Debtribution

By Eoin Clifford

Ireland's corrupt elite are paying the ultimate price for their greed, and the streets of Dublin's affluent south side are awash with blood. Brian Doyle, an overweight, unmotivated, middle-aged Garda, is the man tasked with protecting the creamy froth that have risen to the top of Irish society. But with his limited resources, lack of leads, and a partner who can barely tie his own shoelaces, how can he possibly stop this ruthless killer? And does anyone even want him to?

Debtribution is a humorous 'what-if' examination of Irish society. Complete with vomit, kinky sex, property, and the Catholic Church, it is a must-read for every true proud Irish soul. If Roddy Doyle, Paul Howard, E. L. James, and Enid Blyton were locked in a room and forced to write a novel, Debtribution would surely be it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eoin Clifford
• Release date: Jun 11, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311015327

Eoin Clifford

I live in Bray, Co. Wicklow, Ireland. I have kids and cats and also a fine wife.'Debtribution' is my first novel.I blog about genetic causes of hearing loss at http://cx26.blogspot.ie/

Book preview

Chapter 1

‘SLÁN SEÁNIE!’ Seán Conway’s murder was all over the front page of the Irish Record. A shot to the head as he got into his Jaguar on Molesworth Street; his brains spread all over the pavement. A grisly end for the disgraced Agrobank Chairman, and many people would be glad to hear of his departure.

Inspector Brian Doyle was not one of those people. Not that he was particularly fond of Conway – he hated him as much as the next man. But that was the problem. Everyone hated him, and a sick feeling in Doyle’s stomach told him that he would be given the unenviable task of finding his killer.

He pushed away the paper and shovelled the rest of his soggy Tesco Value Cornflakes into his gob.

When he got to the police station, a note was waiting on his desk. Super wants you ASAP.

Super was a miserable, sadistic Superintendent called Maloney. I’ve some good news for you, he said, his magnificent beer-belly pressed against his cluttered desk. I’m putting you on the Conway killing.

Ah for fuck’s sake! Could you not give it to someone else? pleaded Doyle.

The Super ignored him. Let me be the first to congratulate you on being selected to work on such an important, high profile case. You’ll be ably assisted by one of our finest officers.

Not that eejit Flynn?

Of course it was. He could sum up Stephen Flynn in two words — useless fuckwit. Could, and frequently did. However, being a useless fuckwit hadn’t stopped Flynn from being promoted to sergeant. The Garda Síochána was not a meritocracy, and having some ability could often be more a hindrance than a help in progressing up the ladder. Having an uncle who was part of the ‘inner circle’ in HQ however....

The Super leaned closer to his subordinate, his swollen torso knocking a pile of paperwork to the ground. Doyle caught a sharp waft of armpit mingled with overtones of vodka. You’re going to be under a lot of scrutiny, Doyle, the Super said. Don’t mess this up. Now get to it.

Doyle left the office and went over to Flynn's desk. The sergeant looked up, wearing his usual gormless smile.

What are you so happy about? Doyle asked.

C’mere and check this out. Flynn showed him a YouTube clip on his PC. Someone had filmed a monkey pissing into its own mouth. He giggled hysterically. Would you look at that? He’s drinking his own pee!

What are you showing me this juvenile shite for, you useless fuckwit. Turn that off and wipe that grin off your face, said Doyle. Super wants you working with me on this Conway murder, so get your crap together and follow me down to the car park.

Flynn’s smile got even more pronounced.

Doyle gritted his teeth. Feckin’ eejit.

A few minutes later, they were in a squad car heading towards the murder scene. Flynn, never a fan of silence, started blabbing straight away.

Tell you what though, this Conway thing. It’d make you think.

Doyle doubted anything could make Flynn think. About what?

Death. Life. All of that stuff.

Very good. Did you come to any conclusions? asked Doyle.

I don’t want to die.

Yeah, it’s something I try to avoid myself. As a general rule.

Although it’s probably not that bad, going to heaven and all. Actually, maybe I do want to die – well, if heaven is as good as they say it is.

Go ahead. I promise I won’t get in your way.

Ah no, it doesn’t work like that. God made a rule that if you kill yourself you don’t get to go to heaven. Pretty clever of him actually, otherwise everyone would be off topping themselves.

For a few seconds, Flynn’s face displayed the characteristic signs of strenuous thought, scrunched up as if it was being crushed by the pressure of his own mental efforts.

Do you think that he always had that rule, or that loads of people were killing themselves and then he brought in the rule to stop them? Like the back-pass rule?

What are you on about? The back-pass rule?

Yeah, in football like. Remember in the nineties everyone was passing back the ball for the keeper to pick up, so they brought in a rule to stop them. Now no one does it anymore.

Flynn, what are you shiteing on about? You’re not making any sense at all.

Yeah. I guess these are the mysteries of life and death. It’s all very complicated. Maybe it’s something mankind just aren’t meant to know.

Flynn, do us a favour and shut up.

Flynn continued on, unperturbed. Do you think there’s a different heaven for all the different religions? How would that work?

Flynn, shut up.

Would all the Christians count as one religion or would the Protestants and Catholics be kept apart? And then what about all the different types of Protestants? And what if there was a really small religion, would they have a tiny heaven?

Shut up I said! Could you not even try and think about the case at hand, instead of bothering me with all these extraneous questions, said Doyle

Extra what? Extra anus?

Yeah. It means you’re an arsehole, so shut up.

You know, you don’t seem to be in the best form, said Flynn.

For the hundredth time, shut your hole!

But Flynn was right. Doyle was not a happy man today. In fairness, yesterday he had not been a happy man either. In fact, any of his associates would be hard pressed to recall him being in a genuinely positive state of mind. He occasionally seemed happy, for example after a couple of pints, or if someone erred in performing a seemingly basic task, such as pouring tea. But it wasn’t real happiness, only a temporary break in his prevalent misery.

Previously, Doyle had just been a divorced, balding, overweight Garda living in one of Liam McManaman’s trademark shoebox apartments out in Adamstown. Now he was all of that, but with an awful cockstench of a case to solve.

Doyle didn't know where to start. Flynn wasn't going to be much help. That lad would never make a good cop. Doyle doubted he could make a good turd.

Why should I be in a good mood? Give me one good reason.

This Conway case is massive. Most of the lads would be delighted to be working on it, said Flynn.

That was probably true, and probably why the sadistic Super had given it to Doyle, the one Garda in the station who wouldn’t.

They might be delighted at first, said Doyle, because a lot of them lads aren’t much brighter than you. But after a couple of days they’d realise that our forensics team aren’t straight out of CSI, that killers can actually be fairly cautious when it comes to leaving clues about in real life, and that their sadistic prick of a boss – as opposed to having done them a favour – has hung them out to dry.

Ah Jaysus, give over. You’re giving up before you’ve even started.

Alright. Tell me this – who do you think shot Conway?

I don’t know. His wife?

"You clown. His wife is probably the last person who’d kill him. Why would she kill him? He’s been funding her opulent lifestyle for years. She has no reason, no motive. You know who does have a motive though, Flynn? Every other person in this country!"

Seán Conway, the chairman of Agrobank, had been the poster boy for Ireland’s financial ruin. Overexposure of the bank to a now-collapsed property market had cost the taxpayer billions, as Conway’s pals in government had raced to bail Agro out before anyone had a clue as to what was going on. Conway hadn’t been the only person responsible for the nation’s misfortunes. But he had been partly responsible, and the people wanted someone to blame.

All of which meant that Conway was, until yesterday evening, the most hated man alive in Ireland. The greedy banker who had sent the Celtic Tiger to an early grave. Now it seemed like someone had returned the favour.

Ah well, look on the bright side, said Flynn.

What bright side?

It’s a small country. Relatively speaking.

You really are a tool, Flynn, do you know that?

Chapter 2

Dennis Stockton pulled over his black S-class Mercedes, turned off the radio and leaned back in disbelief. He’d never imagined that such a thing could happen, not in this country.

A few weeks ago, he had been drinking brandy in the Horseshoe bar with Seánie and Minister Rowantree, trying to figure out the best way to deal with this bank share business. Seánie and Rowantree were pleading with him not to sell his stake in Agro.

I just feel that you’d be shooting yourself in the foot. You’re overreacting to this thing – just hang on and wait for this horsecrap to blow over. Those shares of yours will be back up in value in a couple of months, Seánie had argued.

Why would I listen to you, Seánie? The only reason I have this stake in your dog’s dinner of a bank is because you were throwing money at me to buy it, said Stockton.

Ah well, you know. Share and share alike! Ha ha.

Stockton ignored the terrible gag. Listening to you got me into this mess, Seánie. You are full of it. Why are you so sure ‘this thing’ will go away? The banking world is in crisis, and I seriously doubt your circus of clowns is in any way immune to it.

Ah now that’s a bit harsh, Dennis. Anyway, of course this thing will go away. What has some two-bit US bank got to do with Agrobank? They were giving mortgages to your average chump who couldn’t afford it. Agro is far more selective with its clientele. We only lend to the big fish – lads who know what they are doing with their cash. People who make things happen. People like yourself and the minister here.

Seánie had lent to the big fish alright. Fish out of water, who should have never been in the property game in the first place. Agrobank had started out life as a relatively humble lender focussing on the agricultural sector. Seánie had changed all that by aggressively courting anyone he felt had the balls to borrow way more than they could ever pay back. Turns out now that most of them wouldn’t have to.

Seánie, I’ve already lost €50 million on this Agro nonsense, Stockton said. I’m not prepared to lose another €50 million just to keep you guys happy.

"Ah come on. That was €50 million Agro loaned you, for God’s sake. It’s not like I’m going to be chasing you for it any time soon. The only valid point Seánie had made that evening. And the shares are only going to lose value if you flood the market with them."

He’s right, Dennis. Rowantree, sensing Stockton was unconvinced, had decided to chip in. The minister had been letting Seánie do all the talking, but he also had a lot to lose. If Stockton sold his sizeable stake in Agro, the share price would take a dive. People would panic and Irish banking could be sent into turmoil. Not something that Stockton was particularly keen on either, but he had wanted to cut his losses.

This is an Irish bank for God’s sake, the minister went on. It’s not like we’re in Zimbabwe or Argentina or some shithole like that. Irish banks don’t fail. I won’t let them fail!

If you are really intent on selling your stake, perhaps we could arrange a buyer without going through the whole market route? Keep it low profile and all that. Seánie had always been a good one for hatching schemes.

Well, maybe Seánie. But only if you arrange a decent price for me.

Ah, there’ll be no problem there, said Seánie, But you’ll still regret selling at all. Agrobank is on the up again, mark my words.

Seánie had been hopelessly deluded. Agrobank failed spectacularly, despite Rowantree’s desperate intervention; the infamous ‘bank guarantee’. If Agro owed you money, you’d be paid back, no matter who you were. The plan was that it would alleviate panic and stop money gushing out of the bank. But it was about as useful as clenching your buttocks during a bad bout of gastroenteritis.

Now people had finally realised that they really shouldn’t be spending half a million for a piece of real estate on the eighth floor of a tower block in a remote Dublin ‘suburb’. The property market had crashed, the whole country was broke, and the cash had stopped flowing. The banks, who had been handing out massive loans to any chancer with a vague plan and a hint of ambition, suddenly wanted it all back.

Well, if they thought they were going to get their hands on Dennis Stockton’s empire, they could go fuck themselves.

Chapter 3

Doyle and Flynn’s trip to the crime scene yesterday hadn’t been much use. Not a single piece of evidence had been uncovered. Forensics reckoned Conway had been taken out by a single hollow-cavity bullet as he was getting into his car. Hollow-cavity bullets expand rapidly when they hit their target, which would explain how bits of his head had got everywhere. A scrap of scalp, complete with a tuft of white hair, had been sitting on the bonnet of his gold Jaguar. The sight of that had made Doyle feel sick to his stomach. A real bloody mess.

And here was another mess in front of him. Conway’s wife, Therése, was inconsolable. Tears streamed down her pudgy face, dragging her makeup with them, making her look like some sort of overweight cheetah.

I just can’t understand it. He was such a great man – a really, really great man. I mean, without Seánie, there would have been no Celtic Tiger. He pulled this nation up from its knees! All the wonderful developments that were built in this city, none of it would have been possible without him. The amount of people that rose to success through his efforts. They may have been doing the developing, but it was Seán who was taking all the risks, and the whole country benefitted. I mean, I just can’t believe how anyone would want to do this to him!

What planet was this woman on? She clearly hadn't picked up a paper in the past few months. Did she even know what risk meant? Or perhaps the shock of bereavement had addled her brain.

Yeah, Mrs Conway, it’s terrible. But the best thing you can do for Seán now is to help us figure out who did this. Had you noticed anything strange going on lately? Any unusual characters hanging about, that sort of thing?

"Well, nothing really, apart from all those nasty journalists that started showing up a couple of weeks ago. One of them was particularly persistent, a