"Oh Christ," said Brigit, slumping down onto the sofa. "He was out cold."
Sinha lowered the gun and looked between the two women. "I'm sorry. I am entirely lost here."
Brigit looked at him, her eyes filled with a cold fury. "Somebody drugged Paul then paid her to take compromising photographs with him."
Shocked, Dr Sinha looked at Diane. "Is this true?"
Diane nodded. "Look, it's not something I would've… I mean if I'd known, but... I tried to forget about it … then the big culchie turned up asking questions."
Dr Sinha took the picture of Bunny McGarry out of his pocket and showed it to her.
"Yeah. Him."
Brigit leaned back on the sofa. "For Christ’s sake," she said softly. "Bunny must've reckoned Paul would never… I just assumed he had, whereas Bunny gave him the benefit of the doubt. Went looking for an explanation that didn't involve him being…"
"I didn't tell," said Diane, pointed at the picture, "him, anything. He asked a load of questions that I wouldn't answer then he left. I rang the guy straight away, said I was freaking out. He offered me five grand to keep quiet."
"Yeah," said Brigit, "I bet he did."
"And," said Sinha, "you never saw our large country friend again?"
"No," said Diane.
"He wasn't blackmailing anybody," said Brigit to nobody in particular, looking at the floor. "Bunny was proving Paul's innocence."
Brigit stood up, Dr Sinha braced himself but she didn't seem inclined to resume hostilities. "When did all this happen?"
Diane waved her free hand in the air," I dunno, I—"
"Think," said Brigit.
"Alright," said Diane, "your friend came around Thursday week ago… yeah, Thursday."
"And I bet you met this guy who hired you to get your payoff on the Friday, didn't you?" said Brigit.
She nodded. "Yeah, out in a pub in Dalkey. I wanted a public place—"
"Fun fact for you, sweetheart," said Brigit, real venom in her voice. "The man in the photo – former guard. He's been missing since that Friday."
What blood that hadn't flowed out of her nose already, drained from Diane's face. "I don't know anything about—"
"If I was you," said Brigit, "and I didn't want to be looking at a charge of accessory to murder, I'd start remembering stuff fast. Like this guy's name?"
"I don't," stammered Diane, "He paid in cash but I have his number somewhere. I might even have an address or—"
"What did he look like?" asked Brigit.
"Pretty short," said Diane, "posh, south-sider accent. And his hair was…"
Diane waved a hand around her forehead area.
"Jesus!" said Brigit, "Artificial turf?"
"Do you know him?" asked Diane.
"You could say that," said Brigit. "I almost married the prick."
Chapter Thirty
"I'm an accessory to murder!" said Phil.
Paul didn't even lift his head off the desk. "No, you're not." Paul thought about this for a bit, he was 95% certain he had that right.
It was 7 pm on Sunday night, and neither of them had left the offices of MCM Investigations all day. They'd started drinking at 1 am and hadn't stopped. At least, they hadn't stopped consciously, not until they'd lost consciousness. Paul remembered watching the sunrise out the window. He was officially off the wagon. In fact, he felt like the wagon had run him over. He had even found the bottle of stuff he had bought from a guy in the Broken Rod pub ages ago and forgotten about. He couldn't pronounce the name, but it had a lot of weird-looking accents and dots liberally scattered around it. The guy had sworn that it was the greatest drink that Albania had ever produced. He had also been blind in one eye and called everyone Diego. Before he passed out, Paul remembered doing a lot of crying about the state of his love life, then planning a trip to South America, while Phil had read a poem he'd written to his non-existent girlfriend and Maggie, having consumed a heroic quantity of the unpronounceable beer, had spent twenty minutes attacking the filing cabinet while they'd both cowered under a desk. She'd then trotted over, licked Phil's hand and collapsed in the corner, the constant snoring and farting assuring them she was at least still alive.
Mind you, with the horrendous hangover he was now lumbered with, he would have welcomed his own death as a blessed relief.
Phil had taken his phone out to check for messages from Da Xin, that was when he’d noticed the report. He’d read it out slowly. “The Gardaí have said that the body of Mr Baylor was discovered last night, but provisional reports put the time of death as some time on Friday night. Gardaí are appealing for anyone who may have seen Councillor Baylor to please come forward with any information they may have. While police sources have refused to confirm it, it is strongly believed that this murder is being linked to the so-called 'Púca' who claimed responsibility for the murder of prominent property developer Craig Blake earlier in the week.” Phil had stopped reading and they'd looked at each other. "Friday night."
"We don't know where Hartigan was then," said Paul.
"No."
Then they'd both sat around in silent contemplation for a bit, while unpleasant facts, suspicions and vicious hangovers battled it out for headspace.
At one point, Phil had got up to open the window as Maggie's arse was giving the full twenty-one gun salute.
They'd then spent most of the day going over and over the same ground, as the same basic report was repeated every fifteen minutes on the radio.
They didn't actually know much, bar the fact that Hartigan had broken into Craig Blake's house – a fact they'd obtained while illegally following him, and while Paul himself was trespassing in Blake's garden. Best case scenario, it was going to be a very awkward chat with the Guards that might well destroy what little chance Paul had left of getting MCM Investigations an actual licence to investigate.
That thought had brought him back to Bunny. The urge to ring Brigit was immense, but he had to resist it.
"Seriously, though," said Phil, "I drove him on Friday. I could be an accessory to murder."
Paul looked up at him. "For the last time, you're not. You didn't know where he was going, if he was going anywhere. Just relax, will ye? You're doing my head in."
They were thankfully interrupted by Paul's phone ringing. He looked at the display. Brigit. He almost dropped it in his rush to answer.
"Hello?"
"We need to talk."
Chapter Thirty-One
As the titles rolled on the main screen in front of her, Helen Cantwell took a deep breath. No matter how many times she did this – and she'd done it plenty – she still got nervous. Tonight wasn’t just any show, though. Tonight was the night where the whole country would be watching. It had been trailed at the top and tail of every ad break for twenty-four hours. An exclusive juicy enough that other channels had begrudgingly reported it as news. If they got this right, they'd be the joke show no more. She would be able to remember telling her old boss to go screw himself with fondness instead of the current lead-stomached dread. She'd no longer cry herself to sleep regretting not taking the Sky News offer and moving to England.
"OK, good show everybody."
She looked at the monitor to her right. Ciaran Hearn was a picture of newsman gravitas. You'd have never guessed from looking at him that, when the confirmation of this interview had come through, he'd danced about like a giddy schoolgirl. Half the country was about to realise that he hadn't died on the day he'd taken a commercial contract and departed from the screens of the national broadcaster.
"OK Ciaran, with you in five…four…"
As the rest of the count played out silently on the monitor to her left, she quickly blessed herself as always, maybe giving it just a little more juice this time.
Titles end.
"Full on Ciaran, Camera One."
"Good evening, and welcome to the Sunday roundup in what, I think it is fair to say, has been one of the most extraordinary weeks in recent Irish history. O
n Tuesday the trial of the three men behind the Skylark development collapsed in controversial circumstances. On Thursday, one of those developers was found dead after being brutally tortured, with a previously unknown organisation calling themselves 'the Púca' claiming responsibility. Then, this morning, we received news that a well-known politician had been similarly murdered, with the so-called Púca again being linked to the crime. Tonight we ask, is the rule of law in this country breaking down? Who are the Púca, and who do they truly represent? Later in the show we'll talk to former Garda Superintendent David Dunne about how the police investigation is proceeding, but before that we will have an exclusive interview with Jerome Hartigan and Paschal Maloney…"
"Camera Two…"
The two men, sitting in armchairs, filled the screen. Hartigan was a picture of composed stillness, Maloney a fidgety mess.
"…the two surviving members of the so-called Skylark Three. But first, we sent roving reporter Zoe Barnes out on the street to get your take on the Skylark mistrial and the Púca."
"…And roll package one."
The voxpop video started.
"And we're clear."
Ciaran moved over to the main set and took his seat across from the guests. They had discussed this. He would always need to get into position anyway, but Helen had briefed him to chat to the guests to cover over the voxpop video. They had debated what they should and shouldn't put in the VT long into the previous night. The old woman with her hair in rollers saying that hanging was too good for them was great TV, but Helen didn't want them seeing it for fear they'd bolt before they got them on camera. Their lawyers hadn't been keen on them going on TV in the first place, the last thing she needed was Ciaran Hearn talking to two empty chairs. That really would be the end of her career.
Hartigan, chisel-jawed in an understated – if no doubt obscenely expensive – tailored jacket, looked like a slightly older Baywatch-era David Hasselhoff. Maloney looked like the hapless victim he had saved from drowning in his own flop sweat. Helen opened channel three on comms.
"Lindy, do what you can with that, will you."
"I'm on it."
Helen cut the channel off as she could hear her make-up artist mumbling under her breath. A second later she appeared on the monitor, Maloney looking irritated as she tried to – once again – take the gleam of sweat off his bald pate.
Beside him, Hartigan was steadfastly ignoring Ciaran's attempts at small talk, and his eyes remained fixed on the monitor as the voxpops played out. In the interest of journalistic balance, they did have a couple in there talking about psychopaths running around claiming to represent the people, and an old dear discussing about how murder is murder and you can't take the law into your own hands. The final clip was the one they'd agonised over. The guy was seventy if he was a day and spoke in a thick Dublin accent, but the way he'd phrased it still rang out like poetry. How to sum up psychos killing robber barons.
"Ah well, y'know, two wrongs don't make a right, sure enough, but if one of them wrongs kills off the other, then that leaves ye with one wrong plus a bleedin' good warning for the next wrong that tries to come along and rip off hard working folks."
"…And back to Ciaran."
"Jerome Hartigan and Paschal Maloney, thank you for joining us."
Having been clearly outraged by the last remark, Maloney's mouth opened and closed in rapid succession, as if starting and stopping saying several things.
Hartigan looked calmly towards Ciaran. "Thank you for having us, Ciaran, but before we go any further, I'd like to point out something that I feel is criminally missing from your reporting there." Then he looked straight down the camera. "Craig Blake, a man with two children and a wife that loved him, is dead. John Baylor – a father of four – is dead, leaving his poor wife Kathleen as another widow. I find it disgraceful that in all this, the very real cost in human lives seems to hardly be getting a mention. Children are without a father, wives are left widows, and all the catchy sloganeering in the world isn't going to change that."
As Maloney nodded vigorously beside Hartigan, Ciaran looked a little on the back foot. "OK, then, let’s talk about that. Firstly, how did the death of your colleague Craig Blake make you feel?"
"Well," said Hartigan, "horrified, of course, as any right-thinking person should be. We weren't friends as much as business associates, but the shock of such news, and then the details of the horrific treatment he appears to have suffered, it was truly chilling."
"Yes," said Maloney, "absolutely appalling. It is a nightmare."
Hearn nodded thoughtfully. "And what do you make of the so-called ‘Púca’?"
"They are terrorists," said Hartigan, "Pure and simple. This is just a bunch of psychopaths running around, claiming to be killing people on behalf of the Irish public. What is the difference between them and some serial killer who says he's killing because voices in his head are telling him to do it, or he has received messages through the TV? We are businessmen, that is all."
"Yes, yes," chimed Maloney, "businessmen who, as the courts have proven, have done nothing wrong."
"Ah," interrupted Ciaran, "that isn't technically true though, is it? A mistrial isn't a proof of innocence."
"And," said Hartigan, "accusation and innuendo are not proofs of guilt – at least they never used to be."
"But can you understand the sense of frustration that seems to exist amongst elements of the public, at what they see as people who have done wrong not receiving justice?"
"Justice?" said Maloney, "We are businessmen. We were part of a business deal that went wrong, which of course, has never happened to anybody else has it? Some Joe Bloggs can't make his mortgage payments and it's a tragedy, we can't make our budget on a building project and we're monsters. I’ve had to hire security to protect myself, and I believe the government should foot the bill for that."
Hartigan flashed a brief look of annoyance at Maloney.
"And is that what happened on Skylark? Was it simply a budgeting miscalculation?"
Hartigan spread his hands out open wide in classic nothing-to-hide body language. "Ciaran, I'd love to take you through exactly what we believe happened, at least as far as we know. However, as you're all too well aware, there may well be a retrial, which — to be clear — we would welcome. However, that does tie our hands on what we can say on TV. I will say – all business involves risk. In hindsight, would I do things differently? Absolutely. But fundamentally, our country was founded by people taking risks and following their dreams. By the nature of such endeavours those dreams are sometimes not realised, but if, as a society, we start trying to punish those that take risks, that strive for more, what message are we sending to future generations?"
"But," said Ciaran, "you understand that people are angry?"
"Yes," said Hartigan, "of course I do. Frankly, I'm angry too. I want to get to the bottom of what happened, but perversely, the Garda investigation – prematurely launched, in my view – has prevented me from doing so, due to all of our files being seized."
"Can I ask – John Baylor. What was your relationship with him?"
"Our relationship," said Hartigan, "was the exact same relationship as everyone who has been involved with development in the Greater Dublin area in the last twenty years. John Baylor," Hartigan blessed himself; nice touch, thought Helen, "was a senior member of Dublin County Council. As such, he had dealings with anyone in our business, all of whom will tell you that he was a tireless worker, and a very well-liked man. He is a big loss to Irish political life and should be mourned."
"And finally, can I ask, are you worried for your own personal safety?"
Maloney nodded so vigorously that it reminded Helen of one of those nodding doll toys that her Auntie Joan was so creepily enamoured with. "Absolutely," he said in a barely restrained whine. "The stress we are under is immense. The Gardaí seem to be doing nothing, and as I lay awake at night I'm thinking to myself," his arms flapped around in front of him, "the Púca are comi
ng, the Púca are coming, the Púca are coming!"
If Helen was right – and she was – those last five seconds would be a meme on social media by the morning.
Hartigan looked directly at the camera again. "Am I worried about my own safety? Of course I am. But more importantly, I'm worried about this country. Who are we, as a nation, if we allow the devil to run amok?”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Gerry: We’ve Mairead from Castleknock on the line.
Mairead: Gerry, I’m in no way condoning the actions of the Púca but still, doesn’t it almost feel like it was coming? All this anger is in the Irish system like an infection, it has to go somewhere… Ordinary people feel like they’ve been taken for a ride, like those in power are playing us all for mugs, and the choice at election time is the same again, or something even worse.
Gerry: It’s a fair point. If this were France, there’d have been riots in the streets years ago. They don’t stand for stuff like this, why is it that we Irish do?
DSI Burns entered her own office to find a woman sitting in the guest's chair, taking a phone call.
Burns looked down at her. She had black hair pulled back into a bun, and the kind of cream business suit you could wear when you didn't have to spend six hours at a crime scene in the middle of a muddy field. The woman smiled up at her and held up a finger to indicate ‘one minute’. "Yes, Marcus, I'm afraid the minister feels very strongly on this point. We hate the visuals on the first batch."
Burns moved around to sit behind her own desk. She was aware that she was tired and irritable as all hell, so while the temptation to throw this woman out was large and growing, she should probably find out what this was about first.
The Day That Never comes (The Dublin Trilogy Book 2) Page 20
