Firewater Blues (The Dublin Trilogy Book 6), page 12
Butch moved past some of the drinkers waiting to be served. Bunny was on the far side of the horseshoe, sitting at the bar, on his throne, with a pint of Guinness in one hand and a mic in the other. A nervous-looking guy with a thick bush of brown hair and an equally immense beard was seated to his right. Even having never met him before, Butch knew that this individual was the fella nicknamed Hamster.
As Butch caught sight of Bunny, he noticed her too, and a wide grin spread across his face.
“But before we get to the answers, ladies and gentlemen,” he said into the mic, “we are delighted to be joined by Detective Pamela Cassidy from the serious crime task force. Let’s give a warm round of applause to one of our brave boys and girls in blue.”
Butch could feel herself turning beetroot red as the pub’s patrons applauded enthusiastically while simultaneously enjoying her obvious discomfort. She gave an embarrassed wave then flicked the Vs at Bunny, which raised another cheer.
As Butch began to work her way round the bar, Bunny started to reveal the answers to round five.
“Question one: a group of rhinos is known as what? The answer is … a crash.”
Up went a mixture of groans and one table’s worth of cheers.
“And the team Up the Dubs is fined yet another ten points for giving the answer as ‘a hen-do from Cork’.”
More cheers.
“I believe that now puts their score at” – Hamster whispered something to Bunny – “minus twenty-seven.”
More cheers.
“You’re in serious danger of breaking the record you set last month, lads. Moving on. Question two: what shape is wombat shite? It is cubed. Cubed.”
“Like fuck it is,” came a shout from the back of the room.
Bunny stood up on his stool. “Who said that?”
Butch noted the pointed absence of any response.
“That’s what I thought,” said Bunny, sitting back down. “Just to reiterate – what is the number-one rule of quiz night?” Nobody answered, so Bunny pointed at the young man sitting at the table nearest to him. “Ciaran Marsh?”
Ciaran looked panicked. “Ehm ... Take your empties back to the bar?”
“No, that’s not it,” said Bunny with a shake of his head.
Tara Flynn’s head popped out from behind the bar. “Yes, it bleeding well is.”
Bunny gave an exasperated sigh. “Alright, what’s the second rule, then?”
“No questions about cricket,” shouted a voice.
Bunny gave a begrudging nod. “Okay what’s the third rule, then?”
From the far corner came the roar, “You do not talk about Fight Club.”
“Right, that’s another ten points off Up the Dubs. One more penalty, lads, and you’re buying everybody a drink.”
Bunny’s pronouncement was met with the most enthusiastic cheer of all.
“The third rule,” continued Bunny, pointing at his assistant, “is that nobody ever, ever questions Hamster.”
There was a chorus of grumbling from some corners and Bunny gave the room a disapproving look. “He does a brilliant job for us and we’re not continuing until everybody repeats the rule.”
A couple of people half-heartedly echoed the third rule. Bunny slammed his fist down on the counter, which caused the background hubbub of continuing conversations round the room to die out almost instantly. He took the time to eyeball the crowd in front of him.
“On the count of three, what is the third rule of quiz night? One … two … three …”
“Nobody ever, ever questions Hamster,” repeated the room in near-perfect unison.
Bunny nodded. “That’s better. Now, on to question three: true or false, cows produce more milk when listening to heavy metal? That is false – cows actually produce more milk when listening to slow jams. There’s also a lesson there, to all the lads, on the subtle art of seduction.”
The cheer on this occasion was decidedly female.
“The answer to the question can otters accurately be described as murderous necrophiliac interspecies sex offenders is … true!”
A mix of cheers and boos again.
“Incidentally, Murderous Necrophiliac Interspecies Sex Offenders is also the name of Hamster’s and my new punk band. Look out for the gig posters! We are terrible. Question five: during what four-month period does the seventy-two-hour window in which the female panda becomes sexually excited occur? The answer is February to May.”
“So who did I shag last night, then?” came a shout from the corner again.
“That,” responded Bunny, “would have been a skunk. To be honest, Dinny, I can’t help but think the skunk could have done better for herself.”
Bunny’s jibe was met with a lot of catcalling and laughter.
“And the final question in this round: what animal has a penis eight times the length of his body? The answer is … the barnacle.” Bunny placed his arm around his assistant’s shoulder. “Although, ladies, I will also accept Hamster as an answer.”
More cheers.
“We shall now have a short intermission to allow for libation, urination and flirtation.”
“This place is rammed,” shouted Butch over the din.
“Sure, of course it is,” responded Bunny. “I’m quite the draw.”
“And so modest.”
Hamster, who had now been roped into helping out behind the bar, set a fresh pint of Guinness in front of Bunny, and a lime and soda in front of Butch.
“Would you look at that,” exclaimed Bunny. “Is there nothing this man can’t do? Remember, Hamster, if that whole Geography thing doesn’t work out, people will always need booze.”
With a tip of his imaginary cap, Hamster moved off to continue serving the thirsty quizzers. Butch received the definite impression that the lad was revelling in the reflected glory of being Bunny’s sidekick. She picked up her drink and took a sip.
“So,” said Bunny, “how’s work?”
Butch rolled her eyes. “Subtle.”
“Well, the next round starts in a couple of minutes, so I can’t treat you to as much foreplay as I’d normally give a lady.”
Butch pulled a gagging face. “Well, that’s me having lost my appetite for pretty much everything.”
She’d actually been intending to grab something quick to eat once she left the pub. She also felt very uncomfortable being there in the first place. A couple of hours ago, DI O’Rourke had pulled her to one side when he dropped in to see the Mark Smith – or Daniel Poole – apartment for himself.
“Do you know why I put you on this case, Pamela?”
“Is it because I’m an excellent detective and you respect my abilities, sir?”
“Actually, it is.”
It showed the esteem in which she held O’Rourke that her only response had been a raised eyebrow.
“Seriously,” he’d protested, “it is. This job is a lot more than simply analysing information, and you’ve always known that. You’re not on this case just because you’re Bunny’s friend. And for the record, you’re here because I consider myself to be Bunny’s friend, even if he’s a little circumspect on that fact. He needs protecting, and so does the Garda Síochána, because whatever the hell we’re dealing with here, it carries the very real prospect of turning into some kind of PR disaster.”
“Thanks again for the assignment.”
He’d nodded. “I understand you hate it, but one day you’ll find yourself in my position, and you’ll see it from a very different angle. Incidentally, if I can stop being your boss for a moment – you don’t get ahead in this job by avoiding the awkward situations; you get ahead by handling them.”
“Unless you’re the nephew of the Minister for Justice.”
O’Rourke had straightened his already-straight tie. “Yes, but last time I checked neither you nor I had that distinction. Look, handled right, this could be a very good thing for you. The Commissioner himself has eyes on it.”
Butch had nodded. “And just so I know – what are the rules of engagement here, regarding Bunny?”
“We need to know what he knows.”
“And how am I supposed to manage that? I mean, I think it’s safe to assume he’s going to want to know what we know.”
“And that’s fine,” O’Rourke had assured her. “I trust you to manage the situation.” Translation – I have deniability. “Look,” he’d continued, lowering his voice slightly, “I know you admire him, but just remember, Bunny McGarry’s greatest strength and his greatest weakness is that when he sinks his teeth into something, he never ever lets go, and he pays no attention to who he hurts in the process.”
As Butch stood at the bar with Bunny, O’Rourke’s words were still at the forefront of her mind. In fact, they’d been eating away at her ever since.
She placed her drink on the bar. “Can I just remind you that we agreed that information sharing would be a two-way street?”
“Absolutely,” said Bunny.
“I’m deadly serious. Don’t you dare mess me around, Bunny. There are a lot of eyes on this.”
“I gave you my word. In fact, I think I have a rather juicy titbit that will be of significant help in your investigation – inasmuch as it pertains to the breaking and entering side of it.”
“How so?”
“This afternoon, I had lunch with the most highly paid courtesan in Ireland.”
Butch furrowed her brow. “Is it your birthday and I’ve forgotten? And to be clear, if ‘lunch’ is a euphemism here, I really, really do not want to know.”
Bunny proceeded to recount his meeting with Sabine. As he finished, Butch held her hand to her forehead and closed her eyes.
“Great,” she said. “Just great. This case now involves every high-powered and horny dick in Ireland. Literally.”
“I’m afraid so.”
She opened her eyes and looked at Bunny again. “It would have been handy to know this a few hours ago.”
“Well,” began Bunny. “First, I waited to get hold of Rosie to confirm what Sabine had told me, because I’ve been around the block enough not to just take as gospel the word of any attractive lady who propositions me on the street. I confirmed it all – including Rosie having no idea about this book – and then I did try and ring you.”
Butch grimaced then nodded. He had. She had four missed calls from him before she’d texted to say she’d meet him later. “Fair enough,” she conceded.
“So, any chance of quid pro quo?”
“There’s not that much to tell – at least not in terms of actionable evidence. Duncan, Rosie’s teaching assistant, has a bit of concussion and a nasty bump, but nothing too serious. Assuming this break-in wasn’t random – which seemed the case even before your revelations about this bloody book – the perpetrator knew Rosie’s schedule and that the office should have been empty, which implies a certain degree of research. Duncan and Rosie describe the guy as about six foot two, short brown hair. We’ve got a photofit that could easily be six different blokes in this pub alone. What says more is that when he was disturbed, he didn’t say a word – just took down poor Duncan with minimal fuss then calmly made good his escape. We’ve got him on CCTV entering and exiting the building, but he’s wearing a baseball cap throughout and clearly knows where the cameras are.”
Bunny had been listening while taking a long sip of his pint. He set the glass down on the bar. “So a professional,” he concluded.
Butch nodded in agreement. “We’ve fingerprinted the office, but it’s a safe bet we get Rosie, Duncan, a couple of random students, and whatever cleaning staff go in and out. There’s more chance of you actually becoming Ireland’s most highly paid courtesan than us getting an actionable print.”
Tara Flynn, all business, appeared in front of them on the other side of the counter. She gave Butch a quick nod before addressing Bunny. “Two minutes, quizmaster.”
“No problem,” Bunny replied. As Tara rushed off, he turned back to Butch. “So what did you make of Mark Smith’s – or whatever-his-name-really-is’s – apartment?”
“Your theory holds water. Bloodstain outside the window and the absence of one on the vodka bottle. I’ve got four uniforms down there now, canvassing all the apartments we didn’t get an answer from earlier on, but we already found somebody across the courtyard, who reckons they saw somebody jump out of a window.”
“Really?”
“Judging by the smell coming from the lad’s apartment, I’d bet he was stoned when it happened, but he said he noticed something falling. By the time he made it to his window, he only saw a guy walking away – reasonably fast, possibly with a limp.”
“Did he—” started Bunny.
“Happen to notice anybody hanging out the window waving a machete or a gun? No. Having said that, I’m not at all confident he’d have noticed them even if they had been there. The lad was, what we would call in the business, a low-quality eyewitness. We’ll see what else turns up. What’s more interesting is what we can’t find.”
“How’s that?”
“The apartment,” said Butch. “I’ve got Tinker digging around, as this is his area of expertise, but the company that rented it seems to be a shell company owned by a shell company, and so on. We can’t find any kind of contact.”
“Building companies might be dodgy on occasion, but that sounds like the wrong kind of dodgy.”
Butch pursed her lips, unsure if she wanted to share anything further.
“What?” asked Bunny, sensing her apprehension.
“It might be nothing,” said Butch, “but it isn’t unprecedented for governments or police forces to stick undercover operatives into organisations they think might be problematic.”
“I’ve been thinking the same thing,” agreed Bunny, “but I can’t really make it fit. SWIT is, at best, an organisation that could bring up a few questions that might not sit well with the powers that be, but it’s hardly CND, Greenpeace, Republican Sinn Féin, or whatever pack of right-wing Nazi fucknuggets are the current flavour of the month. It’s far too much effort to go to.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought too,” concluded Butch. “Still, something stinks to high heaven here, doesn’t it?”
Tara Flynn reappeared behind the bar. “Alright, let’s crack on. We’re already running ridiculously late.”
“Such a taskmaster,” muttered Bunny.
Butch slapped him on the back. “Alright, I’m gonna get out of here and see if the canvassing teams have had any luck.”
“Right so. Don’t be a stranger, Pamela.”
“Yes, Bernard. And, you – don’t make a nuisance of yourself.”
He feigned a hurt expression. “When have I ever done that?”
“Are you serious?” she responded. “Tell that to Tape Tierney’s bludgeoned bollocks.”
“Trampled testes,” responded Bunny.
“Napalmed nuts.”
“Pulverised penis.”
“Demolished dick.”
“Whipped winkie.”
“Flabbergasted phallus.”
“Got ye!” said Bunny pointing triumphantly. “You lose. Phallus starts with a ‘p’.”
“Wait, what game were we playing?”
“Later, gator.”
Tara returned, completely exasperated by this point. “Bunny?”
“Alright, woman. Keep your hair on. Speaking of hair, where has Hamster disappeared to?”
“I’ve no idea,” replied Tara.
As Butch started to push her way around the still-heaving bar towards the exit, Bunny’s voice came over the PA. “Alright, folks. Everybody back to your seats. Now, has anyone seen my Hamster?”
“He’s snogging the face off Yvonne Burke,” shouted a female voice from one corner.
“No, he’s not,” came a male voice from the other corner. “He’s having a piss.”
“He’s a very intelligent lad,” said Bunny. “There’s every chance he’s doing both at the same time.”
The hoots and hollers this drew from the crowd were still going strong by the time Butch pushed her way out the door.
Chapter Seventeen
THE PROBLEM IS A PROBLEM
Almost exactly twenty-four hours after the Spider and Furkser had last met, the Spider found himself in exactly the same car park, his and Furkser’s cars in exactly the same formation, and the exact same infuriatingly stoic expression on Furkser’s face. Even the same light from the distant lighthouse periodically washed across the dunes from left to right. Not everything was the same, though – the weather was worse; a steady downpour angling from right to left in the beams from the cars’ headlights, whipped by the strengthening wind blowing in off the sea. The Spider’s mood had also grown significantly worse.
“How on earth did this happen?”
Furkser went to speak but the Spider cut him off. “And so help me, if you come back with, ‘it happened’, then I will not be responsible for my actions.”
The vein above Furkser’s temple seemed to throb as he worked his jaw for a moment before answering. “Buchanan went in to search the office in the middle of the day, as I determined it would be less conspicuous than night-time entry and would also get it done quicker – as you requested.” Just the slightest hint of emphasis on the word “you”. “The subject and her assistant came back unexpectedly. They were both supposed to be in a lecture. It was pure bad luck.”
The Spider dug his nails into the leather of the steering wheel. “There’s that word again – ‘luck’. Perhaps it’s the rose-tinted glasses of reminiscence, but I do not recall luck being such a prominent factor when we worked together in the past. It’s beginning to feel like your luck is running out.”
This earned the Spider a sideways look that made him pause for a moment. When dealing with men such as Furkser, the trick was to know how hard to push. The Spider reckoned he was very close to the red line of no return.
“I take it before being disturbed, he didn’t find any evidence of the manuscript?”
Furkser shook his head.
“Very well,” said the Spider. “What’s done is done. It appears that even prior to this … Unfortunate incident, the gardaí had already decided to pay matters more attention.”
