The bitch appeared to be well-fed, but her coat was matted and filthy and she looked exhausted and miserable. Conor guessed that she had given birth to many more litters than was good for her. Seven litters in a bitch’s lifetime was more than enough.
He took three or four photographs and a few seconds of video. The bitch looked up at him appealingly, but all he could do was carefully replace the lid on top of the crate and shut her up in darkness again, along with her suckling puppies.
He was about to lift the lid on the next crate when the shed door opened. Immediately the puppies started screaming and jumping and scrambling up against their wire-mesh cages. Conor looked quickly around, but there was nowhere that he could hide himself. All he could do was drop his iPhone back into his coat pocket and stand up straight.
A tall, bulky, broad-shouldered man stepped into the shed. Although he was silhouetted against the daylight from the open door, Conor could see that his head was shiny and shaven, but he had a drooping moustache and a beard. He was wearing a khaki parka with a fur-trimmed hood, and he was carrying a large cardboard box.
As soon as he saw Conor, he said, ‘Hey! You! What in the name of feck are you doing in here, hoop?’
Conor raised both hands. ‘Just being nosy. I was out for a hod, like, and when I was walking past here I heard dogs barking. I thought they sounded a bit distressed so I came in to see if they were okay. That’s all.’
The man dropped the cardboard box on to the floor with a bang that made Conor jump. ‘What the feck do you mean you was walking past? Nobody fecking walks past here. Never. This is all private land. Not even the fecking farmer walks past here.’
‘Sure look, everything seems to be grand altogether. The dogs I mean. So I’ll just be out the gap, shall I?’
Conor approached the man and tried to sidestep past him, but the man sidestepped too, and blocked his way to the door. The man smelled strongly of stale alcohol and body odour. Conor looked up at him and saw that he had a livid Y-shaped scar on the right side of his forehead, above his eye.
‘Before you go, hoop, why don’t you tell me what you was really doing in here? You’re not one of them snooping inspectors, are you?’
‘Ah, come on, do I look like it? Besides, they always wear the official jackets, don’t they, the inspectors, and have badges?’
‘Maybe you’re one of them newspaper reporters, then. We’ve had enough fecking trouble from them, I can tell you.’
‘I told you. I was walking past and I heard all these dogs barking hysterical-like, and I thought there might be something wrong. I mean, listen to them now, for the love of God. Why do you think we’re having to shout to make ourselves heard?’
The man looked down at Conor with one eye half-closed. ‘Let’s you and me go to see the owners, like. Happen they’ll want to call the guards and have you done for trespass. Maybe you was planning on hobbling one or two of our breeding bitches – is that it?’
Conor shook his head. ‘Listen, I’m not the ISPCA inspector and I’m not a newspaper reporter and I’m not a dog-napper, either. I’ve stolen nothing and I’ve done no damage, so if you’ll kindly step out of my path and let me get out of here—’
‘I don’t fecking believe you,’ said the man. ‘Come on, let’s you and me go to see the McQuaides. They’ll know what to do with you. If I let you go, hoop, and it turns out there’s a fecking great piece in the Echo about Foggy Fields tomorrow, saying it’s a shitehole or whatever, what kind of a hard time do you think they’ll be after giving me?’
Conor hesitated for a few seconds. If he allowed this man to take him back to Blánaid and Caoilfhoinn, his whole investigation would collapse. They wouldn’t sell him their little pug for sure, although he needed it as living proof that they were breeding puppies with total disregard for their happiness and, more importantly, their health. On top of that, he still lacked evidence that the McQuaide sisters owned far more breeding bitches than the law allowed, and that they were exploiting those bitches with unforgivable heartlessness.
‘No, forget it,’ he said, and tried to push the man out of his way.
The man immediately pushed him back, so hard that he lost his balance and slammed up against the wire-mesh cages right behind him. The little cockapoo puppies inside the cages shrieked and tumbled over each other. Conor grasped the mesh to pull himself upright, but then the man took two steps forward and hit him on the cheek with a left-handed punch. Conor’s head was jerked sideways so violently that he felt the sinews in his neck crunch.
Stunned, he dropped on to one knee, shaking his head to clear it, and then trying to stand up again. He was fit, and he had taken judo lessons, but this man was far heavier, and far stronger, and far more violent. As Conor stood up, he punched him in the face, and Conor felt his nasal bone snap. Then he punched him on the right side of his forehead, so that he fell to the left, and as he fell he punched him on the jaw. Conor ended up lying on his back on the filthy wooden floor, and he spat two bloody teeth out of the side of his mouth. Although he was half-concussed, he still tried to lift himself up again, but the man kicked him hard between the legs, not just once but three times, until he doubled up in unspeakable agony and lay on his side, both hands cupping his genitals.
The man stood over him, rubbing his knuckles. ‘Fancy another kick, hoop? Or have you had enough? I got plenty more if you want them, free of charge.’
Conor could faintly hear him over the shrieking of the puppies, but he couldn’t speak. He was in so much pain that he could barely think. As he lay there on the planks he heard his iPhone warble, and he was vaguely aware that the man bent over him and took it out of his coat pocket, but his testicles hurt so much that he was unable to move. He heard the shed door open and close, but after that everything went dark and silent and he was sure that he was going to die.
8
Katie was worried now. She had texted Conor to tell him that she couldn’t meet him for lunch because a homeless man had been found dead this morning in a doorway on Pana. She was waiting to be briefed about it, so that she could hold an impromptu media conference at two o’clock.
It was twenty-five minutes since she had texted and Conor had yet to come back to her. He must have heard his phone warble, and even if he had been driving he would have answered her by now. She texted him again. Where RU? I cant meet 4 lunch.
She waited, but there was still no reply, so she set her phone down and went back to the assessment that she was writing about last year’s crime figures in Cork. There had been a disturbing increase in the number of knife attacks, as well as attacks with corrosive liquids, like drain cleaner and sulphuric acid.
Some of the acid attacks had taken place among the Asian community. At least three girls had been disfigured for refusing to marry the man of their parents’ choice. But even more assaults had been committed by young thieves on mopeds, spraying acid into the faces of pedestrians and snatching their mobile phones.
Detective Sergeant Begley knocked at her open door and came in, followed by Detective Bedelia Murrish. Detective Sergeant Begley was looking as buttoned-up as ever, while Detective Murrish was as skinny as a catwalk model, and even walked like one, with an elegant lope.
Even though she hadn’t heard it ping, Katie glanced at her iPhone to see if Conor had replied, but the screen remained blank. She pushed back her chair, stood up and said, ‘Come on in, Sean – Bedelia. What’s the story with this homeless fellow?’
Detective Sergeant Begley took out his notebook and held it at arm’s length to focus on it. ‘The deceased has been identified as one Gearoid Ó Beargha. Garda Brogan knew him well and said he’d been sleeping in that doorway next to the Savoy Centre for the past two-and-a-half years. He’d been offered at least temporary accommodation by the council and by the Simons, too, but he’d always turned it down.
‘Garda Brogan said he came from Clon, originally. He was a folk singer with a band called the Shoot-On-Sights. He used to go drinking with Noel Redding fro
m the Jimi Hendrix Experience, so Brogan said, because of course Redding lived in Clon in his later years, before the cirrhosis took him. The Shoot-On-Sights broke up because Ó Beargha was always langered and once he fell off the stage. He started a solo career, but he usually turned up wrecked for his appearances and so nobody would book him any more.
‘His body’s been taken to CUH for post mortem, but I’d say it was the drink that did for him, that and the cold. Vodka and hypothermia, that’s a desperate combination.’
‘There were no outward signs of injury?’ Katie asked him.
‘None that we could see. No bloodstains on his clothing or anything like that, like. We gave him a quick frisk once they’d put him in the ambulance. He still had money on him, about thirty-five euros in his pocket and ninety more rolled up in one of his socks. If anybody topped him, they didn’t do it for the grade. Mind you, the bang of benjy off of his socks, Jesus. If it hadn’t been my job I would never have taken his socks off, even if he’d had the winning lotto ticket stuffed inside them.’
‘Here, ma’am,’ said Detective Murrish, and handed Katie a clear plastic evidence bag. Inside it was a small dog-eared notebook with a green mock-crocodile cover.
‘I’ve had a flick through it already, like, and he’s written himself one or two reminders, like his daughter’s birthday and his PPS number, but mostly it’s full of songs that he’s composed. “The Day I Sleep Forever”, one of them’s called, which is kind of sad.’
Katie gave her a wry smile. She had grown to like Detective Murrish. With her messy straw-blonde hair and her hooded blue eyes, she always looked sleepy and dim, but she had an acute, analytical mind, combined with a sensitivity to other people’s emotions that would have done credit to a fortune-teller. This gave her an edge over some of her male colleagues, who were clever at deducing how and when and who, but often failed to give much thought to the deeper reasons why.
‘I’m holding a media conference at two,’ said Katie. ‘I won’t be saying too much except that I’ll be appealing for any relations or friends of the deceased to come forward so that we can build up a fuller picture of his life and what may have led to his death. But I’m going to make sure that our foot patrols keep a constant watch on the doorway where he used to beg. If it gets taken over by another beggar, they should try and find out who they are – he or she – and what nationality they are. If they’re foreign, they need to ask them where they came from and how long they expect to be staying here.
‘They should check their ID, but even if they don’t have any, they should just leave them be. I don’t want them to think that we might be on to them.’
‘Where are you going with this?’ asked Detective Sergeant Begley. ‘Are you thinking this Gearoid might have been offed by this Romanian feen – this Loophole, or whatever his name is?’
‘Lupul, yes. I mean, think about it, Sean. Little Ana-Maria told us that he’s fetched over twenty people from Romania to beg in the streets. Now if I’d gone to all the trouble and expense of doing that myself, I’d be making sure that I monopolized all the most lucrative begging spots in the city, wouldn’t I?’
‘I can’t argue with that, ma’am. But if he did off your man, I’d be interested to know how. Like I say, there was no obvious sign that he’d been shot or stabbed or beaten. Let’s just pray it wasn’t the nerve agent, you know, like the Novichok, or else we’ll be having to put half the city centre in quarantine. Anyway, the lads upstairs are already going through all of the CCTV footage. There’s a camera only a few metres away outside of Eason’s, and it’s pointing towards the Savoy Centre. Nobody could have gone near Gearoid during the night without being recorded.’
‘Thanks, Sean, that’s grand,’ said Katie. She handed the evidence bag back to Detective Murrish. ‘Maybe it’s worth taking a second look through this book, Bedelia, just to see if there’s any indication that he might have been ill, or if there was somebody in his life who wished him harm. Maybe there’s a clue in one of his songs. Singers do that sometimes, don’t they – write about their troubles in their songs.’
‘There’s a line in that “The Day I Sleep Forever”,’ said Detective Murrish. ‘It goes something like, “Everybody thinks you love me, just because we share a bed… But I know you’ll only be happy when you see me lying stiff and dead.” Something like that, anyway.’
‘There you are. Maybe it was nothing more than a song he made up, but maybe he was writing about some ex-lover of his. There might be some clue in the notebook as to who it was. It’s worth checking.’
‘We’ll shoot on over to Pana to check that doorway,’ said Detective Sergeant Begley. ‘If there’s nobody there, maybe I’ll take it over myself. The moth’s nagging to go to Lanzarote for her holliers this year instead of Banna Beach and I could do with the extra grade.’
*
With only twenty minutes to go before the media conference, Katie had still received no reply from Conor, even though she had repeatedly rung him and texted him and emailed him. This wasn’t like him at all. Usually he answered her immediately, and he would often text her during the day with jokes and comments about the news and just to tell her how much he loved her and couldn’t wait for her to become Detective Superintendent Ó Máille.
She was thinking of going upstairs to the communications room and asking them if they could track his phone for her when Chief Superintendent O’Kane appeared in the doorway.
‘DS Maguire,’ he smiled.
Katie was standing by the window with her iPhone in her hand, trying yet again to get an answer from Conor. Brendan came over and stood close beside her, closer than he would have done if they had been only work colleagues.
‘Help you with anything, sir?’ she asked him.
‘Sure like, this homeless fellow that’s been found dead. How are you thinking of presenting this?’
Katie looked up at him. She could still see the mischief in his eyes, and God, he was still handsome in that sharp hollow-cheeked way that had made her feel like mothering him and surrendering to him, both at once, all those years ago.
‘I’m saying nothing special. Just the facts.’
‘Don’t you think this would be an opportunity to express our concern about the number of people sleeping rough in Cork every night? Maybe we could say that we’re setting up a night patrol to make sure that they’re as safe and well as possible, and to try to persuade them to try their luck at a hostel.’
‘It’s our job to protect them, sir, but I don’t think their welfare comes under our remit. You can ask Superintendent Pearse, but I seriously doubt if he has the officers available for a night patrol, let alone the budget.’
‘I just want us to come across as being more humane, Katie. Or is it against protocol to call you Katie?’
Katie said nothing, but looked at her iPhone again, and then dropped it into her jacket pocket.
‘What happened between us at Templemore, Katie, I’m hoping that’s all water under the bridge. You’ve done brilliantly well for yourself, and I respect you for that, and I’d like us to work as close together as we possibly can. We really have our work cut out, winning back the public’s trust.’
‘The best way we can do that is for us to be consistently truthful,’ said Katie. ‘In fact, it’s the only way. No more fiddling the breath-test figures or wiping the points off celebrities’ driving licences or taking backhanders to let offenders go free. We don’t need PR stunts like a night patrol for rough sleepers.’
‘Fair play, maybe you’re right. But I’d appreciate any other ideas you might have for enhancing our public image. I want you to think that you can come to me at any time and talk over strategy.’
‘Thank you, sir. Now I’d better be getting downstairs for the media conference. Will you be attending it yourself?’
‘Katie – there’s no need for you to be so official. You don’t have to call me “sir”. At least, not when we’re alone together.’
Katie looked up at him again, bu
t again she said nothing. She couldn’t stop thinking about Conor, and where he was, and why he wasn’t answering her texts.
‘I won’t beat about the bush,’ said Brendan. ‘The minute you walked into Michael Pearse’s office I mentally kicked myself for having cheated on you all those years ago. You’re even more attractive now than you were then, Katie, I don’t mind telling you.’
He paused, as if he were waiting for her to thank him, but instead she went over to her desk and picked up the notes she had written for the media conference.
‘I’m not suggesting for a moment that we pick up where we left off,’ Brendan persisted. ‘I’d like to believe, though, that we can be friends again – very close friends – as well as fellow police officers. That’s all I wanted to say.’
‘I’m engaged to be married, sir,’ said Katie, tilting up her chin to challenge him.
‘Yes. Michael told me. Lucky fellow.’
Katie buttoned up her jacket and left her office, with Brendan following close behind her. Too close behind her – as close as a husband or a lover might follow – but she didn’t want to walk faster to increase the distance between them because that would turn this awkward moment into a comedy. Besides, why should she?
They went down in the lift together. Neither of them spoke, but Brendan didn’t take his eyes off her once. Katie glanced from side to side, but she couldn’t stop herself from looking back at him. What a bastard he was. Why did he have to be so handsome, and so charismatic? She could almost smell the pheromones that he exuded. She fixed her gaze on the orange pips on his epaulettes, but they, too, were a symbol of his power.
There were only a few reporters in the conference room when she walked in – Dan Keane from the Examiner, Douglas Kelly from the Times and Fionnuala Sweeney from the Six One News, as well as two freelancers. Brendan came in behind her, but not so close now. When she sat down, though, he sat beside her, and laid his hand flat on the desk, almost as if he expected her to lay her hand on top of his. Katie could see that the red tally light on the RTÉ video camera was switched on, and so she made sure she didn’t look down at his hand and that her face showed no reaction at all.
Begging to Die Page 6
