Firewater Blues (The Dublin Trilogy Book 6) Read online

  Arnie leaned in to help. After struggling for a few seconds, Ricardo eventually used his teeth to pull the cap off the bottle of lighter fluid. It struck Arnie as a bad idea, but screw it, too late now. It was go time.

  Ricardo snapped open the fancy Zippo lighter he’d bought after the first cock-up and flicked it into life. The flame ignited his grin. He looked at Arnie with a demonic glint in his eyes.

  As Ricardo turned, the lighter was walloped out of his hand. It flew through the air, and the flame was extinguished as it skittered across the cobbled street.

  “What the—”

  They must’ve been so focused on the lighter-fluid bottle that they hadn’t noticed the homeless guy getting to his feet. The fella now seemed very, very awake. And big. So much bigger than they would have expected. Not only that, but he was also holding a hurling stick.

  The man looked down at the lighter and back up at the two young men. “Sorry, lads, how rude of me …”

  Arnie froze as the man gave him a wide grin. Somewhere deep inside him a little voice screamed that he was in real trouble.

  The big man seemed to have one eye on him and the other on Ricardo as he pulled a lighter from his own pocket and sparked it into life. Then he held it against the hurling stick. Arnie leaped backwards with a scream as the thing burst into flames.

  The sleeping bag fell away. The suddenly massive man held the flaming hurl above his head and roared, “Were you boys looking for a light?”

  Chapter Two

  THERE IS A FLAME THAT NEVER GOES OUT

  Bunny sat and stared into the Styrofoam cup he’d been given. Having drunk its contents, he still couldn’t say with anything close to certainty whether it had been tea or coffee. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, though – even temporary ones.

  He looked up as the door to the interview room opened.

  “Detective Inspector Fintan O’Rourke, we have to stop meeting like this.”

  “Never a truer word spoken.”

  O’Rourke held his coat draped over his arm and wore an expression that indicated bonhomie might be in short supply. He was a few years older than Bunny, but the man was the embodiment of the word “svelte” – the result of being the kind of smug bastard who somehow finds the time and energy to go jogging. In his mid-thirties now, Bunny only ran when he had somebody to catch, and in those situations adrenalin compensated for all manner of sins. Still, he’d been alarmed at how out of puff he’d been after just a relatively short run through Temple Bar. It was time to have a serious think about ordering the occasional salad.

  “What are you doing here at four in the morning, Detective Inspector? Did you piss somebody off?”

  “I’m beginning to think I must’ve done, Bunny. Possibly God.” The DI pulled out the chair opposite, sat down and tossed a copy of an arrest report onto the table in front of him. “As you well know, I’m here because you’re here. Again.”

  “So, I suppose the question should be – what am I doing here?”

  “Yes. Or more precisely, what were you doing sleeping outside the Central Bank at three in the morning?”

  Bunny shrugged. “I wasn’t actually asleep. I was only resting.”

  O’Rourke rolled his eyes. “Thing is, while the pay might not be what any of us consider fair, you’re a detective in An Garda Síochána and, although you’re currently on sabbatical, you’re not homeless. I’ve been to your home.”

  “You have,” agreed Bunny. “In fact, you were part of a raid on it a few months ago.”

  “You know that wasn’t me.”

  Bunny drummed his fingers on the table. “Would you believe they’ve still not paid me for the new front door, or that ceramic duck they broke? That was a present.”

  “A good one?”

  “No, but ’tis the principle of the thing.”

  “Even for you, this is one hell of a way to lodge a complaint.” O’Rourke leaned forward, put his elbows on the table and held his face in his hands. “I am so far beyond tired at this point, Bunny. I could really do without this shit.”

  “Don’t blame me. I didn’t call you.”

  “No, but the powers that be have decided that you’re a problem. What’s worse, for reasons I don’t understand, they’ve made you my problem.” He raised his hand to stop Bunny’s objection before it started. “I know. You don’t see it that way. What a shock. How about—” O’Rourke drew back and wrinkled his nose. “What the hell is that smell?”

  Bunny folded his arms. “I’m undercover.”

  O’Rourke waved a hand in front of his face and gagged. “Nobody needs to be that convincing. Besides, a minute ago you were ‘only resting’, and now you’re deep undercover. Which is it?”

  Bunny said nothing to this.

  “Condolences, by the way,” said O’Rourke. “I hear your little hurling team got demolished in that final you made.”

  Bunny’s eyes narrowed and O’Rourke sensed that maybe there were some buttons you didn’t press.

  “Fine,” O’Rourke conceded. “Moving on. First off, other than being an awkward sod, why did you feel compelled to get involved?”

  “Involved in what?”

  It was clear from O’Rourke’s face that the jousting section of their chat was over.

  Bunny shrugged. “Micky Flynn is a friend of mine.” This elicited a blank expression from the DI until Bunny added, “Homeless gentleman. Currently in the Mater with second- and third-degree burns over sixty percent of his body.”

  O’Rourke nodded awkwardly. “It isn’t my case.”

  “Whose is it?”

  “There’s a task force of about two dozen bodies working it.”

  “Is that right?”

  “It is,” said O’Rourke. By way of explanation, he added, “It got a lot of press and it might be an election year.”

  Bunny laughed. “It’s Ireland. Every year is an election year.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” said O’Rourke, “but seeing as our current taoiseach is hanging up his expense-claiming pen, and with the party conference this weekend to decide the next one … Well, everything’s a bit political at the moment.”

  “Still, it’s great to see we’re pushing the boat out to take care of the homeless community in these stressful political times. Two dozen officers on this task force, is it? I think I met a couple of them yesterday.”

  “Did you?” asked O’Rourke. “Let me guess – as a fellow officer, you offered to assist them in their investigation given your invaluable connections garnered through years on the beat?”

  “I never got the chance. One of them opened the conversation by nudging me with his foot, and the other threatened to arrest me for public intoxication. Quite the case study in community policing.”

  O’Rourke leaned back and huffed at the ceiling. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

  “Might be a bit of a training moment, that.”

  “Like I said – not my investigation.”

  “Whose is it?”

  O’Rourke paused and Bunny could tell the precise second at which the DI decided that lying would be too much effort.

  “Grainger’s.”

  “And how is the Minister for Justice’s nephew?”

  “He had a journo embedded in his task force, and given that you’ve embarrassed him and them, I’d imagine he’s over the fucking moon. I’ve to ring him back after we’re done here. Safe to say, you can add him to your extensive list of enemies.”

  “Oh, he’s been on there for a while.”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  “I’m shocked he’s not here himself. Up grafting every hour God sends to get a result. His work ethic is legendary.”

  O’Rourke gave Bunny a knowing look and left it at that. “Moving on” – he indicated the arrest report on the desk in front of him – “can I just clarify a couple of the details about what happened tonight?”

  “What’s there to clarify? I was sitting there, minding my business, and two scumbags tried to flambé me.”

  “Yes,” said O’Rourke. “And thank God they were unsuccessful in their endeavour. Still though, am I reading this correctly? You chased them with a flaming hurling stick. I mean, I assume Garda Wilkes, who wrote this report, isn’t using colloquialisms there.”

  “No,” said Bunny, “my hurley was on fire right enough.”

  “Did they …”

  “I set it on fire myself.”

  O’Rourke sighed. “Course you did. Do I want to ask why?”

  “Have you read any George R. R. Martin?”

  “Let’s assume I haven’t.”

  “You should. I’ve been trying to widen my reading choices. Tried a bit of epic fantasy and I’m enjoying it. One of the characters has a flaming sword. The idea had a certain je ne sais quoi.”

  “I bet it did,” said O’Rourke, flipping the report over. “Maximum bang for your buck in terms of putting on a show. Are you trying to get yourself booted off the force? Is that it?”

  “For catching criminals?”

  O’Rourke clenched his right fist in frustration. “When you’re on sabbatical? Yes!”

  “At no point did I attempt to arrest the suspects. They attempted to assault me and I defended myself. They ran. As a concerned citizen, I gave chase while endeavouring to get the attention of a serving member of the Garda Síochána.”

  “And how were you doing that, exactly?”

  “Well, I figured a lunatic running through Temple Bar waving a flaming hurl about – that’s the kind of thing that traditionally gets everyone’s attention, including the gardaí’s. And, to be fair, it did.”

  “Oh yes,” agreed O’Rourke. “No arguments there. Gardaí Wilkes and Murphy were on the opposite side of the Liffey. They came running over the Ha’penny
Bridge when you and your quarry appeared out of the Merchant’s Arch laneway. By the time they reached you, one of the suspects – an Arnold Canavan – was in the river.”

  Bunny stabbed the table with his finger. “Ye can’t pin that on me. He jumped in of his own accord. Didn’t even try for the bridge. Maybe he’s afraid of bridges. That’s a thing. I’ve seen a TV programme about it.”

  “Sure,” said O’Rourke, flipping to page two of the report. “Or maybe he wasn’t thinking straight. If memory serves … Yes, here it is.” He ran his finger along a line of text and read it aloud. “Mr Canavan thought he was being chased by a demon.”

  “The fecking nerve,” muttered Bunny. “What those two scumbags were up to and he thinks I’m the demon.”

  “Well, I believe he was on drugs at the time. Probably explains why he jumped into the river, too.”

  Bunny laughed. “Between you and me, he leaped straight in without looking. The gobshite is lucky it wasn’t low tide.”

  “True, although that would have at least removed the problem of him not being able to swim.”

  “How is that my fault?” asked Bunny, stretching his arms out wide. “I mean, in this day and age, I thought everyone could swim. His mate certainly could.”

  “Yes. A Richard Drake. According to Officer Murphy, you threw him in after Mr Canavan.”

  “I most certainly did not. It may’ve looked like that from a distance, but he was actually mad keen to save his buddy. I was trying to hold him back.”

  “Right. So you didn’t” – O’Rourke scanned the report again – “lift him up off the ground and physically hurl him into the Liffey?”

  “Absolutely not. That young man deserves great credit for that unassisted act of heroism. After we’re done locking him up and throwing away the key, I reckon he should be up for some kind of award or something. Or at least one of those swimming badges they give you if you can rescue a brick from the bottom of a swimming pool in your jimmy-jammies.”

  O’Rourke snatched up the arrest report, folded it in half and shoved it into his inside jacket pocket.

  “Alright, Bunny. Enough nonsense. Just so I know, how did you happen to be in the right place at the right time?”

  “Off the record?”

  “For fuck’s sake, what part of this conversation did you think was on the record?”

  Bunny puffed out his cheeks. “I asked about. There’ve been incidents stretching back a few months. Assaults. Hassles. Always late at night from guys in their late teens, early twenties. Once you started to pay attention, it was fairly clear there was a set area and an established pattern. I figured the most likely spots, and for the last few nights I’ve been moving between them.”

  O’Rourke pursed his lips for a moment. “Sincerely, that is an outstanding bit of policing.”

  “Thanks.”

  “The only problem is, you’re not currently a member of the bloody police. A lawyer could have a field day with this, and you know that.”

  Bunny shrugged. “The last I saw of our two twisted firestarters, they were singing like canaries. Is that not the case?”

  “Yes, it is,” conceded O’Rourke. “Not only have they both given full confessions, but one of them has also asked to see a priest. Then, of course, there’s the fact the other one helpfully videotaped the whole thing.”

  “Really?”

  “Even more helpfully, the thing cuts out as you’re chasing them.”

  Bunny stretched out his arms and yawned. “So, job’s a good ’un. What are we doing here? Doesn’t seem like there’s any reason for you to have been dragged from the loving embrace of your wife. How is she, by the way?”

  “Still hates you.”

  “Hate is a very strong word.”

  “You got into a fight with a large wading bird at our wedding.”

  “Seriously, is she still going on about that?”

  O’Rourke tilted his head to one side. “Women get very touchy about people fucking up their wedding day. Until she has another one, don’t expect to make the Christmas card list.”

  Bunny scratched his armpit. “So, can I get out of here, then? I’ll be honest, I’ve never appreciated the idea of my own bed more, and even I think I could use a shower.”

  “We can all go home once you’ve seen sense.”

  Bunny raised his eyebrows. “How so?”

  “The good news is that no less than the Commissioner himself has agreed we can say your sabbatical ended four weeks ago, and your pay will reflect that.”

  “While I’ve always fancied the idea of time travel, let me stop you there. No. No, I’m not going to pretend that I was part of that useless gobshite Grainger’s task force.”

  O’Rourke exhaled loudly. “Are you deliberately trying to be awkward?”

  “Deliberately? No. I’m just doing what comes naturally.”

  “Alright. As your friend, can you explain to me what the hell is going on? This sabbatical of yours … I mean, initially, I got it. Gringo died. You needed some time away. But it’s been what? Four or five months now? Are you punishing yourself? Having some kind of breakdown? Or have you just decided you’d rather not be a copper any more? Instead, you’d rather be a pain in our collective arse?”

  Bunny paused for a few seconds and looked down at his fingers. “Honestly, I’m not sure myself.”

  “Then just come back.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not ready yet.”

  O’Rourke drew a breath “Any idea when that will be?”

  Bunny shrugged.

  “Of course not. Fair warning – after this morning’s little adventure, I’m pretty sure I’m going to be dragged in front of the Commissioner in a few hours. At a guess, he might decide to force the issue. There’s only so long he’s going to be willing to have you outside the tent pissing in.”

  “Jesus, what I’d have given to have had a tent for the last few nights. You ever tried to sleep in the middle of a city, Fintan? I’ve never felt more shattered in my life.”

  O’Rourke got to his feet. “You and me both, Bunny. You and me both.”

  “Any chance of a lift?”

  “And have you stinking out my brand-new car? No way. I’ll ask one of the uniforms to drop you home.”

  Chapter Three

  HUSBANDRY

  “He’s in a ‘bit of a mood’.”

  As far as DI O’Rourke knew, Carol Willis had been Commissioner Ferguson’s personal assistant since the days when the position was known as “secretary”. Come to that, she might even have been his PA since birth. Certainly, O’Rourke had never walked into the Commissioner’s outer office not to find her there. She had literally been there longer than a couple of the walls. Now that he thought of it, presumably the woman did take holidays and days off, but he’d never seen any evidence of this. There was every possibility that when the Commissioner shuffled off this mortal coil, she would be buried at the front of his tomb to manage his eternal schedule and prevent the unwashed and unworthy from gaining access.

  This morning was, however, the first time Carol had been moved to warn O’Rourke that the Commissioner was in a “bit of a mood”. This was Commissioner Gareth Ferguson, the highly respected and beloved leader of An Garda Síochána. A man who could make veteran police officers tremble simply by staring at them for long enough. A man who had once, while questioning a junior officer about how a television presenter had somehow evaded a speeding ticket in exchange for an autograph, caused the unlucky sod to turn and run into the wall of his office. The mark beside the door was still visible today. Not only did the Commissioner not have the plaster repaired, he also placed an empty frame around it as a not-so-subtle warning to others who might incur his wrath.

  O’Rourke forced a smile onto his face, thought again, and abandoned it as an unnecessarily provocative gesture. Best to look unhappy going in, as there was every chance that was how he would be coming out. He steeled himself, glanced over his shoulder at Carol, who gave him a worryingly encouraging nod, and knocked on the door.

  “Come the hell in.”

  A bit of a mood indeed.

  O’Rourke entered the Commissioner’s office to find Ferguson sitting at his desk, staring morosely out the window beside him at the kind of unremarkable grey drizzly morning that Dublin does so well. His shoeless feet were up on the desk and, unusually, his tie was hanging loosely around his neck. While he was a large man in all senses of the word, he was never usually slovenly.