that you are actually a good nurse."
"There are lots of good nurses."
"Not really. There's plenty of serviceable ones, but I don't apply the word 'good' lightly. Don't get me wrong, there's not many good doctors either, although Lynch might well be the worst."
"Certainly the worst behaved," added Brigit.
Dr Lynch, or Letch as he was more commonly referred to, was exactly that; a lecherous piece of pond scum holding up a stethoscope. If he really did have healing hands, half of the nurses in the Health Service would have damn near immortal arses by now. He was careful of course, very careful. It was like he'd attended a seminar on how to not technically commit sexual harassment in the workplace, or at least how not to get caught.
Dr Mullins took an awkward drag on his cigarette. "Here's the problem, his version of events is crap, but so is yours, and in that scenario..."
"They're going to go with the doctor every time," she finished.
He nodded.
"They," she said, "being you and the other two people on the committee who currently hold my fate in your hands."
"Yes. The committee you just repeatedly lied to."
"I didn't—"
"Oh come come now, Nurse Conroy. Say what you want in there, but let's not pretend we're both morons out here."
Dr Mullins tossed his half-smoked cigarette into the gutter and finally turned to face Brigit.
"Here's what I think happened; Dr Lynch, being the classy piece of work he is, was undoubtedly hitting on one of the younger nurses, using his own inimitable style of flirtatious intimidation."
Dr Mullins cut Brigit off with a wave of his hand before she could speak. "Yes, I don't believe your story that he was hitting on you, and not because you're not attractive and blah blah blah, but let's be frank – you're not exactly the young and naïve ‘doe lost in the forest’ that a predator like Lynch is after, are you? Even an idiot like him would surely know that."
Brigit shrugged but remained silent.
"So," Dr Mullins continued, "old Letch is working his sleazy magic on one of the younger nurses, whose name I'm guessing you wouldn't give me on pain of death. She is understandably upset by this. You could have reported this to a senior member of staff of course—"
"Because that's always proven effective," interjected Brigit.
"But you didn't," he continued, "because she probably didn't want to make a fuss and, let’s be honest, you were angry."
"At sexual harassment in the workplace?"
"Yes, and life in general, men in particular. I'm guessing Dr Letch couldn't believe his luck when he received a note from Nurse X telling him to meet her in examination room three, which I believe the staff have already unofficially renamed the Lynch Suite in commemoration." Dr Mullins gave a tight smile. "Long story short, he turns up because he is a horny little cretin. He is even dumb enough to remove all of his clothing, either through keenness to follow instructions or just being genuinely that stupid." Mullins left a long gap. "Really? Not going to give me that fun little titbit of information?"
Brigit remained motionless.
"Regardless, he is ‘al fresco in flagrante’. When you rush in and — where did you get the handcuffs, by the way?"
"The Gardaí bring suspects into A&E all the time," said Brigit, "we've got a drawer-full."
"I see. Good to know. So Dr Letch is found ten hours later, handcuffed to a bed with masking tape over his mouth, naked save for the message ‘This cock is married’ written on his chest with an arrow pointing to, well… How close am I?"
Brigit shrugged her shoulders non-committedly. She'd got the idea from a rather memorable scene in The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo. Sadly, she hadn't had access to real tattooing equipment.
"You can't tell the truth," continued Dr Mullins, "because you're protecting your colleague, which means that his story about you attacking him unprovoked while he got changed to – and I can't believe the tubby little prick went with this – 'go for a jog', has enough credibility to pass muster. Especially seeing as the Lynch family have a long and glorious history in Irish medicine, stretching back generations."
"If the rest are anything like him," added Brigit, "they'll have killed more people than the Black Death."
"Indeed. Still, he's got powerful friends. Two of them are on that committee."
"Well that seems very fair," said Brigit.
Dr Mullins pushed his hands into his trouser pockets and leaned carefully against the wall. He gave Brigit an assessing look. "No, no it isn't. But here's the thing – you don't really care do you?"
Brigit gave a mirthless laugh. "Branching out into psychiatry now, are you Doc?"
"Seeing as even I couldn't fail to notice the crime novels you perpetually have somewhere about your person, Nurse Conroy, I assume you are familiar with the phrase 'death by cop'?"
Brigit shrugged. "It's when somebody gets themselves shot by the police in lieu of committing suicide."
"And this disciplinary committee is your trigger-happy cop, isn't it?"
Brigit looked down at her feet and said nothing.
"Didn't I hear you were leaving to set up – of all things – a private investigation firm?"
Brigit didn't like the way he said it. It was like how her brothers had said it. Like it was a daft idea and she was a silly wee girl for having it.
"Yes but not any more, thanks to the aforementioned unhappy romance."
> "Ahhh, I see," said Dr Mullins, "how bad are we talking?"
"He cheated on me at a stag do…"
"Oh dear, how tacky."
"…and then texted me the pictures."
She didn't like to talk about it but something made her want to shock Mullins out of his air of smug certainty.
"Good Christ Almighty," he said, "why did he do that?"
"Damned if I know. Booze meets Catholic guilt, or just being a horrible human being. Does it matter?"
"I guess not. Weren't you two engaged?"
"No, that was the previous prince, who also cheated on me."
Brigit turned away to light another cigarette. She was annoyed to feel tears pricking at her eyes. Not here, not now and not in front of him.
In all honesty, the first time didn't hurt so much anymore. At least not since Duncan, the prince in question, had accidentally ended up in possession of her mobile phone during last year's ‘bit of excitement’, as Bunny had referred to it. This had led to Duncan almost getting killed by an assassin's bullet meant for Brigit, and having his ever-wandering wang temporarily damaged by the woman who had been entertaining it at the time. Ain't karma a bitch with sharp teeth?
"No offence," she said, "but all men are arseholes."
"You don't have to convince me."
It was the way he said it that made her pause. She looked at him and saw an embarrassed smile skate briefly across his face.
"Oh I'm sorry, is your gaydar malfunctioning? To be fair, I do fly quite close to the ground. I can't fix your make-up, redesign your house or teach you how to ballroom dance. I'm not one of those ones. I do, however, like a bit of cock."
Maybe it was the tension or just the element of surprise; either way, Brigit snorted so ferociously that she spat out the cigarette she had just lit. It hissed softly in the drain beneath her as she laughed.
She pulled a tissue from her pocket and dabbed at the corners of her eyes.
"God, I needed that."
"First time I've heard that from a woman."
Brigit briefly considered giving him a playful push, but looked at him and decided against it. It was still Dr Mullins, and the stone-like bearing to his visage was grinding back into place.
"If it is any consolation," he said, "my last prince broke up with me on the day the nation voted to legalise gay marriage."
"Jesus!"
"Yes. It appears he'd been banking on a homophobic refusal of reform as a way out of making a long-term commitment."
"Wow."
"So don't go thinking you breeders have cornered the market in two-faced little shits." Mullins looked at his watch. "I do feel we've rather wandered off the point though, that being you throwing away your career as vengeance against the wrong – though not undeserving – idiot. Seeing as you won't involve your colleague in proceedings, did you not consider going for the 'joke gone wrong' defence?"
"That's a defence?" asked Brigit.
"It can be. Did you ever hear that urban myth about the three medical students, who in a university rag week decided to take their assigned surgical cadaver out for a walkies? Dressed the body up and brought him on a pub crawl."
Brigit nodded, "Yeah, everybody has heard that one."
"My favourite version is the one where they bring him into a city centre pub, get him a pint—"
"And then," continued Brigit, " a woman walks in and screams. Having just met her dead husband out on the beer."
"Actually nephew and uncle but yes, that tale."
"Wife and husband is better," said Brigit, "from a dramatic standpoint."
"Indeed," said Dr Mullins. "Did you not notice how it doesn't end with the students getting kicked out of university, or indeed arrested? The medical establishment has a long history of forgiving pranks gone wrong."
"Yeah," said Brigit, "but only those carried out by doctors or doctors-to-be. Have you not noticed – there's never any nurses in those stories?"
Dr Mullins rubbed his chin as he considered this. "Do you know, I've never thought of that. Have you ever met Dr Lynch's long-suffering wife by the way?"
Brigit gave Mullins a suspicious look, thrown by the swift change of direction. "No, why?"
"She was a bridesmaid at my sister's wedding. Nice girl, albeit one with a truly appalling taste in men. Something you share, come to think of it. She's got two kids and a third on the way."
"And a massive arse for a husband."
"A situation she is finally remedying. It isn't common knowledge, but she has just filed for divorce, this sordid affair having been the final straw."
Brigit shuffled her feet nervously. "Well, I mean… that's…"
"Oh," said Mullins, "Nobody is blaming you. Here's the thing though, she could do without her private embarrassment being put out there for public consumption. As you can imagine, she isn't in the best of places right now. If this proceeds further, it is going to inevitably catch the attention of the press. That is why we're having this little chat."
Suddenly Brigit felt stupid. Like she'd said all the wrong things to the wrong person. Big mouth strikes again.
"What you need," continued Dr Mullins, "is a holiday. Maybe nine months to a year? Then you come back, and you will still able to return to nursing if you so choose."
"And ‘Letchy’ Lynch will still be able to—"
"Oh that will be dealt with. Rest assured. Not the public flogging you'd no doubt prefer, but it's an imperfect world."
Brigit eyed him suspiciously. "Even if I was willing to disappear for a bit like you suggest, the rest of your little execution committee will never go for it. I don't know if you remember the last three hours, but it did not go well in there."
"No, it really didn't, did it? I'm about to tell the committee we have no choice. That you are in possession of some very damning and embarrassing information, and we have to make a deal for everyone's sake."
"And what piece of information might that be?"
Dr Mullins didn't answer. Instead, he looked down and gave his waistcoat a tug to reposition it, before pulling the fire door partially open.
"Dr Mullins?" Brigit repeated.
"You, Nurse Conroy, happen to know that one of the three medical students in that funny little urban myth, was called Lynch."
She looked at Dr Mullins's impassive face. He would be one hell of a poker player. "Shit the bed."
Mullins wrinkled his nose in disapproval. "What a colourful vocabulary you have."
"Wait," she said, "How could I possibly prove that?"
"You've got a picture," he said, patting the inside pocket of his jacket.
Brigit put her hand out and Dr Mullins laughed.
"Oh no. I'm not going to actually give it to you."
"Why not?"
"Nurse Conroy, I am disappointed. Aren't you supposed to be the detective?"
He pulled the door open and stepped back inside. She quickly moved after him and put her hand on his arm to stop him.
"You're in it, aren't you?"
Dr Mullins gave that tight little smile again. "Nurse Conroy, I've absolutely no idea what you are talking about."
And with that, he turned sharply on his heels and strode quickly down the hall.
Chapter Four
Gerry: Caller, you're on the air.
Caller 1: Yeah Gerry, I think it's a disgrace that this shower of—
Gerry: Sorry, caller, you've been cut off. Please, folks I know that Skylark is an emotional issue but do watch your language. Remember you are live on the radio. We have a seven-second delay for just this reason. Now, I believe we've got Sarah on line two. Hello Sarah…
Sarah: Hello? Am I on?
Gerry: Yes, Sarah, you're live on the air.
Sarah: I'd like to hear the new song by Adele, please.
Gerry: I'm afraid we don't do requests on this show. Now, what's your point about Skylark?
Sarah: Skylark? Oh that bunch of—
Gerry: And she has been cut off too. Again – please –
watch the swearing! Let's take a song. Ah for… really? All right, by sheer coincidence, here's the new one from Adele.
Paul had received the call from a Sergeant Sinead Geraghty from Howth Garda Station at about 10 pm the night before. He had been taking Maggie for about her fifteenth walk of the day at the time. The sergeant had explained the situation to him, and then he agreed to meet her out in Howth the next morning. He didn't mention it to Phil when he got back to the car. He would have had questions. Phil always had questions. Paul hadn't known what to think, so he'd decided to try and not think about it at all until the next morning.
Earlier that day, more through luck than anything else, they'd managed to spot Hartigan being chauffeured out of the back of the Criminal Courts building in a dark green Rolls Royce. It said something of the man's attitude that he'd travel to a court where he was charged with embezzlement and fraud in that kind of motor. Typical Dublin traffic meant that, even on a Tuesday, it hadn't been hard for Phil to keep the car in sight. They'd followed the Roller all the way back to a bungalow in Seapoint out by the coast, where it had dropped him off. ‘Bungalow’ didn't do it justice; it was a big spread, worth a couple of million easily. High bushes mostly blocked it from view from the road, and a long lawn at the back stretched nearly down to the sea. Despite having grown up only a few miles away, Paul felt out of his element. Anyone from where he came from who ended up inside one of these houses was either cleaning it up or cleaning it out.
There was a silver Merc in the drive and, as far as Paul could see through the windows, there was nobody else at home besides Hartigan. At least, as Paul had sauntered casually by, the only person in view had been the man himself, leaning against an ornate marble fireplace in the front room, his phone held to his ear. Not that Paul had been able to watch for too long. There was only so long you could spend pretending your dog was taking a dump without it looking like there was something wrong with at least one of you.
When Paul had got back to the car, he had been disconcerted to find Phil using his initiative. He'd Googled Jerome Hartigan on his phone, and was reading all about him. "It says here that his strange wife lives out in another massive pad out in Dalkey."
The Day That Never comes (The Dublin Trilogy Book 2) Page 4
