Mark bangs his fist on the table. ‘What anomalies?’
The builder is stunned.
‘Ah, now hold on here,’ the accountant says. ‘Take it easy.’
There is a long silence as Mark and the builder stare at each other.
What Mark really wants to do is reach across the table and grab this burly Corkman by the throat.
What he does instead is get up from the table and walk out of the restaurant.
6
By the following morning, the story has gone nuclear. It’s on all the front pages, broadsheet and tabloid, and on all the radio breakfast shows. Given the essential ingredients – gambling, sex and, according to one editorial, ‘a little bit of politics thrown in to spice things up’ – interest in the story is overwhelming. Opinion is divided, though. Some people think Larry Bolger is just what the country needs, a colourful character, a man with flaws like the rest of us; others think he is a degenerate and should be hounded from office. Pundits and punters alike have their say, and the issue is debated endlessly in op-ed columns, on panel discussions and on radio phone-ins.
In the main, Bolger’s government colleagues are supportive. An emerging line of defence seems to be that the minister did nothing illegal, and there is much semantic hand-wringing over the difference between an ‘unpaid’ debt and an ‘outstanding’ debt. We are also declared to have matured as a nation and talk of the extramarital affair is dismissed as unseemly and prurient.
But with Bolger still in the US and pressure growing for some kind of official statement, cracks begin to appear. When asked about the matter during an interview on Morning Ireland the Minister for Health displays a studied ambivalence. On Today with Pat Kenny a backbencher makes the first public reference to Bolger’s leadership ambitions, and a collective swish is almost immediately heard from Leinster House as knives are drawn and then sharpened. On the News at One opposition leaders call for the minister’s resignation, and by Liveline, members of the public, supporters and detractors, are shouting at each other live on air.
This is at two o’clock in the afternoon.
But in Boston – where Bolger is attending a breakfast of business leaders in the Signature Room of the John Hancock Conference Center – it is nine o’clock in the morning, and news of these developments is only just beginning to filter through.
So far, Bolger has frozen journalists out and apart from an initial and hastily formulated non-denial denial has refused to answer any questions. Being three thousand miles away, it is difficult to appreciate the level of engagement this whole thing is causing at home, but as Bolger addresses the business leaders over ham and eggs, Paula is outside in the lobby with her laptop listening to Liveline on the Web – and growing paler with each new contribution.
After the breakfast, she fills Bolger in and recommends that they either issue a new statement or do some interviews. They trawl though the Irish papers online looking for an angle. They discuss the possibility of Bolger’s cutting short his trip and flying home.
A little later, in one of the hotel restrooms, Bolger locks himself into a cubicle and buries his head in his hands. He can’t believe this is happening. The allegations are true of course, but they refer to a period in his life he’s always felt he’d successfully compartmentalised and moved on from. He certainly never imagined he’d be revisiting it like this.
Bolger knows that the timing of the story is no accident. And there is little doubt in his mind as to who leaked it – someone inside his own party. But the real question is, can he brazen it out? Can he contain the damage? Can he ring-fence it, or even turn it to his advantage?
As he raises his head wearily and stares at the shiny, lacquered cubicle door, his mobile phone rings. He takes it out of his jacket pocket and looks at the display.
He groans.
It’s Paddy Norton.
He lets it ring out and go into message.
‘… so, er, I’ll be in and out of the office for the next few hours. Or you can just get me on the mobile. Right? OK… Jesus, this is a disaster. I’ll talk to you later.’
Norton presses End and throws his mobile onto the desk.
He sits back in his chair and glances at his watch. He hasn’t heard from Ray Sullivan yet, but he will – that’s for sure. Amcan’s occupancy of more than forty floors of the building is not contingent upon Larry Bolger becoming Taoiseach, but it’d help. It’s definitely there in the background, part of the mood music – so there’s going to be a lot of explaining to do if Bolger’s prospects go belly-up.
Norton seems to spend most of his time these days putting out fires, and he’s getting sick of it.
Which reminds him.
He reaches forward and picks up his mobile again. He selects a number and waits.
‘Yeah?’
‘Fitz, Paddy.’
‘How’s it going?’
‘All right. Any developments?’
‘Er… let me put you on hold there for a second, Paddy, will you, and I’ll just check my notes, see what I’ve got for you.’
‘Right.’
Norton clicks his tongue.
Notes.
These days Fitz may be calling himself a private security consultant, but coming as he does from a heavy-duty paramilitary background, it’s far from fucking notes that he was raised.
Norton glances out of the window. From the sixth floor of this building there’s a view of Richmond Plaza – but there isn’t one from here, from the third floor. Which is annoying. He’s been trying to get the people on six, a firm of solicitors, to move out. But so far without success.
He hasn’t been trying hard enough.
‘Paddy?’
In a few months, though, he’ll be moving into Richmond Plaza, so it doesn’t really matter.
‘Yeah.’
‘OK. She met Terry Stack yesterday evening for about twenty minutes. Other than that she’s either been at work, which is an office in Harcourt Street, or at her gaff, which is an apartment building on the quays. But that’s it. Back and forth. No visitors. She doesn’t have a car. She buys her food in Marks & Spencer. She reads… I think it’s What Hi-Fi? magazine, or What Camera?, or what fucking something, computers, juicers, I don’t know.’ He coughs. ‘I’m working on getting access to her email and stuff, but that takes time.’
‘How about her mobile?’
‘Give me a day or two. I’m waiting on a delivery. It’s a new scanner that should do the job.’
‘Right.’ Norton pauses. ‘What does she work at, by the way?’
‘Software. It’s a small company, a start-up. From what I can gather they’re not in great shape, though.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They’re struggling. Financially. Victims of the downturn, whatever. So I’m told anyway.’
‘Right. And Terry Stack?’
‘I wouldn’t worry about him, he’s a fucking muppet.’
Norton doesn’t say anything to this.
‘Look, he is, believe me.’
‘Fine, fine. OK.’ He pauses again. ‘And how about our other friend?’
Fitz has been keeping an eye on Dermot Flynn as well.
‘He’s behaving himself. Nothing to worry about there.’
‘Right. OK.’
Norton stares at the floor. Does he find any of this convincing? Reassuring? Yes? No? Maybe? He can’t tell. He’s still in shock about the Larry Bolger situation.
He gets off the phone and tosses it back onto his desk.
Ten bloody grand. Why didn’t he just ask for it? Jesus.
It wouldn’t have been the first time. The man is a liability and has been since the day he got elected. But you can only work with what you’ve got, and back then Larry was all he’d got.