“Thank you kindly, sir, but – does this have a point?”
“It does indeed. Ye see, I had my yearly Garda physical last week and this fella sits me down and tells me – wait for it – I’m fat.”
Simone laid the southern accent on thickly. “Well, I do declare, the very impertinence of the man.”
“Oh God, yeah, I’d have slapped him silly normally, but I was unwilling to put down my breakfast kebab. Anyhow, not to blind you with science, but it turns out sitting on your arse for twelve hours a day is bad for you. He wants me to cut down on the booze and the brekkie and start jogging.”
“You don’t strike me as a jogger.”
“Exactly. Only time I run is after somebody, and they’re going to regret making me do it, let me tell you.” Bunny stood up. “So there we go.”
Simone looked around. “Did I pass out there for a minute? I don’t see any connection between what you just said and why you’re here.”
“Simple. I need some exercise, so every night I can, I’m walking from here to a street in Rathmines and back again.”
“For the good of your health?”
“For the good of my health.” He moved to the side and waved her through. “Now, you can walk behind me, in front of me, or to somewhere else entirely – but I am walking to Rathmines to a house full of batshit-crazy nuns.”
Simone looked him up and down before smiling. “OK, but, just so you know there fella, I got a can of mace here, so you’d better behave yourself.”
Bunny fell into step beside her as she walked up the slope. “Where’d you get that?”
“Sister Bernadette made it for me.”
“Christ on a bike, she is one mental old battleaxe isn’t she?”
Simone stopped as they turned the corner. She looked back. The alley stood behind them. Just an alley.
“Everything OK?” asked Bunny.
“Yeah, fine,” she replied. “And I dare you to call Sister Bernadette that to her face.”
“No thanks, I’d rather try the mace.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Bunny yawned expansively.
“Someone had a late night, I see.”
He looked across at Gringo, sitting in the passenger seat next to him. “You’re one to talk. Unless I’m very much mistaken, that’s the same suit you wore yesterday.”
“I was seeing a lady.”
Bunny raised his eyebrows. “Is that right?”
“Yep. Two, in fact. Unfortunately, the other fella was seeing three nines.”
Bunny shook his head in disapproval. “You’d want to start widening your range of hobbies.”
“Look who’s talking. Another late-night walk home with your southern belle, was it? You’ve been doing that for how many weeks now?”
“A few.”
“Any luck in going beyond the walking stage yet?”
Bunny shifted in his seat. “’Tis not like that.”
“Yeah,” said Gringo, “just good friends. Have you looked at yourself recently?”
“What?”
“I’ll tell you what. You’re clean-shaven, you’ve lost at least a stone in weight and are you even hung over right now?”
“Course I am.”
“Liar. My point is – you and I are good friends and I can’t make you change your socks. You, amigo, are in love and you’d want to do something about it. Slow and steady is one thing, but even glaciers would think you’re playing it a bit too cool.”
Bunny rolled his eyes theatrically. “Here we go with more romantic advice from the master.”
“I’m just saying – you like her, she likes you. It’s not rocket science.”
“She’s not exactly had the best impression of men around these parts so far, ’twould seem rude to make advances.”
“Oh for God’s sake, Bunny, you’re not Nathan Ryan and she, more than anyone, knows that.”
“That snivelling gobshite would’ve been collecting his knackers from another postcode, if you’d let me—”
Gringo held his hands up. “Not this again. I let you do plenty to him. By the way, did I tell you I saw him a couple of nights ago?”
“Really? How was little Nathan?”
“Hard to say,” said Gringo. “He just screamed and ran out the door.”
“Well, I see him again and he’d better be running fast.”
“You’re like a messed-up version of Santa Claus, y’know that? Ohh!” Gringo drummed on the dashboard excitedly. “Speaking of which, in a manner of speaking – guess what? The Klan have their own version of Santa Claus!”
“Which clan?”
“The Klan, as in the Ku Klux Klan.”
“The shower of racist fucknuggets running around with the pillowcases over their heads?”
“The very same,” said Gringo with a nod. “I saw it on TV last week.”
“Have you finally moved on from the end-of-the-world specials then?”
“This was on after a fascinating documentary on the Millennium Bug actually. Ask me what he’s called.”
“Who?”
“The Klan’s version of Santa. Ask me what he’s called.”
“Maybe I don’t want to know?”
Gringo pulled a face. “Just ask me.”
“Why do—”
“Because,” said Gringo, “this is how people communicate. You’re going to have to work on your conversational skills if you ever want to sweep a certain lady off her feet.”
“Didn’t I tell you to shut up about that?”
“She’s on your mind, I can tell. All that looking out the window and sighing plaintively.”
Bunny waved his hands about in front of him. “We’re sitting in a car doing surveillance, ye dozy gobshite. Not only have I no choice but to look out the window, it is what I’m actually supposed to be doing.”
“All I’m saying is, you need a bit of coaching, to stop you being all, y’know – you. And I can help with that.”
“And how is your divorce going, Gringo?”
“Low blow, amigo. You’re embarrassed and you’re lashing out. Would you like to talk about your feelings?”
Gringo was grinning across at him now. There seemed to be little he enjoyed more than winding Bunny up.
“My feelings? Ask me hole.”
Gringo shook his head. “This is exactly what I’m talking about. You need to be polished up because you are currently a rough – very rough – diamond. I, as your colleague and friend, am willing to My Fair Lady the crap out of you.”
“Very good of you.”
“You’re welcome. I’m not going to lie, there’s a fair bit of work to do in the wardrobe and personal grooming stakes, but we should get cracking on the conversational skills issue as soon as possible.”
“I see,” said Bunny. “And your suggestion for a break-the-ice chat with a black girl is ‘Howerya, love, did you know the Ku Klux Klan has its own version of Santa Claus?’”
“Ah,” said Gringo, “yeah, I’d probably not open with that, alright.”
“Oh, you think? Well, thanks very much Cyrano de-fecking-Bergerac – I’ll give you a shout if your services are required.”
There was a long pause as they both looked out their respective windows at the nothing that was continuing to happen outside.
Eventually, Bunny cracked first. “Well?”
“Well, what?” said Gringo.
Bunny glowered at him, but Gringo let the anticipation build until . . . “Klanta Klaus!”
“Feck off!”
“Seriously. They call him Klanta Klaus. He wears the Santa outfit with the hood.”
“Christ on a motorbike. I bet he’s dreaming of a very white Christmas.”
“You’re not wrong,” laughed Gringo. “I’d imagine when he’s making a list, he’s only checking it once. He has a very simple system to cut down on admin there.”
“What a shower of limp-dicked dog-botherers.”
“Yep,” said Gringo. “Ireland has its flaw
s, but at least we never had dickheads like that.”
“True,” responded Bunny, “Although I can’t help but think the absence of almost any non-white people until very recently really helped to cut down on the racism.”
“Fair point, amigo. Fair point.”
Bunny reached back and shoved his hand into his bag on the back seat, fishing out the can of Diet Coke he’d brought with lunch.
“Aha!” said Gringo. “Diet! Busted! Look at you, looking after yourself.”
“Would you ever shut up.”
“It’ll be stomach crunches and vegetable smoothies next.”
“Would you—” Bunny was interrupted as the can of Diet Coke, which he had allowed insufficient time to settle, exploded upon opening and drenched his trousers. “Ara for feck’s sake.”
Gringo roared with laughter and applauded. “Fantastic! Bit premature there, amigo. Don’t be embarrassed, happens to the best of us.”
Bunny rubbed ineffectually with his hand at his trousers, already sticky to the touch.
“Shut up and get me a tissue or something, ye great scuttering gobshite.”
Gringo started checking the glovebox as Bunny looked around on the back seat. He looked into his wing mirror as a car came around the corner at a rapid clip and halted with a yelp of screeching rubber on the opposite side of the road.
“Why’s Dinny back?”
“Dunno,” said Gringo, “but he’s a new dad. Odds on he’ll have tissues.”
They had relieved Detectives Pamela “Butch” Cassidy and Dinny Muldoon at 8 am from what they’d described as a terminally dull night shift. Muldoon had hurried off to try and beat the morning rush hour home to help his missus with the twins. He’d been in a good mood the last time they saw him. Now his face was red and his neck muscles were straining, as if trying to keep his head from flying clean off.
“Maybe he . . .”
Bunny couldn’t think of anything but that quickly became irrelevant. Dinny wasn’t here to see them. He leaped out of his car and charged to Carter’s front door, hammering on it loudly with his fist. “Carter!”
Bunny and Gringo exchanged a glance and then got out of the car.
“Dinny?” said Bunny, “What are you up to?”
He didn’t turn around. Even from twenty yards away, the tension in his body was visible, fizzing through him like electricity. A couple of years on the beat taught any sensible copper to recognise the signs.
Carter’s door was already opening as Bunny and Gringo broke into a run.
Tommy Carter’s face appeared in the gap.
“No!” shouted Gringo, hopelessly late.
Dinny’s right fist was already making contact with Carter’s jaw as they made it onto the driveway.
The door flew open as Carter was sent sprawling backwards down his hallway, Dinny racing after him.
Gringo nipped through the door just before Bunny.
Dinny was standing over the supine figure of Carter, raining blows down with both hands. Carter had covered his face with his arms but otherwise made no effort to fight back.
Gringo grabbed Dinny’s arms to stop the assault.
He was only five ten and whippet thin, but it still took both Gringo and Bunny to drag Dinny out of there, kicking and screaming. “I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you, I’ll fucking kill you!”
When they finally got him outside. Bunny and Gringo let him go, only to have to hurl themselves in front of him again as he attempted to get back inside Carter’s house.
Gringo got him in a bear hug and dragged him back to the opposite side of the road, where the Granada still sat, doors open.
Bunny looked around to see a few neighbours out on their steps, gawping. He turned and went back into the house. Tommy Carter still lay on the ground, calmly holding a handkerchief to stem the steady flow of blood from his nose. The beginnings of swelling could already be seen at the corner of his faint smile and under his right eye. Bunny glanced up to see Eimear standing at the top of the stairs, looking terrified.
“Officer,” said Tommy, the hint of a smile on his lips, “I’d like to report that I have been assaulted and my life has been threatened.”
“I see,” said Bunny, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Bunny looked at Eimear. “And you have witnesses to this?”
Tommy smiled. “I don’t need witnesses.” He pointed over Bunny’s shoulder.
Bunny turned to see the CCTV camera above the door, covering the hallway.
“You can’t be too careful.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Commissioner Gareth Ferguson stood in his dressing gown and slippers on the balcony, his long cigar clamped in his mouth. He glowered at the traffic below, as if it were personally responsible for all of the inconvenience in his life.
DI Fintan O’Rourke slid the balcony door open and stepped out to join him. Ferguson didn’t turn around.
“Shut the bloody door, Fintan. Doctor Jacoby gets a whiff of cigar in his office and I’ll never hear the end of it.”
As O’Rourke carefully pulled the door closed, Ferguson took the cigar out of his mouth and looked at it. “Honest to Christ, it’s only a bloody cigar. You’d think I was weeing on the man’s carpet. Bloody doctors.” He resumed puffing away.
“Yes, sir,” said O’Rourke.
The hem of Ferguson’s hospital gown flapped in the breeze under his dressing gown.
“I’m . . . Are you sure this is a good time for this, sir?”
Ferguson glanced briefly back at O’Rourke. “Trust me, Fintan, there is no good time for this chat.”
“I know, sir, but, I mean . . . Can I say, I’m very sorry to hear of your . . .”
Ferguson turned to look at him, “My what?”
“Your medical condition, sir.”
“Medical con—? Have you lost your damn mind, Fintan? What exactly do you think is wrong with me?”
“Well, sir, obviously you want to keep it private, which I entirely understand. I’m just sorry that . . .” Fintan flapped a hand in the direction of the office he had just walked through. Ferguson turned his eyes to heaven.
“Christ! One of our country’s finest deductive minds at work. Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair! I am here, Fintan, to get a benign cyst removed from my back. The reason I am standing on the balcony of the office of the country’s premier neurologist is that his other half is my beloved wife’s bridge partner and, having one of only two balconies in this Godforsaken sanctuary for sawbones, he agreed to allow me to use it to have a bloody cigar.”
“Oh.”
“Yes, so don’t go popping your CV in for my job just yet. Do you know what a benign cyst is, Fintan?”
O’Rourke didn’t answer, correctly guessing that it wouldn’t be required.
“It is a lump of fatty, useless flesh that just sits there and does nothing except look unsightly. In that regard it is like the last Minister for Justice, as opposed to the current one, who is a cancerous little pimple that – unless removed – will one day kill us all.”
Another gust of cold wind caused the hem of Ferguson’s hospital gown to flap up again. He pulled his burgundy dressing gown tighter and spat on the floor.
“And why the hell do I have to wear this undignified thing with my arse hanging out the back? I’m not in theatre for another couple of hours. What, in the name of all that is good and holy, is wrong with me wearing my fine silk jimmy-jams in the meantime?” Ferguson stepped suddenly forward and looked down at O’Rourke. “Did you just smirk, Fintan?”
“No, sir.”
“Any civilised man in his right mind knows that the pyjama is an unfairly-maligned suit of clothing. Well may ye sleep in your nudity beneath the eyes of the Lord, like Adam in the garden of Eden – but when your house burns down, remember lots of strapping firemen with big hoses shall be strutting by you and the missus while you stand there holding your worried little winky as your worldly possessions go up in smoke.”
O’Rourke made su
re his face was a mask of absolute sincerity. “Thank you for the advice, sir, I shall keep it in mind.”
“Yes, you bloody should, Fintan – because I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but your damn house is on fire.”
Silence reigned for a few moments as Ferguson turned around and went back to staring at the traffic, flicking ash off the tip of his cigar to dance away on the winter breeze.
“How the hell did this happen?”
O’Rourke pulled a notebook he didn’t need out of his pocket and referred to it. “At 8:43 am, Detective Dennis “Dinny” Muldoon returned home, having worked a twelve-hour surveillance shift on Tommy Carter. He found his wife, Theresa, in a highly distressed state. She had just entered the bedroom of their twin babies, Jack and Georgia, to discover two teddy bears with their heads cut off and knives shoved through their hearts.”
“Christ!” said Ferguson.
“Someone had obviously broken in during the night. Theresa had been in the room at around 4:30 am to check on them and there hadn’t been any signs of a disturbance. And, sir – just for context – I personally know that the Muldoons had been trying to have kids for years. She’s had at least two miscarriages that I know of.”
Ferguson moved the cigar around in his mouth and twirled his finger in the air in a signal to continue. O’Rourke looked down at his notes again.
“Detective Muldoon, understandably emotional, then immediately returned to Tommy Carter’s residence and assaulted him before being restrained by Detective McGarry and Detective Sergeant Spain.”
Ferguson pulled the cigar out of his mouth. “And what the bloody hell were they doing that they couldn’t get to the man before he got to Carter?”
“Sir, they . . . it happened fast.”
“Yes,” said Ferguson, “I believe there is a video that attests to the ferocity of Muldoon’s attack.”
“Sir, can I—”
“No, Fintan, you can’t. Muldoon is suspended indefinitely without pay.”
“But, sir—”
“The blessed Garda Representative Association can – and will – kick up a fuss, and I’ve no doubt I’ll have Sheila Appleton in my office tomorrow morning doing just that, but video killed the radio star, Fintan, and it may well do the same to Muldoon’s career.” Ferguson paused and looked up at the darkening skies. “Furthermore, your task force is no longer to carry out overt surveillance on Carter and his—”
Angels in the Moonlight_A prequel to The Dublin Trilogy Page 15
