Dead Man's Sins

by Caimh McDonnell

  He was capable of human speech. She’d heard him give one of the guards on duty outside the house a dressing-down when the officer had failed to ask to see his ID. He really seemed to enjoy showing people his ID. Technically, he was in the right, but the guard had probably assumed that Detective Pamela Cassidy wasn’t bringing in a tourist for a gawp around. Mind you, perhaps DI Marshall was confused by the fact that his taxi driver was being given free rein at a crime scene.

  Marshall listened in silence as Butch and Detective Carlson took him around the property and essentially gave him the same briefing as she’d given O’Rourke earlier in the day. His eyes lit up when he watched the CCTV footage of Bunny waving the gnome around like an idiot. Butch really liked Bunny, and considered him a close friend, but right there and then, she felt as if she could slap him around the head until the cows came home.

  “And, as per DI O’Rourke’s instructions,” she concluded, “we’ve arranged for two uniformed gardaí to be stationed outside the late Mr Hannity’s little video library for now, subject to other measures being put in place at a later date, and until the DPP has determined what we can and can’t do with the tapes.”

  Marshall nodded. It seemed to be his go to move. He studied the pad in his hand, on which he’d been taking copious notes. Both Butch and Carlson stood there awkwardly as he flipped back a few pages and started to reread his scribblings while chewing on the end of his pencil. After about two minutes he looked up. “Who was in charge of the fruitless search conducted outside the property for the murder weapon?”

  “Ehm,” said Carlson. “That would be me, sir.”

  Marshall nodded again. “I see. Could you both come with me.”

  It was not a question. He turned around, walked back up the path and led them through the house. He exited through the front gate, turned right and started to walk back up the cul-de-sac. When they reached the main road he turned left and strode forward with purpose. He stopped outside a house where extensive building work was being carried out, although at that moment the only sign of activity was four builders sitting around the radio and drinking tea while listening to a horse race. They had driven past it on the way in.

  On the road in front of the house was a skip. Marshall stopped beside it. “Can you tell me what you see, please, Detective Carlson?”

  Carlson looked like a dog that knew he was about to be hit but didn’t know quite what for. “It’s a skip, sir.”

  “That is correct. Have you observed anything else about it?”

  “It’s empty, sir.”

  Butch noticed that they had attracted the attention of the builders.

  “Again,” said Marshall, “I cannot fault your basic observation skills. However, your data interpretation does leave something to be desired.”

  Butch was painfully aware of what Marshall was getting at, but she reckoned he was the type that would deliberately make it worse for Carlson if somebody else tried to help him. Despite this, she found herself mentally repeating the answer, over and over again, in the hope that Carlson might somehow pick it up telepathically.

  He didn’t. He stood there with his mouth open, gradually becoming sweatier and sweatier, to the point where he looked as if, given enough time, he might melt away entirely. Marshall continued to look at Carlson for an uncomfortably long period, like a meal he was about to send back, before he eventually turned his eyes to Butch.

  She felt bad for Carlson, but all she could do now was move this on as quickly as possible. When you’re having a nightmare, the best thing that can happen is for it to end. She turned to the builders. “Sorry, lads, was your skip emptied recently?”

  “Yeah,” said the one in a Manchester United jersey. “It got taken away first thing this morning. Why?”

  A groaning noise John Carlson had never intended to be audible escaped from his person as the realisation hit him. Butch glanced in his direction and tried to look supportive.

  “Sorry, Detective Inspector. I’ll get on this right away.”

  Without another word, DI Marshall started walking back towards the Hannity residence.

  For the second time that day, Butch found herself in the presence of a man who appeared to be about to throw up. “Don’t worry about it, John,” she whispered. “He’s just …”

  Marshall, without turning around, raised his voice. “Carlson, with me, now.”

  “Quick, fella,” shouted one of the builders. “Your mammy’s calling you in for tea.”

  Amidst the uproarious laughter from the other three, Butch moved forward and gave them a smile. “Very funny. Now, who here would like to be the first to get his road tax checked?”

  The laughter died off quickly.

  Butch turned and watched John Carlson catch up to Marshall as the DI power-walked away from him. In that moment, she finally allowed herself to form an opinion on the man. He was a massive arsehole.

  Trouble’s Dawning

  Bunny’s hangover was starting to clear, but his mood was only getting darker. He was sitting in his front room, staring at the TV that wasn’t on. It had been a couple of hours since Butch had come to visit him. Enough time for his brain to have belatedly started to process things.

  Coop Hannity’s death, while no great tragedy, was bad news for him. In fact, the more he thought about it the worse he realised it was.

  He and DI Tom Marshall had a history. Marshall was a good copper, but he was also not above bearing a grudge. It wasn’t as if he was going to set up Bunny, but he certainly wasn’t going to do him any favours. The problem was, given some of the wrinkles in this particular situation, Bunny was going to need a favour.

  If what Butch said was true, and Hannity had indeed been recording all of his conversations, including the one he had with Bunny, then there was no way he’d be able to keep Gringo’s situation a secret. Questions would be asked. The very thing Bunny was keen to avoid.

  There was something else. He had that sickly feeling, like something was scratching away at the back of his brain, trying to get his attention, but it was somehow out of reach. And whatever it was, he was willing to bet it was bad news. That was just the kind of day he was having.

  Mixed in with his concern about the situation was a healthy dollop of self-loathing. He had laughed off Butch’s jibes at the time, but as he looked around the room now he saw it through her eyes. He needed to pull himself together, and fast. Gringo’s memory, his own reputation, and who knows what else was hanging in the balance, and here he was, dragging himself upright after another knockdown night of messy, self-indulgent drinking. He wasn’t just hurting himself now. There was a real danger that damage would be done to others too. Gringo’s memory deserved better. Even Diana Spain deserved better.

  He got to his feet. He needed to move. He needed to try to get his brain into gear and finally start thinking. First things first, though – a bit more food. He walked through to the kitchen where he discovered he’d forgotten to put the big block of cheese back in the fridge. Lacking any other supplies, he had the core ingredients for another cheese toastie and nothing else. Along with whatever else he had to do today, he made a note that he needed to do some shopping and buy some actual food. He might also want to find a better home for the rest of the cheese.

  Butch’s diatribe about the dangers of excessive dairy consumption had also hit home. She was a good friend; maybe he should start listening to her more. Quite aside from anything else, he didn’t have that many good friends left. He should stop driving away the ones he had.

  He looked down at the cheese. The best course of action would be to give it away to the neighbours. Half to Mrs Byrne, half to Mrs Doyle. The last thing he wanted was to look as if he was showing favouritism to one side or the other – that would only lead to six months of reprisals, recriminations and inedible lasagne.

  He slapped his hands together. “Right so, while I’ve enjoyed our time together, I’m afraid it’s time I split you in two and we start to see other people.”

&
nbsp; Bunny scanned the counter. All he could lay his eyes on was the butter knife he’d used earlier. It would be entirely ineffective at carving the slab of cheese in half. What he needed was the big knife. He looked in the sink, peeked under some errant crockery from around the kitchen and filled half a bin bag with rubbish. The knife was nowhere to be seen.

  “Where the hell are you? You can’t have just …”

  And there it was. The itch.

  A horrible feeling that was nothing to do with the after-effects of alcopops hit Bunny in the pit of his stomach. He immediately fished his phone out of his pocket and dialled.

  Butch was fiddling with the radio, trying to find something upbeat. She wasn’t great at being a passenger. She was also aware that if she was the one driving and somebody else was messing with the radio, it would be getting on her last nerve. Still, John Carlson had the air of a man who was on his way to his own funeral and, try as she might, she was really struggling to cheer him up. She had never been great at the cheerleading rah-rah positivity stuff. It just wasn’t in her nature.

  Carlson was on his way to the head offices of Wallace Recycling, the company they had determined, after an infuriatingly long time, was responsible for the skip that had been removed from outside of the house near Coop Hannity’s earlier that morning. He was dropping Butch back at the station en route, as Marshall wanted her to be second chair on the interview with Coop’s wife. Butch didn’t take it as any kind of compliment, but rather a reflection of the long-held belief amongst coppers that a woman was more likely to open up to another woman. Personally, Butch thought the idea was spectacularly overrated and outdated thinking. However, because it got her to where the action was, she was prepared to live with this particular piece of prehistoric thinking. Plus, it meant she wouldn’t be spending her day dumpster-diving.

  “I am so dead,” said Carlson for about the fourth time.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, John,” replied Butch. “You made a mistake. Everybody does it from time to time. Loads of people probably wouldn’t have picked up on the skip either.”

  “You did.”

  “I’m a woman,” said Butch, trying for levity. “We are genetically programmed to notice other people’s mistakes. Have bad sitcoms taught you nothing?” She fired a grin at him, but she might as well have been trying to put out a forest fire with a water pistol. Nothing seemed to permeate the dark cloud enveloping Detective Carlson.

  “I’m still on probation on the team. You saw how angry Marshall was. I’m going to get booted for this. I mean, who loses a murder weapon?”

  “Alright, let’s just get a grip here, shall we? You didn’t lose a murder weapon. You didn’t check a possible dumping site. Let’s not get carried away. I mean, look at it this way—”

  Butch was interrupted by her phone ringing in her pocket. She was glad for the disturbance as she had no idea where she was heading with her last-ditch attempt to cheer Carlson. Once she’d looked at the screen, however, her temporary moment of happiness dissipated. Bunny McGarry.

  She considered letting it go to voicemail, but then she thought about having to play the message for DI Thomas Marshall. She answered the call.

  “OK, Bunny. Before you say anything, I need to inform you that I, and the rest of the investigation team, have been instructed not to communicate further with you regarding our current case, or anything else for that matter.”

  Carlson turned to look at her, causing the car to veer slightly. Butch glared at him and jabbed a finger at the windscreen to give the strong suggestion that that was where he should direct his attention.

  “Fair enough,” said Bunny. “I just need to know one thing.”

  “Look, Bunny, I’ve already explained – I can’t say anything. I need to hang up the phone now. I’m sorry, but you understand why.”

  “Alright. No problem at all. You don’t need to say anything – just listen. I need to know how Coop Hannity died. I’m going to list some methods, and when I say the right one, just hang up the phone. OK?”

  Butch said nothing.

  “What’s he saying?” asked Carlson.

  Butch covered the phone’s mouthpiece with her hand. “He’s asking if you know where he can rent a skip?” She felt bad for saying it, but Carlson was really getting on her nerves.

  “OK,” said Bunny. “I’ll take it you’re on board. Was he shot?”

  Butch did nothing.

  “Was he drowned?”

  “Beaten to death?”

  “Died of boredom?”

  “Stabbed?”

  Butch hung up.

  Bunny sat there and looked at the phone in his hand, then at the back door he never bothered to lock, then back at the phone.

  “Oh shite.”

  The Widow’s Words

  Butch hated this. The silence. She had never been good with silence. Somebody – anybody – needed to say something. It was beginning to remind her of the last date she’d been on. An utter disaster. The woman had turned up late – a pet peeve of Butch’s – and then, over her starter, had proceeded to explain how the police were the jackbooted thugs of the establishment, whose only purpose was to keep the population in their place. After that, the conversation had rather dried up. It was also the reason Butch now had a firm and fast rule about never being set up on a blind date ever again.

  This might not be a date, although she was sitting opposite an attractive woman. Angelina Hannity was not what she’d been expecting. A younger woman married to an older, richer man – well, the mind has a tendency to fill in quite a few gaps there. Angelina didn’t seem to fit between those well-defined lines and Butch silently admonished herself for falling into such lazy thinking. As somebody forced to carry the weight of more than their fair share of grating stereotypes, she should be better than most at keeping an open mind.

  Angelina Hannity appeared to be possessed of a sharp mind and, despite the best efforts of the man sitting beside Butch, she had shown herself not to be someone who was easily intimidated. Butch caught her eye for the fourth time, and for the fourth time they both looked away awkwardly. Seeing as they were sitting in an interview room, their problem was that the choices of places to look was really very limited.

  Jonathan Robinson, who had been Coop Hannity’s lawyer and was now representing his wife, cleared his throat purposefully. The look on his face made it clear that he had had his fill of silence too. “Will this be much longer, Detective Inspector Marshall? My client has had a traumatic and exhausting day, as I’m sure you appreciate. So, if we have covered everything …”

  Butch glanced at Marshall, who didn’t look up from his A4 pad of notes as he raised a finger. Robinson looked at Butch, who resisted the urge to shrug.

  After what felt like a very long minute, Marshall dropped his pad. “Apologies for that. As I’m sure you appreciate, it’s vital to ensure that we’ve covered everything.”

  Robinson bent down and picked up his briefcase. “Of course. Do let me know if you require anything further.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” said Marshall. “You’ve misunderstood. We are not finished.”

  Robinson glared at Marshall over his briefcase before slowly lowering it to the floor again. Seeing as they had already gone through Angelina Hannity’s movements on the night before in great detail – three times – Butch was fairly confident that if the DI started another sentence with the words “Please take me back to …” he would be finishing it with the hands of one of Ireland’s most highly paid lawyers wrapped tightly around his neck.

  Marshall favoured Angelina with a smile. “Mrs Hannity, as far as you are aware, did your late husband have any enemies?”

  Angelina gave a bitter little laugh.

  “My client,” interrupted Robinson, “as I believe I mentioned previously, had absolutely nothing to do with the running of her late husband’s business. She has no knowledge of who he was dealing with.”

  Marshall tapped his pen on the table. “May I ask about your reaction to
the last question, Mrs Hannity?”

  “My reaction?” said Angelina.

  “Yes. You laughed.”

  “Actually,” said Robinson, “for the benefit of the tape, I would characterise it more as a sigh of exasperation.”

  Marshall shrugged. “Very well. Can I then ask—”

  “I reacted that way, Inspector, because, respectfully, it seems like a rather silly question. The man was stabbed to death. Describing him as universally loved would be really pushing it, don’t you think?”

  Butch tightened her lips to avoid a smile slipping by.

  “Yes. Point taken. Still, may I ask if he had any enemies in particular that you were aware of?”

  “As Mr Robinson has already pointed out, I had nothing to do with my husband’s business. However, I know what he did and I’m sure that didn’t make him a popular man. In fact, weren’t there a couple of attempts on his life previously? He always kept the details from me.”

  “He probably didn’t want to worry you.” Marshall took a note, continuing to write as he spoke. “I believe your husband carried out most of his meetings at home?”

  “Yes. Mostly.”

  The DI looked up. “Mostly?”

  “He did leave the house from time to time.”

  “And where did he go?”

  Angelina folded her arms. “I have no idea. My husband did not discuss his business with me.”

  “But presumably, if he had most of his meetings at home, you would have seen people coming and going?”

  She shrugged. “The doorbell would ring but I was told to ignore it, and I did. People came and went but I took no notice of it.”