Begging to Die

by Graham Masterton

  ‘Well, good luck with that, Katie. And if you do haul him in, you can come up to Dublin and buy me a drink or two at The Brazen Head, to show your appreciation.’

  ‘You can hold me to that, Jimmy. I promise you.’

  *

  As Detective Inspector Fitzpatrick and Detective O’Donovan turned into Orchard Court, a small boy in a mustard-coloured sweater came running out into the road right in front of them, chasing his football, and they almost knocked him over. Detective O’Donovan blipped his horn and shook his head, but all the boy did was pick up his ball, give him the finger and shout out something unintelligible but probably obscene.

  ‘Pure class, these Romanians,’ said Detective Inspector Fitzpatrick.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Detective O’Donovan. ‘I blew my horn at some fellow who stepped out in front of me in Fair Hill the other day, and do you know what? He was only after slinging a lump of dog shit after me.’

  ‘Well, I suppose it depends on the area. They wouldn’t be doing that to you in Montenotte now, would they? Or if they did, they’d at least wrap it up neatly in leftover Christmas paper.’

  Detective O’Donovan parked and the two of them climbed out. Orchard Court was a small, dull estate in Blackpool, on the west side of the N20, and the noise of passing traffic was constant. Most of the houses were terraced or semi-detached, with a few odd ones built to three storeys high, and they were all painted a washed-out yellow and white. It was a freezing cold afternoon, with low grey cloud. Apart from the boys kicking a ball around, the streets were deserted.

  The house they wanted was right at the end of the cul-de-sac. If a red Lexus IS hadn’t been parked outside, Detective Inspector Fitzpatrick would have thought that its residents were out, because the curtains upstairs were all drawn and the windows downstairs were all in darkness. Detective O’Donovan went up to the blue-painted front door and rang the bell.

  ‘What’s the Romanian for “any china white, boy?”,’ he asked, chafing his hands together.

  ‘There’s no point in trying to make out that you’re an addict,’ said Detective Inspector Fitzpatrick. ‘You’re too fecking healthy-looking by half.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll forget it, then. But thanks for the compliment.’

  ‘Besides that, Făt-Frumor knows me by sight. Only a couple of years ago I lifted him for stealing drugs from the Mercy Hospital pharmacy. If he hadn’t had that crafty hoor Bernard Fágán representing him, I reckon he would have got at least three years.

  ‘“My client was suffering from agonizing back pain”, that’s what Fágán told the judge. “His doctor refused to believe him so he was forced to self-prescribe.” Self-prescribe my arse. Only to the tune of fifty-three bottles of oxycodone, which he conveniently forgot to pay for. I reckon I’ll go to the offie after this and self-prescribe myself half a dozen bottles of Jameson’s – see if I can’t get away with them without settling up.’

  Nobody had answered, so Detective O’Donovan lifted the flap of the letter box and leaned forward to peer inside. As soon as he did, the front door suddenly opened and Ştefan Făt-Frumor was standing there, with a cigarette in his mouth, holding a newspaper.

  He was a short, big-bellied man in his mid-fifties, with prickly white hair and cheeks that were creased like a partially deflated beach ball. His left eye was milky white and blind, and there was a small hook-shaped scar underneath it. His right eye was chestnut, with amber flecks in it. He was wearing a baggy maroon tracksuit with stains on the pants and his feet were bare, with lumpy toes.

  ‘So?’ he demanded, without taking his cigarette out of his mouth. ‘What are you two pigs after?’ He spoke in a high, harsh northside accent, and if the two detectives hadn’t known that he was Romanian, they would have guessed that he had been born and brought up in Croppy Boy or Farranree.

  ‘We’re trying to find one of your fellow Romanians,’ said Detective Inspector Fitzpatrick. ‘He’s known as Lupul, although we understand that his given name is Dragos or Dragomir. We believe he may be trying to set up a bit of business here in Cork, and we need to ask him a few questions about it.’

  Ştefan Făt-Frumor took his cigarette out of his mouth and spat sideways on to the front path. ‘You think I’d sneak on him, even if I knew?’

  ‘We’re not asking you to sneak on him, Ştefan. All we’re asking is, do you know him, and if you do, do you know where he usually hangs out?’

  ‘I know him, yeah. He’s been over here from Romania two or three times, trying to stick his nose in where it isn’t wanted.’

  ‘Why should that be a bother to you?’ asked Detective Inspector Fitzpatrick. ‘You’re not involved in the drugs business any more, are you? That’s what you swore to Judge O’Shea, did you not, the last time you were up in the District Court?’

  Ştefan Făt-Frumor took a long drag on his cigarette before he answered, and when he spoke every word was punctuated by puffs of smoke coming out of his mouth and his nostrils.

  ‘That’s right. I’m into the mobile phone business these days, that’s all. But I’m spending more and more of my time in Dublin. I’ll be going up there Monday and in fact I’m thinking of moving up there permanent, so why should I be worried about the likes of Lupul?’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Detective Inspector Fitzpatrick. ‘So you won’t mind giving us some idea where we might find him?’

  ‘What did I just say to you, sham? I’m no fecking sneak.’

  Detective Inspector Fitzpatrick was aware that Ştefan Făt-Frumor was looking over his shoulder with his one good eye when he said that, and not at him. He turned around and saw three men standing on the corner, watching them.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Honour among thieves and all that.’

  ‘Who are you calling a fecking thief? I told you like I told the judge, I’m going straight these days. I don’t give a tinker’s shite for Lupul or any of his gang.’

  He paused for a few seconds, his eye still fixed on the men on the corner. Then he said, ‘You could ask the same question of Vasile, mind you.’

  ‘Vasile?’

  ‘He works evenings at The Parting Glass, behind the bar. He washes cars during the day but I don’t know where. But slip him a few yoyos and you might find that he points you in the right direction.’

  ‘Fair play,’ said Detective Inspector Fitzpatrick. ‘We won’t be troubling you any further, in that case.’

  ‘Good man yourself, Ştefan,’ said Detective O’Donovan. ‘Enjoy the rest of your afternoon, now, won’t you?’

  Ştefan Făt-Frumor stared at the two detectives as if he couldn’t decide if they were taking the rise out of him or not, but without saying another word he slammed the door in their faces.

  ‘Jesus!’ said Detective O’Donovan, in mock surprise. ‘“See you later, horse!” to you, too!’

  They walked back to their car. The three men on the corner were still watching them, and Detective O’Donovan gave them a cheery wave before he climbed in behind the wheel.

  ‘Well, that was illuminating,’ said Detective Inspector Fitzpatrick, as they drove away.

  ‘I totally agree,’ said Detective O’Donovan. ‘If Fatty Flew More isn’t in the drugs business any longer, or any other racket, why is he still bothered about this Lupul character?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘He said he couldn’t give a shite about him, but if that’s true, why did he tip us off about the barman at The Parting Glass?’

  Detective Inspector Fitzpatrick said, ‘You know something, Patrick? You’d make a good detective, so you would.’

  21

  Down in the conference room, Katie gave the media a short briefing about the fatalities at Deepwater Quay.

  ‘We suspect that the two deceased persons in the Toyota were foreign nationals, and we know that the vehicle was stolen from the multistorey car park at Merchants Quay, but so far we have no clear indication as to motive.

  ‘We extend our heartfelt condolences to the family of the gentleman wh
o lost his life, and our sympathy to all those injured, with best wishes for their speedy recovery.’

  Dan Keane from the Examiner put up his hand. ‘Detective Superintendent Maguire, it appears that you were personally in pursuit of this Toyota. Can you tell us why?’

  ‘Only that I had good reason to believe that they had committed an offence.’

  ‘What offence would that be, exactly?’

  ‘Threatening behaviour.’

  ‘Threatening behaviour against who would that be? And threatening to do what?’

  ‘That’s all I’m prepared to say for now. This inquiry’s in its very early stages and I don’t want to prejudice our findings in any way.’

  ‘Would it be impertinent of me to ask if you’ve passed the CBD2 driving test?’

  ‘Yes, it would. But yes, I have. Is that all?’

  *

  Katie returned to her office to find that Detective O’Crean was waiting for her. He stood up as Katie came in, holding up the search warrant that had been granted to him at the District Court.

  ‘Sorry it took so long,’ he told her. ‘Judge Brennan was the only judge available and you know how many questions he’s always after asking. “Who’s the complainant? What evidence do you have that their complaint isn’t fictitious or malicious? Who are they complaining about? How extensive a search do you have in mind? What specifically are you looking for?” Et cetera, et cetera, and so forth.’

  ‘He’s only bored, if you ask me,’ said Katie, shaking the warrant out of its envelope, giving it a quick look to make sure that it was all in order, and then sliding it back in again. ‘I think he enjoys exerting his authority, too. I saw him with his wife at the Lord Mayor’s charity ball last year and the way she was giving out to him all evening, I think he’s your classic henpecked husband.’

  She looked at her watch. ‘I was considering going up to Foggy Fields later this afternoon, as soon as it got dark, but there isn’t the time to organize a search now. DS Ni Nuallán will be coming along with us and I’ll want you, too, as well as a couple of uniforms, and of course two technical experts at the very least. I’ll have a word with Bill Phinner and see if we can’t set it up for tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Anything special we’re going to be looking for?’ asked Detective O’Crean.

  ‘Well, as you’d expect, any trace of blood that matches Conor’s, or any other indication that he was assaulted while he was there. But it’ll also give us a chance to take a good look at the McQuaide sisters’ puppy-breeding set-up, too. Conor said that they’re flouting almost all of the regulations. The bitches are shut up in boxes twenty-four hours a day, and they’re filthy. It makes you wonder why the Dáil ever bothered to pass the Dog Breeding Act when nobody ever makes the slightest effort to enforce it.’

  The phone on her desk rang. It was Detective Inspector Mulliken.

  ‘We’ve fetched the coffin-maker in for questioning,’ he said. ‘He’s down in interview room two, shivering like a jelly and looking more than a little sorry for himself.’

  ‘Be nice to him, Tony. Give him a cup of tea in his hand, and a sandwich. I’ll be down in a minute so.’

  *

  Katie could smell the coffin-maker as soon as she walked into the interview room. That thick, sweet, musky smell of somebody who hasn’t washed or changed their clothes for weeks, and the sourness of alcoholic breath. He was sitting with his head bowed, the tip of his prominent nose almost touching the table. His man-bun was tied up with grubby red string, and a sprig of dead heather was pinned to his filthy bronze anorak.

  He glanced up briefly as Katie came in and sat down between Detective Markey and Detective Murrish, but then he dropped his head again and continued to stare at the tabletop. He had been given a mug of milky tea and a pink meat sandwich, but it didn’t look as if he had touched either of them.

  After a few moments Katie heard footsteps along the corridor outside and Detective Inspector Mulliken came in to join them, along with Murtagh, the balding interpreter, who was wearing a three-piece suit of dark green tweed with red flecks in it. If the size of his shoulder pads was anything to go by, he had bought it in the early 1990s.

  Katie reached across the table and tapped the coffin-maker’s hand to get his attention. He looked up again, and she said, ‘I want you to understand that you’ve not been arrested. You’re not in any kind of trouble. We simply need to ask you some questions. Do you understand that?’

  The coffin-maker slowly rubbed his unshaven chin, all the while staring at Katie as if he were trying to remember where he had seen her before.

  Murtagh cleared his throat and said, ‘N-ai făcut nimic rău. Vrem doar să vă punem câteva întrebări. Intelegi?’

  ‘Da, inteleg,’ said the coffin-maker. ‘I understand good. I was in England for three years. Manchester. Leaver-pool.’

  ‘What were you doing there?’ asked Katie.

  ‘All kind. Building. Work in McDonald. Also pub.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Two thousand fourteen to two thousand sixteen.’

  ‘What made you go back to Romania?’

  ‘My father die. I have to take care of my mother. But last year she die. I hope maybe she leave me some money but she leave nothing.’

  ‘Don’t let your tea get cold,’ said Katie.

  ‘Oh,’ he said, and sipped it, and while he was sipping it, Katie said, ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Gică… Gică Petrescu.’

  Murtagh let out a pfff! between his lips. ‘He’s winding you up, ma’am. Gică Petrescu was a famous Romanian singer. He used to sing all kinds of dirty folk songs.’

  Katie sat back. ‘Listen,’ she said. ‘You may not be in any trouble right now, but you will be if you start messing. Two people have died and one’s missing and that’s nothing to be getting humorous about. Do you have me?’

  ‘Ceea ce spune este că nu este o glumă,’ Murtagh put in, and then turned to Katie and said, ‘I told him that this isn’t a joke.’

  ‘So what’s your real name?’ Katie asked him.

  The coffin-maker reached into his anorak pocket, took out his ID card in its plastic cover and handed it over.

  ‘All right. Andrei Costescu. Twenty-four years old. Who brought you over here to Cork, Andrei?’

  ‘Nobody. I come here by myself.’

  ‘You came all the way from Romania to sleep in the street?’

  ‘I look for work.’

  ‘Oh, really? You’re dirty and you smell and you’ve been drinking. Who do you think is going to give you a job?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe coffin-maker.’

  ‘So how many coffin-makers have you asked for a job so far?’

  ‘I am asking soon. Maybe tomorrow.’

  ‘So you haven’t approached anybody for a job yet?’

  ‘Maybe tomorrow. If I cannot get job with coffin-maker, maybe building house – or McDonald, like last time.’

  ‘You may get a job on a building site, but they won’t even let you in the front door of McDonald’s, not smelling the way you do. And you have a dog, don’t you?’

  ‘It is not my dog. Only stray.’

  ‘I don’t believe you, Andrei. I don’t believe a single word. It was Lupul who brought you over here, wasn’t it? Dragomir Iliescu.’

  Andrei puffed out his cheeks like a small child and violently shook his head. ‘I don’t know that name! I never hear that name, ever in my life! Never!’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry, Andrei, but I think you do. I think it was Dragomir Iliescu who fetched you over here to Cork and I believe you have no intention of looking for work, either as a coffin-maker or a hod-carrier or a burger flipper or anything else. You’re just going to sit on the pavement in St Patrick’s Street looking like some poor unfortunate wretch and beg for money.’

  ‘This is not true! I look for work tomorrow! I go to public toilet and wash! I clean up! I get job!’

  ‘Oh, sure like,’ said Katie. ‘But I don’t think that L
upul will be very pleased with you if you do.’

  ‘I don’t know that name,’ Andrei insisted. ‘Who is this Lupul? I come here by myself only to find job.’

  ‘I’m afraid you’re out of luck. Under the Immigration Act 1999, as a foreign national I can arrest and detain you without a warrant. You’ve been caught begging aggressively, in contravention of the Criminal Justice Public Order Act 2011. Not only that, you’ve been wilfully obstructing a major Garda investigation into two unexplained deaths, as well as a disappearance that’s related to one of those deaths. In fact, two disappearances. Obstructing a Garda investigation in any way at all, that’s also an offence under the Criminal Justice Act.’

  Andrei looked around the interview room in a panic. ‘You say I am not in trouble! What are you saying now?’

  ‘I’m saying you need to co-operate with us, that’s all.’

  ‘All we want is a little information about Dragomir Iliescu,’ Murtagh explained, in Romanian. ‘Unde? Like, where is he? for instance.’

  ‘I tell you again. I don’t know this fucking name.’

  Katie shrugged. ‘Fair play to you. If you don’t know who he is, then you don’t know who he is. So thank you for telling us that. We appreciate your co-operation, I can tell you. In fact we’ll be making an announcement on the TV this evening that we’ve been interviewing you, and that you’ve helped us tremendously. Because of your assistance, we’re much nearer now to finding out how our two rough sleepers died – and where our two missing women disappeared to. It’s all down to you, Andrei, and we’ll make sure that everybody knows it.’

  Andrei stared at her, gripping the edge of the table. His mouth opened and closed several times before he was able to speak.

  ‘On the TV?’

  ‘That’s right. The Six One News. They’ve been calling us all day asking if we’ve made any progress with this investigation. Now we’ll be able to tell them that a homeless fellow from Romania, Andrei Costescu, has given us no end of help.’

  ‘You can’t say that. I don’t help you.’

  ‘Yes, but you did. You don’t even realize how much.’