Dead Man's Sins

by Caimh McDonnell

  “At least she had you.”

  “Yeah,” said Mags with a firm nod. “It didn’t matter how appallingly rude he was to me, he wasn’t going to drive me away. Although eventually, Angelina just came to see me here. Couldn’t stand the hassle of him being a prick if I dropped over. And now she’s not even able to go to the gym, poor girl.” She sat back in her chair. “Well, I guess she is now – although maybe not, after what happened.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Mags gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head. “Horrible thing. Somehow Coop got it into his thick head that Angelina was having an affair with her personal trainer. I remember her sitting on my sofa in tears telling me about it. It didn’t even make any sense – she only ever saw Marcus while she was at the gym. In a gym full of people, mind you. What the hell did he think was going on?” She looked into the distance. “I think he just wanted to send her a message. Show her how much control he had. They roughed the poor guy up something horrible, for no reason at all.”

  “Christ,” said Bunny.

  “I know. Pure nasty.”

  “What gym was this?”

  “Paragon Fitness. Up on the Quays. Fancy place, of course. Angelina wanted me to join with her, but I can’t be doing with that kind of thing.”

  Bunny was about to ask another question, but they were both distracted by a scream from below. They looked down to see one of the skateboarders rolling around in agony, clutching at his shoulder.

  “Jesus,” said Bunny. “Looks like the gobshite has broken his collarbone.”

  Mags sucked at her teeth. “Oh God, that’s horrible.”

  They watched as his friends helped him delicately to his feet then Mags checked her watch. “Look at the time. I’m sorry, Bunny, but I’ve got college tonight. I need to get a move on. You know what the traffic’s like.” She stood up and Bunny mirrored her actions.

  “No worries. I don’t want to keep you. Can I ask you a favour, though?”

  “Of course.”

  He reached into his pocket, pulled out a pen and a piece of paper and wrote his mobile number on it. “Could you pass this on to Angelina? I could really do with talking to her.”

  Mags looked at it and then tucked it into her pocket. “Sure. No problem.”

  Bunny clapped his hands together to warm them. “It was great to see you, though.”

  “Likewise.”

  He held out his arms and she walked into the hug. Bunny noted she wore the same perfume as Angelina.

  They released one another and started walking back towards the stairs.

  “Seeing as we’re being nosy,” said Mags. “I can’t help but notice there still isn’t a wedding ring on that finger, Mr McGarry. What on earth is going on there?”

  “Ara stop.”

  “Have you not met the right woman?”

  Bunny sighed. “I’m afraid that’s far too long a story to start now.”

  “Oops. Sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Let’s just say that a good woman is hard to find. Bobby should get that tattooed somewhere.”

  Mags laughed. “I’m not sure he’s got space. But I’ll let him know you suggested it.”

  “I hope he appreciates it. The lesson, I mean. I’d imagine he wouldn’t appreciate the suggestion.”

  “Honestly, Bunny,” she said as she pushed open the door to the stairwell. “Like I said, I know he can look a bit ridiculous, but he’s a good guy. I love him.”

  “In which case, I apologise to both of you for putting him out of action, in a manner of speaking.”

  This raised a cheeky smile as Mags stopped at the door that led back to her apartment. “I’m sure I can get everything working again with a little TLC.” She waggled her eyebrows.

  Bunny clapped his hands over his ears. “Please, please, please!” he squealed, laughter in his voice. “To me you’re still a young girl. Some things I do not need to know.”

  A Baker’s Half-dozen

  It wasn’t as if there were a set template for what a murderer was supposed to look like, but if there were, Rita Marsh would not be it. Attempted murderer, Butch corrected herself. If Mrs Marsh had been successful in her attempt eight years ago, she and DS Burke wouldn’t be here. Still, when the door of the large four-bedroom house in Blanchardstown opened to reveal sixty-two-year-old Rita standing there, grey tinting her perm, wearing a “World’s Greatest Granny” apron, the first word that sprang to mind was not “murderer”.

  DS Burke cleared his throat. “Hello, Mrs Marsh. I’m Detective Sergeant Burke.”

  “Detective Sergeant now, is it?” said Mrs Marsh warmly. “Congratulations, Paschal. Although the promotion seems to have made you very formal.”

  Burke laughed. “Sorry. I wasn’t sure you’d remember me.”

  “Of course I do. You never forget the man who arrested you for attempted murder. Come on in.”

  She ushered them inside and made her way down the hallway. After closing the front door behind them, Burke and Butch followed suit. The smell coming from the kitchen was both overwhelming and spectacular. They walked in to find every available surface covered with baking trays filled with a cornucopia of treats. Almond slices, Rice Krispie cakes, brownies and, above all others, hot cross buns.

  “You’ll have to forgive me,” said Rita, “but I’m going to have to work as we talk. One of the grandkids has a bake sale at school, and his mother is working double shifts as a nurse. Granny here offered to help out, but the problem is, once you offer your services to one grandchild, well … I’ve been at this since 5am.”

  “It looks like it,” said Burke.

  “It smells amazing,” offered Butch.

  Rita Marsh favoured her with a warm smile. “Thank you.” She wiped her hand on her apron and extended it. “Oh my God, I’ve completely lost my manners. Forgive me. I’m Rita.”

  Butch shook the woman’s hand. “Detective Pamela Cassidy.”

  “It’s good to see they finally have a few women in the detective ranks. When I first met Paschal here, was there one?” She slapped the counter. “No, I tell a lie. There was. They sent her in with you to talk to me the first time. Who was she again?”

  “At the time she was Sergeant Campbell. Detective Inspector now.”

  Rita’s eyes widened and she gave a big smile. “Is she? Fair play, Ms Campbell!” She looked at Butch. “So, let me guess, they bring you along to talk to any of the suspects who happen to be women?”

  Butch nodded and smiled before she could stop herself. “They do.”

  Rita laughed. “They really think that just because we see somebody on the far side of the desk who also has ovaries that we’re immediately going to start confessing? It is so ridiculous.”

  “Don’t look at me,” said Burke. “I only bring Butch here with me for personal protection.”

  “Butch? Such an awful name for a wee girl.”

  Butch shrugged. “My second name is Cassidy …”

  Rita rolled her eyes. “God. They’re not going to die from an overdose of imagination, are they? Excuse me.”

  She bent down to open the oven and remove yet another tray of hot cross buns. She looked around before deciding to place it carefully on top of the fridge, the only flat surface currently unoccupied.

  “I’m going to have to start sticking some of these in tins.”

  “We’re sorry to have to intrude when you’re so busy,” said Burke.

  “Don’t worry about it. Let’s say your phone call didn’t come as a complete surprise.”

  For the first time since the arrival of the detectives, Rita Marsh stopped moving and leaned back against the counter to look at them.

  “Is your husband around, by any chance?”

  She shook her head. “I’m afraid Mikey had a heart attack and passed a while ago. Three months before I got parole.”

  “Oh God,” said Burke sincerely. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

  Rita waved away his apology. “Don’t worry
about it.”

  “So you know why we’re here?” asked Butch.

  “I do. Hannity is dead.”

  “Just to go through the formalities,” began Burke, “could you tell me where you were between nine and ten o’clock last night?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  Burke sighed. “Come on now, Rita.”

  Instead of answering the detective sergeant, Rita turned to look directly at Butch. “I have – well, had – seven sons. Did they tell you that? Seven.”

  Butch nodded.

  “People always asked me if I was disappointed not to get a girl? Like we were just keeping going until we finally got one or gave up from exhaustion. I’ll be honest with you, Pamela – it is Pamela, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought so, but my memory isn’t what it was. I used to be great with the names, if I say so myself. You have to be. Seven kids – that’s seven sets of friends, seven sets of teachers, and so on and so on.” She leaned across to turn down her oven before continuing. “Where was I? Oh yeah, did we not want a girl? I’ll be honest with you, I think it’s the most spectacularly rude question I’ve ever been asked, and I used to be asked it a lot. I’d laugh it off, and I regret doing that now. I wish I’d told just one person where to stick that stupid question when I’d had the chance. Do you have kids, Pamela?”

  “No.”

  “Well, if and when you do, know this. Each one of them is special. Each one is a miracle in their own way. Love isn’t a finite thing. You don’t just have X amount of it and it has to be divided seven ways if you’ve got seven kids. Each of those kids was loved as much as if they were an only child. More, in fact. Because each of them had six brothers too and, amidst all the fights and the squabbling and the teasing, there was love there. Mountains of it. Of course, them all being boys meant that nobody called it that, but it was there all the same. You could see it when somebody from outside tried to attack one of them. It could be scary. You had to keep on top of it.”

  Rita looked down at a tray of shortbread biscuits and lined them up so they were perfectly symmetrical.

  “The other thing that really bothered me …” She looked at Butch, a hint of angry tears in her eyes. “And nobody ever said it directly, but it was there. It was the idea that, well, at least I had the other six boys. Like they were interchangeable or we were carrying a spare. Something like that.”

  Rita took a bowl from one of the cupboards, examined it, and then put it back. When she spoke again, her voice was quieter but she still avoided eye contact with the two officers. “Thou shall not kill. It sounds very simple when you say it like that, doesn’t it? But if it’s such an absolute, how come it doesn’t count in times of war? Or, these days, in times of peace, really. War and peace used to be an either/or thing, now it seems to be much more shades of grey. Like, we can kill people if we need to. Well, take it from me, somebody needed to kill Hannity.”

  She busied herself opening cupboards, as if looking for something, while Burke and Butch looked at each other, trying to figure out what to say next. Eventually, Burke took a step forward and spoke softly.

  “Rita, we just—”

  Rita whirled around with frightening speed and jabbed a finger at him. “I know what you’re here to ask me. Let me be very clear: the mistake I made wasn’t trying to kill that bastard, the mistake I made was not getting the job done. If I had my time again, I’d get myself a gun. I didn’t know how to do that before I went to prison, but I do now. You can’t help but learn a few things inside. Girls talk. Hannity was a cancer and nobody did anything about it. How many lives? How many poor souls –” her voice cracked “– like my little Eamon did that monster destroy? Just to make a few quid? I’m glad he is dead and you should be too.”

  “We just need to—” started Butch.

  “I know what you need to do. You need to eliminate me from your enquiries. Well,” she said, straightening up, “I’m afraid I can’t help you because I don’t remember where I was last night. I also don’t know where any of my boys were. I’m sure you can check with the various fire stations to see who was on a shift. They might be a little slow in getting back to you, though. Firemen have never been great at the paperwork. Checking on all that might slow down your investigation, I’m afraid. It might make it harder for you to catch whoever it was who rid the world of that blight. That demon.” She ran her hands down her apron, as if regaining her self-control. “That’s all I’m going to say, unless you’d like to arrest me?”

  Butch and Burke glanced at one another before Burke shook his head. “Of course not.”

  “Well, then … And for what it’s worth, I appreciate you both have a job to do. You don’t have to explain to me about duty. I come from a family of men who run towards fire.”

  “Is that your last word on the matter?”

  Rita gave a firm nod. “It is. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I still have a ridiculous amount of baking to do.”

  Butch and Burke sat in the car and said nothing for quite some time.

  “Sarge?”

  “Yes, Butch?”

  “Rita’s sons, all of them being firemen … Isn’t there still a minimum height requirement for the fire brigade?”

  “I’m not sure, to be honest with you. Not that it would matter in their cases.”

  “Big fellas, are they?”

  Burke leaned forward and turned on the ignition. “Yes, Butch. To answer your question, I’d bet they’re all between six foot and six foot three.”

  Dinner for One

  DI Fintan O’Rourke looked down at his plate of Michelin-starred duck à l’orange and felt queasy. Le Château de Moore was one of the jewels in the culinary crown of post-Celtic Tiger Dublin, but he had little appetite. The restaurant was regularly mentioned in the society pages, as was its owner and head chef, Owen Moore. During his frequent TV appearances, much was made of his CV, having studied at the feet of some great master or other in Paris before continuing his training at blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. O’Rourke enjoyed a decent meal as much as the next man, but he had never got into the fetishization of food.

  Mrs O’Rourke, on the other hand, was quite the foodie. In fact, they had eaten at almost every high-end restaurant in Dublin, with the notable exception of this one. Regardless of how many hints his wife dropped, and there had been plenty, they were never going to enjoy an overpriced meal here. He didn’t want to be here now, but he had no choice in the matter.

  He had agonised about his decision all day. On one hand, maybe he could let it slide. Just allow the investigation to take its course and no action would be necessary. On the other hand, if he said nothing and that turned out to not be the case, that would be bad. That would be very bad indeed. Eventually, he’d justified it to himself by reasoning there was an intelligence-gathering angle to it. After all, this was supposed to be a two-way street. O’Rourke couldn’t actually make himself believe that, though. Both parties involved were extremely aware who held the whip hand. His being here proved that. They could have handled all of this over the phone, but the reason they didn’t was that the other party wanted him always to be aware who was in charge.

  The protocol was the same as before. He had called the restaurant from his “other” phone and requested a booking for a Mr Dylan, citing an unspecified special occasion. In reality, nobody but nobody was getting a last-minute reservation at Le Château de Moore unless they regularly played Wembley Stadium in between visits to meet the Pope. Still, as had happened on previous occasions, he had got a call back within the hour with a time. Not only that, but he’d been given the private booth.

  A curtain provided ample privacy from the rest of the diners, and a discreet, nearly-invisible-to-the-naked-eye door meant that the waiting staff could come and go without entering the restaurant proper. It also meant that other people could come and go unseen. O’Rourke would have bet his left nut that a certain cabinet minister would be making use of this arrangement in order to see his m
istress. O’Rourke, though, was not having an affair. No – he was on even more morally dubious ground.

  Once, out of curiosity, he had surreptitiously looked into the ownership of the restaurant and found nothing untoward. Everything made it appear that Owen Moore owned it outright, save a mortgage and a bridging loan from legitimate sources. All that made O’Rourke think was how good certain people had become at hiding both their influence and their ill-gotten gains.

  The door opened and the man O’Rourke was certain really owned Le Château de Moore sat down opposite him.

  “Are you not enjoying your duck à l’orange, Fintan?” asked Gerry Fallon.

  O’Rourke put down his fork. “It’s fine – I just don’t have much of an appetite.”

  “You should have gone for the scallops. They’ll blow your mind.”

  “Oh well, too late now.”

  “Never mind. You know for next time.”

  The prospect of there being a next time removed what little chance there was of Fintan O’Rourke regaining his appetite any time soon.

  Fallon leaned back and stretched out his arms, enjoying the comfort of the expensive leather chair. He offered O’Rourke a wide grin, enjoying the other man’s discomfort. “Right. Well, now the small talk is dispensed with, United’s Champions League game kicks off in about twenty minutes, so can we move this along?”

  “Coop Hannity is dead.”

  He laughed. “No kidding? I actually own a radio, Detective Inspector, so I was aware of that. I assume you brought me here for something more than that?”

  O’Rourke ran his finger around the rim of his wineglass. “I don’t suppose you have any idea who might have been responsible?”

  “Are you asking if I was responsible?”

  O’Rourke said nothing.

  Fallon picked up the bottle of red wine and poured himself a large glass. “Well, obviously, I wouldn’t know much about such things but, as an avid fan of TV crime drama, it strikes me that walloping a bodyguard over the head with a fire extinguisher and then stabbing a man several times in the back while he feeds his pigeons doesn’t sound like the work of a professional assassin.” He noticed the look on O’Rourke’s face and laughed. “What, Inspector? Did you really think you were my only source of information?” Fallon raised his glass in mock toast and took a large gulp. “Now, can we get to the part where you prove your value to me?”