The woman smiled at her again, as whoever Marcus was rabbited on in her ear. Burns did not smile back, instead she pointedly looked at her watch.
"I'll touch base on this later, Marcus, I've got to reroute now." And with that, she hung up. "Sorry about that—"
"Yes," said Burns, "this is a secure area. You should not be in this office unaccompanied."
"Sorry, your PA was away from her desk."
"She's gone to get sandwiches. We've a lot of hungry, over-worked people here. I'm one of them, and you are?"
The woman extended her hand across Burns's untidy desk. "Veronica Doyle. I work for Gary."
They shook hands briefly. "And what can I do for the Minister for Justice?"
"We believe there have been some developments in the investigation."
"I'm not at liberty to discuss that," said Burns. "We have agreed that I will give daily briefings to Margaret Armitage and Terry Flynn at the Ministry but, with all due respect, Ms Doyle, I don't know who you are. Are you an employee of the Ministry?"
Doyle beamed that smile again. "As I said, I work for Gary."
"That's not the same thing now, is it?"
"We understand," continued Doyle, "that evidence at the second scene has conclusively linked a former Garda officer to this affair."
Burns took a breath. "I have yet to brief anyone at the Ministry with regards to that development." She was going to rip the whole team a new one. Somebody, somewhere had decided it was their job to whisper into the ears of higher-ups.
Doyle put her hands out in a placating gesture. "We're all on the same side here."
Burns straightened a file on her desk. "I don't have a ‘side’, I have an investigation. Mr McGarry has become a person of interest, but at this point it is too early to speculate beyond that."
Doyle nodded, as if she were agreeing. "Exactly. And we further understand that the copy of McGarry's phone records you obtained under the Communications Act shows that he has been in contact with Father Daniel Franks, and—"
"All right," interrupted Burns. "I've known that for exactly forty-five minutes. I demand to know where you are getting your information from."
"We're just trying to manage the situation."
Burns slammed the cover of her laptop down and pointed across the table. "That is not your job. I am in charge of this investigation."
"Nobody is suggesting otherwise," said Doyle, that practised warm grin still plastered across her face. "We're just aware that you are new to this position, and you've a lot on your plate. Gary is keen to ensure you get all the help you need. We understand there are already wanted criminals in the Ark, and now that Father Franks has become linked to a prime suspect—"
"Sorry, but can we go back to the 'who the fuck are you?' question for a minute?" asked Burns, "because you're sitting in my office – that of the head of the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation by the way – telling me how to run an investigation, and I've not got the first idea who you are."
"Gary just wants you to know that he will fully support your decision, if you feel it necessary to enter the Ark."
"Super. If that situation arises, I will consult directly with the Minister."
"Clearly, there is now significant evidence that—"
"Whatever your job is, Ms Doyle, it is not the interpretation of evidence. Now if you don't mind, I'm a little busy here."
Veronica Doyle sat back in her chair and adjusted her suit jacket.
"Susan, I think we've got off on the wrong foot here."
"Do you?"
"I appreciate you are under a massive amount of stress. Gary just wants you to know—"
"Is the minister ordering me to take the Ark?"
"That's not something he could do, obviously."
"Oh, but it is. What you mean is, he won't order it. He wants me to. Well I'm afraid, I don't currently see a justification for that course of action."
"But don't you—"
"And if I do," continued Burns, "it will be a decision entirely justified by the probability of evidence. In the meantime, if the government requires the Ark to be dealt with, it will not be done so under the auspices of this investigation. We are the Gardaí. We are not anyone's private army."
"There's no need to be melodramatic Sus—"
"It’s ‘Detective Superintendent Burns’, Ms Doyle. If the Minister wishes to discuss something with me he knows exactly how to do so, and this…" Burns waggled an accusatory finger between the two of them, "isn't it."
"Very well, DSI Burns," said Doyle, "if that is your attitude. We were only trying to—"
"I know exactly what you are trying to do."
Doyle leaned over the desk and lowered her voice. "When we selected you for this role, we believed you were considerably smarter than this. You should consider your career here. This will be remembered."
"I've no doubt. If I'm the jackbooted thug who sends Gardaí charging into peaceful protests, I'll be remembered for a very long time."
"Fine," said Doyle, and turned to leave. "Let's forget I was ever here."
Doyle exited the office. DSI Burns got up from her desk and followed her out.
In the open-plan office area outside, over twenty members of her investigation team were scattered around the desks.
"Everyone," said DSI Burns in her loudest, most commanding voice. The room stopped and looked at her as one. DSI Burns pointed at Veronica Doyle, who had stopped and was looking back at her open-mouthed. "This is Veronica Doyle, who works for the Minister for Justice in some unspecified capacity. Could you all please remember she was here."
Veronica Doyle stormed off towards the lifts.
DSI Burns re-entered her office, slamming the door behind her.
Chapter Thirty-Three
"… and that's what happened," said Brigit.
She'd spent the last ten minutes or so staring at the Formica table top as she spoke. Paul had sat opposite her in absolute silence. She hadn't looked up. She didn't want to see his reaction. She had, more than anything, just wanted to get through it all in one go.
They were sitting in a greasy spoon café just off Abbey Street. It was quiet, 10 am on a Monday being too late for all but the most tardy of breakfasters, and way too early for lunch. A busy Dublin morning proceeded on its way outside the window in the sunshine, oblivious to their little drama. On the drive in, Brigit had heard them say on the radio that it was expected to be the hottest day of the year.
Their only audience was a incongruous German Shepherd dog, that Paul had grudgingly introduced as ‘Maggie’. The café owner had objected until Paul had ordered two breakfasts just for the dog. She'd long since devoured them, while Paul and Brigit's orders remained untouched before them. Brigit could feel the unnerving canine stare boring into the side of her head.
"So I didn't—" said Paul.
"No," replied Brigit.
"Right."
Brigit dared to looked up, to find Paul staring at the Formica table top too.
"I'm going to kill him."
"No, you're not," replied Brigit. "I'm going to kill him."
He looked up, and for almost the first time since he'd walked in, they made eye contact. She shot him a small, nervous smile and looked away. She'd been thinking about it since the previous evening, and she still did not know what to think. The last couple of months, all that hurt and pain. Still, knowing what she now knew, there was an irrational pocket of anger there. ‘How could Paul do this to me?’ But he hadn't.
"That's…" said Paul, "I mean, he's broken all kinds of laws."
"Oh yeah, once we're done killing him twice, he is definitely going to prison."
Paul had only met Duncan McLoughlin, Brigit's ex-fiancé, once. It had been about eight months ago, and they'd been on the run at the time. Paul had dumped Brigit's mobile phone into a shopping bag belonging to Duncan's companion. His idea at the time had been to put the Gardaí off their scent; instead, it had resulted in McLoughlin and his companion hav
ing a near run-in with an assassin's bullet not meant for them. While the bullet had missed them, due to the activity that Duncan and his companion had been engaged in at the time, his “sensitive area” had received some… unfortunate damage. They'd been told he would make a full recovery at the time, but it appeared he still bore quite the grudge.
"The last thing I remember," said Paul, "of that night, I mean, was Phil storming off after I'd said… well, y'know."
"That his fake girlfriend was bullshit."
"Yeah. Then I went back into the bar to get my coat and finish my drink and…"
He couldn't think of the next thing to say. He'd prodded at his hazy memory of that night countless times, like the gap where a missing tooth should be.
"Thing is," said Brigit, "after all this, I'm not any closer to having the first idea where Bunny disappeared to."
"No," said Paul.
"The last contact was 11:34 pm on the Friday, when he rang me."
"What?" asked Paul, "Hang on, he rang you?"
"Yeah," Brigit looked down at the Formica table again. "I… let it go to voicemail. He was drunk, happy sounding. I'm guessing he'd figured out—"
"What'd really happened."
"Yeah. The…" she tried out a couple of options in her mind before deciding on "…woman, said she'd seen Duncan on the Friday afternoon, to get her hush money."
"She told you that?"
"Yes," Brigit's explanation of her investigation and the revelation about what had happened to Paul on that fateful night had rather glossed over the nature of the conversation she'd had with Diane. It had taken the careful application of some additional foundation to disguise the bruise on her right cheek and the scratch on her neck from the fight. She had still come out the better from it, as the experience had left the other woman with a broken nose and some dental damage. Brigit was cringingly embarrassed about that, even if she didn't actually regret it.
"So," said Paul, "Bunny finds this out, confronts Duncan and then he disappears?"
"Well, he drops into O'Hagan's pub where Tara, the owner, says he was in great form. Ties up with his message to me and then…”
"He disappears. Do you think Duncan has something to do with it?"
Brigit shook her head. "Honestly? I don't. I mean, he's sneaky pond scum who deserves everything he's got coming, but I can't see him taking down Bunny."
"Maybe he drugged him too?" said Paul.
"He could’ve done but again, Tara said Bunny was fine when he left. They’d have noticed him being carried out I’d imagine."
Paul drummed his fingers on the tabletop and looked out the window. "I suppose Duncan could have jumped him somehow? Caught him cold?"
"That little shit is scared of his own shadow. I can't see any version of the world where he goes up against Bunny McGarry—"
"And wins," added Paul. "I take your point. Still, does it seem any more likely than Bunny bunging himself off a cliff?"
"No," conceded Brigit.
"He's not the type," said Paul.
Then Johnny Canning's words came back to her. 'In the right circumstances, everybody is the type.'
Chapter Thirty-Four
DSI Burns sat quietly in the corner of the Portakabin that was being used as the on-site Garda command post for the Ark. It smelled of stale feet and stewed tea, and there was a brown stain on the ceiling where the roof had leaked.
They'd been very careful how they'd phrased it, of course. Assistant Commissioner Sharpe had been brought in to ‘assist with the investigation’. She had in no way been removed. That was the official version. The reality was that as soon as Sharpe had entered the incident room, the legs had been completely taken out from under her. He was in command and everybody knew it. Maybe they'd have liked her to resign but she wasn't about to – not in the middle of an investigation anyway. She had pleaded her case, for all the good it had done. She'd never met Bernard ‘Bunny’ McGarry, but how believable was it that any former police officer was going to leave his fingerprint on a note attached to a victim's body? That was amateur hour. Sharpe had dismissed her point. According to the Assistant Commissioner, McGarry was some kind of old-school lunatic with a history of violence. It was rather well known that he had dropped Sharpe's predecessor in the job out of a window. She'd have thought he'd have been more grateful for the promotion. They needed to find McGarry as quickly as possible, that she agreed on. Although, seeing as he'd been reported missing ten days ago now and his car had been found at a well-known suicide spot, what were the odds of that?
The powers-that-be had put together a theory; McGarry was on a homicidal rampage that he didn't expect to live through. He was shuffling off the mortal coil and he wanted to go down in a blaze of vengeful glory. The fingerprint had been deliberately left at the crime scene as his signature. He had become the one-man suicide squad of Father Franks. Burns had noticed how that in-depth psychological profile had been drawn up on the back of a fag packet, to try and explain away any inconvenient facts. Never mind that at no point had Franks urged anything more than peaceful protest. He was now a person of interest, whose phone records proved that he had a relationship with McGarry and they needed to interview him. They could not request to do so, for fear of tipping their hand. They had rolled all this in with Andy Watts's outstanding warrant in Germany, and the assault on a police officer that the person unknown – codename Adam – had committed while regaining entry, and it had added up to what they needed. Enough justification to remove an annoying thorn from the government's side.
Sharpe was a tall, thin man with more than a touch of the Basil Fawlty about him. He had an unfortunate moustache, and a reputation for berating those below while fawning over those above. It did no credit to the system that this flaw hadn't stopped him rising to the position of second-highest Guard in the land. He clearly had ambitions on one further promotion though, as he had ordered the breach of the Ark within an hour of assuming control. Assistant Commissioner Michael Sharpe: every politician's go-to guy for the dirty work.
DSI Burns would rather have avoided being here for this, but she'd not been given an option. Ideally she would have been back at the office coordinating an actual investigation, instead of being here for whatever this willy-waving contest was going to achieve. Sharpe, along with the on-site commander Sergeant Paice, and Livingstone who was the ranking Casper, was standing looking at a map of the building and its environs. On the opposite side of the table stood Flannery, who was head of the Garda Armed Response Unit. Armed units had seemed like overkill, but it had been justified by the military record of Andy Watts. They had hypothesised that he might be armed, so the breach team had to be armed. Nobody had cared for Burns's opinion, which was why she was sitting in the corner, while the boys with their toys proceeded to fuck the whole thing up beyond all recognition.
Anyone with a TV knew storming a building in broad daylight wasn't considered good practice, but a delivery of food and medicine had been previously agreed to happen at 2 pm. The Caspers had stated that Watts and Belinda Landers had come out with a couple of the other residents to collect all previous deliveries. The plan was to isolate and detain them before storming the building proper. They'd have the element of surprise, in case the armed men against unarmed civilians wasn't enough of an advantage.
Flannery's walkie-talkie crackled into life, and a voice reported that Alpha was in position. Beta reported that they too were in position. Flannery looked at Sharpe, who paused for dramatic effect and then nodded sombrely, "you are go."
Honest to Christ, she reckoned it must have taken all his reserves of willpower not to orgasm as he said it. The other two looked envious that they'd not had a chance to tell the men with guns ‘you are go’ too. He should have really been made to pass the walkie-talkie around, so everyone could have a shot at it. Maybe he'd let them say ‘roger’ into it later on.
Burns stood up and headed towards the door of the Portakabin. Sharpe stared across at her. "Where are you going?"
> "I'm stepping out, sir, to check in with the Incident Room, unless you require me for this?"
Sharpe shook his head like a disappointed parent. "No, that's fine."
Burns left and walked out to the Liffey's edge. Dublin did look great in the sunshine, although she supposed everywhere did. The temperature must have been nearly 30 degrees Celsius, nobody with Irish skin could stay out in it for more than ten minutes unprotected without risking spontaneous combustion.
She sat on a shaded bench just down from the Famine Memorial, which looked even more incongruous than normal in the bright sunshine. People were walking back and forth, suit jackets off, grabbing what little slice of sunshine they could before being dragged back into the air-conditioned confines of their offices. The world was full of people going about their ordinary, everyday lives. The first they'd know of the armed raid happening only about 100 or so yards away would be when somebody caught the story on a news website. Burns took a moment to look up and feel a little sun on her face. A long, sweeping smear of cloud stretched out across the sky in a fat line; like the trail of an aeroplane, only five times too big. It had been years since she had been on a proper holiday. Now that her meteoric ascent had been fatally halted, when this was done, she was going to take one. She would need some time to think.
‘Careerist’ was a word that had been constantly thrown at her over the years. It was supposed to be an insult, but she'd never seen it as such. She saw herself as being focused on doing the best job possible, and the best way you could do that was to have as much power as possible. Ambition made sense if it was a means to the end of getting something done, improving the lot of law-abiding, ordinary people. People who worked hard, and just wanted to feel safe in their own homes and walking their own streets. Burns had used every scintilla of power she could get hold of to crush the gangs of Limerick, and it had worked. She'd combined politics with sound policing and had got the job done. She wasn't naïve; even now, new blood would be rushing to fill the gap she had created. Still, guns taken off the streets, drug supply lines severely disrupted – those things made a difference. Ambition and integrity had worked hand in hand, and they'd allowed her to get the job done.
The Day That Never comes (The Dublin Trilogy Book 2) Page 21
