“Oh please,” said Cunningham. “Lie to yourself all you like but don’t waste my time. You’ll do whatever I say, because when Eimear Carter was nearly fifteen, her Auntie Jenny took her on a shopping trip to London.”
“Don’t—”
She ploughed on. “Only it wasn’t that, was it, Franko? She was getting an abortion. She was a scared kid. Didn’t want to tell her dad, it’d break his heart. Didn’t want to tell her brother, as he would break the entire world, seeking the bloodiest of vengeance against the man who’d defiled his beloved baby sister.”
She pulled a brown envelope from her pocket. “I’ve still got the paperwork if you’d like to see it? Where a scared fourteen-year-old girl misunderstood a question and named you as the father.”
“That wa—”
“A mistake, yes, you said.”
“How do you even have that? Them things are private.”
“A friend in MI5 owed me a favour.”
Franko scratched at his scalp irritably, sending a light snowstorm of dandruff down onto his tracksuit top. “That’s a violation of my civil rights.”
“Oh please.”
“It wasn’t like you think.”
“I don’t care, but best of luck explaining it to Tommy Carter. A man who, as a teenager, broke the arms of a guy who tried to touch his sister. Tried. You must believe he’s mellowed an awful lot since then to consider not doing everything I tell you to. And you must believe that he’s suddenly developed a sense of humour about who tipped us off – seeing as last night, by my reckoning, he had the person he thought it was killed. Are we all caught up now?”
Franko drummed his fingers on the pew. “You think you’re untouchable, don’t you, Cunningham? What if I went to the press, told them what really went down. They’d love –”
Franko stopped speaking. He held his breath and stayed perfectly still. The sharp blade of a knife poking into his scrotum will do that to any man.
“Listen carefully, Franko. Don’t you ever try and threaten me, or I will do my gender a great service. The scariest person you know is Tommy Carter, but I’m a close second. Think about that before you speak again. Now, there’s a mobile phone in a bag under your seat. It has one number in it. When you know the time and place for the deal with the Mexicans, you text it to that number, then you destroy the phone. Do that, and you and your beloved manhood might make it to Christmas. Am I absolutely clear?”
Franko nodded slowly.
“Then go in peace to love and serve the Lord.”
Chapter Forty-One
Bunny McGarry stood on the sideline while sixteen twelve-year-old boys looked up at him with a mix of awe, fear and incomprehension.
“Hurling is a simple game, lads. It’s about two things: focus and determination. And skill, obviously. Three things.”
“And fitness, boss.” Deccie, the sub-cum-assistant manager, piped in.
“OK, four things: focus, determination, skill and fitness.”
“And discipline, boss.”
“And discipline, of course. Focus, determination, skill, fitness and discipline. Those five things.”
“And teamwork, boss.”
“For Jesus’ sake, Deccie, where are you getting this stuff from?”
“You, boss. You said that last week. Teamwork – you did a whole big speech on it.”
“That’s right, I did. OK, it’s about those six things: focus, skill, fitness, discipline, teamwork and . . . What was the other one?”
A voice from the back: “Intelligence.”
“Phil Nellis, you stay out of this. I never said intelligence.”
“Actually, boss, ye did,” said Deccie, “you did a whole thing about it on the bus home a couple of weeks ago.”
A clamour of voices rose up from the huddle in agreement.
“Alright, fine,” said Bunny. “Them seven things.”
“And being respectful to women.”
“What?” said Bunny, his exasperation growing, “I never said that!”
“No, he’s right, boss, ye did.”
“I mean, I know I did, but that was more of a life lesson than a thing particular to hurling.”
“You also said always wash your bollocks.”
“Now hang on,” said Bunny. “Hold your horses. I mentioned the importance of personal hygiene, but don’t go around telling people I said anything about the state of anybody’s bollocks. That’s the kind of thing that can be entirely misconstrued. What I was saying was—”
Bunny was interrupted by the referee in the centre of the pitch blowing the whistle to get the teams out for the second half. “Ah, for God’s sake. My point was . . . emh, Deccie, what was my point?”
“Give the ball to Paulie.”
“Well yes, do that. Go get ’em lads.”
The ragtag bunch of players scampered out onto the field.
“Deccie, I worry our team talks aren’t hitting the spot.”
“It’s the lads, boss, they lack an appreciation of . . .”
Bunny joined in: “The fundamentals of the game. Right as always, Deccie. How are we nine games unbeaten?”
“Cause Paul Mulchrone is fucking deadly at hurling, boss.”
“You’re not wrong, Deccie, but go easy on the swearing.”
“You’ve sworn ninety-seven times in this game so far, boss.”
“I most certainly have not.”
“I’ve been counting, boss.”
“Why are you doing that?”
“We’re running a book on it. Fifty pence a man, closest guess gets the lot.”
“Why the hell are ye telling me this? Wait, no, don’t say it. I’m a detective. What was your guess?”
“A hundred, boss.”
“You’re a devious little fecker, Deccie, d’ye know that?”
“Ninety-eight. Go easy, boss, we’ve the whole second half to go yet.”
Deccie turned to look behind them and then tugged at the sleeve of Bunny’s tracksuit. “Boss, the five-oh’s here again.”
“The what?”
“The po-po. The fuzz.”
Bunny looked down and placed a hand on Deccie’s shoulder. “Do we have to have the chat about the dangers of drugs again? You promised me you’d have no more to do with that reprobate cousin of yours.”
Deccie shook the hand off. “What am I supposed to call them, boss? You said not to say pigs.”
Bunny turned to see DI Fintan O’Rourke standing behind him. “Oh, for feck’s sake.”
“Ninety-nine.”
“Right, that’s it, Deccie. Give me a lap.”
Deccie clutched his hands to his chest, his face all wounded innocence. “What did I do?”
“You’re a smart lad. You’ll figure it out while you’re running.”
Deccie mumbled something unintelligible.
“I heard that,” said Bunny. “And think of it this way: you won’t be able to hear me swear from the other side of the pitch.”
“Are you mad? People can hear you swear from space, boss.”
Deccie started running down the sideline at an unexpectedly fast pace, putting him just out of the reach of Bunny’s lunge. Behind them, the ref threw the ball in, and it quickly made its way to the skinny little kid that O’Rourke recognised from the last time as Paulie Mulchrone. Three of his opponents ran into each other in a vain attempt to tackle him. He soloed and then unleashed a shot of such ferocity that the opposition goalie dived out of the way of it.
“GOAL!” screamed Bunny. “See lads – that’s what I’m talking about. Focus, fitness, determination, teamwork, skill, intelligence and discipline.”
“And he’s got very clean bollocks.”
“I heard that, Deccie! Two laps!”
O’Rourke cleared his throat loudly.
Bunny looked behind him in irritation. “It’s Sunday, the day of rest.”
“You don’t look what I’d call ‘relaxed’.”
“That’s because it’s my day off and my boss jus
t turned up.”
“Well,” said O’Rourke, stepping forward, “I’ve been informed that you’ve taken yourself off my task force, which means I’m no longer your boss.”
“I decided it wasn’t for me.”
“What the hell are you on about?”
“All this strong-arm stuff. Not my bag.”
“Really? If you prefer a more subtle form of policing then those fitness reports of yours I’ve read have been very misleading.”
“Look,” said Bunny, “I’ve never as much as taken a sick day in my whole time on the job. I’ll be in tomorrow, working my normal caseload. There are lots of other crimes happening that don’t involve Tommy Carter.”
“This’d be the same Tommy Carter whose crew killed one of my officers last week and tried to kill your partner?”
Bunny shifted on his feet. “Ex-partner. DS Spain and I have decided we’d rather work apart.”
“Oh for Christ’s sake, Bunny, I’ve enough to be doing without being a marriage counsellor now, too.”
“Nobody’s asking you to do that, Fintan. Now if you’ll excuse me.”
“No,” said O’Rourke, “no, I won’t.” He moved forward and grabbed Bunny’s arm, pulling him closer. He lowered his voice. “Is there something you’d like to tell me?”
“Yes. Get your fecking hand off me now. I wouldn’t like to knock out a senior officer in front of the kids, but I will if I have to.”
O’Rourke withdrew his hand but gave Bunny a long, searching look. “What are you hiding? If you know something that I don’t, now’s the time to tell me.”
Bunny met his stare with one of his own, his good eye seemingly focused on O’Rourke while the lazy left one watched the match.
“There’s nothing, sir.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, sir.”
O’Rourke shook his head. “You’re messing up your career on this one, Bunny. It won’t be forgotten.”
“Thank you, sir.”
O’Rourke sighed. “Fine. Have it your way.” He started walking back towards the gate.
He had got all of three feet before Bunny’s voice was raised behind him. “Phil Nellis, pull your fecking finger out!”
“One hundred!” came the shout.
“Right, Deccie, three laps. Let’s see you count them!”
“Do ye know what your problem is, boss?”
“That I lack an appreciation of the fundamentals of the game?”
“No, you’re a bollocks.”
“FIVE LAPS!”
Chapter Forty-Two
Bunny kept his left hand firmly on the doorbell, even as his right pounded on the door.
“C’mon, open up. I just want to—”
He took a step back as the door opened a fraction, and through the chained gap, Sister Bernadette’s intense little face, with those piercing blue eyes, peered out. “Oh, it’s you.”
“Yes, Sister, sorry to disturb you, I just wanted to—”
“Hang on, hang on.”
The door closed and Bunny could hear the chain being slipped off inside. The door reopened, slightly wider this time, allowing Sister Bernadette enough room to properly get her glare on. “It’s past midnight, what on earth is the meaning of this?”
“I’m sorry, Sister, it’s Simone. She isn’t in work and she didn’t come home. Noel says he’s not seen her all day, although he . . .”
“What?”
“He says he thinks she mopped the floors this morning as they’d been done when he got in. Look, is she in there?”
“No.”
“Would you tell me if she was?”
“Not if she didn’t want me to.”
“I’m an officer of the law, y’know.”
“And I’m an officer of God. If you’d like to meet him a lot sooner than expected, try and get in this door.”
“I just need to know she’s OK.”
“I’m a nun. I’m not in the business of giving men what they think they need.”
“Look, I’m not playing around here, Sister.”
Bernadette stood back and swung the door open. “Neither am I.”
Behind her, Sister Assumpta’s large bulk dominated the hallway. She was pointing a shotgun straight at Bunny’s head.
Bunny looked at Bernadette, then Assumpta, then back to Bernadette. “What kind of fecking nuns are you?”
“Ever seen The Sound of Music?”
“Yes.”
“Not that kind.” Sister Bernadette beckoned Bunny closer, and he leaned in, as if he expecting to be told a secret. Instead he got walloped on the earhole.
“Ouch!”
“That’s for the bad language.”
“Jesus!”
She stamped on his toe. “And that’s for the blaspheming.”
“Mother of . . .” She couldn’t weigh much more than a bag of spuds but she had somehow managed to concentrate her entire mass on the area of his big toe. Bunny bit his lip and swallowed enough expletives to give him indigestion.
He gathered himself and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Sister. I’m just worried about her. Something has happened. Or maybe she thinks she’s not safe any more, because . . .”
Bernadette widened her eyes. “You know, don’t you?”
Bunny nodded.
Bernadette blessed herself.
“I don’t care though. I believe her and I’ll do everything I can to protect her, just . . .”
Bernadette looked him up and down. “I believe you would. You’re one of the good ones.”
Bunny looked at Assumpta, who was still regarding him down the barrel of the shotgun. “Is there any chance you could tell her that?”
Bernadette looked back at her wingman, as if just remembering she was there. She pushed the barrel of the gun up. “Relax, Sister, it’s not him.” Then she turned back to him. “Now look – she isn’t here, and no, you cannot check, because we have guests. You’ll just have to take my word for it. If she comes back here, we will of course take care of her, but we’ve not seen her in a few days.”
Assumpta nodded, giving the first indication that she was in any way following the situation.
“Maybe she will be back home when you get there,” said Bernadette, with what probably passed for her version of a soft smile. “There’s no point getting yourself in a tizzy about this.”
“OK,” said Bunny, running his fingers through his hair. “Well, if you see her, just tell her I’m worried about her.”
“I will. Good night.”
“Good night, Sister.”
The door started to close.
“Wait.”
Bernadette poked her head out. “Now what?”
“A minute ago, you said ‘it’s not him’ – who were ye expecting?”
Bernadette looked around and then lowered her voice. “We have a guest upstairs from Donegal. She rang her mother a couple of days ago and told her where she was, which we discourage as a rule, but anyway. Apparently her mother is the kind of woman who views the sanctity of marriage as more important than her daughter being used as a punch bag by some muscle-bound buffoon. Calls himself a weightlifter of all things. He’s been banging on our door all day with flowers and threats, neither of which we’re taking. Seems the overly-aggressive type. I’d bet he’s on those god-awful steroid things. They make you go gaga apparently.”
“And they shrink your penis.” It was the first words Bunny had ever heard Sister Assumpta speak. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought the accent was Italian.
For a moment, he and Sister Bernadette looked at Assumpta’s broad, friendly face in dumbfounded silence.
“Well,” said Bernadette, “someone has been watching the channels further up the dial again.”
Bunny turned his attention back to her. “Did you call the Gardaí about this . . .” Bunny paused, not wanting another clatter around the ear. “This fella?”
“Yes,” Bernadette said with a grimace, “and as soon as he actually tries t
o carry out one of these threats, they’ll be right over. It’s a wonderful system. He’s been sitting out there for two days in his van, staring in. Poor girl is terrified. But don’t worry, we’ve dealt with worse than him. You’ve got no idea.”
Bunny took one of his cards out of his pocket. “Well, if you ever need help.”
Bernadette took it. “Oh, don’t you fear, Detective McGarry, I have plans for you.” She took his card between her nimble fingers and disappeared it into some unseen pocket in her habit. “Good night.”
“Good night, Sister.”
She closed the door.
Bunny looked at his phone again. No missed calls.
Maybe she was right. Maybe Simone would be at home when he got there.
He turned around and headed back to his car.
As he glanced up the street, he noticed a blue van with a large, shaven-headed man sitting in the front seat.
He had to get home. Bunny got in the car and drove off.
He got all of two hundred metres before he pulled a U-turn. Five minutes either way probably wouldn’t make that big a difference.
He reached into the back seat and grabbed the hurley that was lying there. “C’mon, Cathleen, we’ve to make this quick.”
A brief conversation ensued, which achieved its goal of the muscle-bound fella swinging first. What followed was a vivid and impactful demonstration of why muscle was no match for God-given natural malevolence.
Chapter Forty-Three
Bunny sat in his armchair and looked at his phone. He’d spent a restless night checking it every fifteen minutes, while trying to call Simone at least once every half hour. It was now well into the next day and what little hope he had held onto was fading fast.
Maybe she’d decided to run, to get going before her past caught up with her again. If he could just talk to her . . . He kept coming back to the clothes upstairs. She could have taken them if she’d wanted to go – he’d been out at the St Jude’s match for several hours, what with the game itself, taking the boys for fish and chips and then dropping people home, having the odd word and dealing with a few issues.
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