Gina groans.
Whatever it might be, what chance does someone like her, a complete outsider, have of finding out? Who does she talk to? How does she even broach the subject? What kind of attitude does she adopt? What kind of vocabulary does she use?
And how soon, in the face of implacable corporate self-preservation, does she fold?
It occurs to Gina that maybe what’s required here is a countervailing force – someone with the authority to ask awkward questions and demand answers, someone with a ready-made attitude and vocabulary of their own.
Jackie Merrigan?
Although the detective superintendent wasn’t exactly sympathetic to the idea that Noel’s death was anything other than an accident, maybe when he factors in Dermot Flynn’s untimely passing, Gina thinks, then he’ll -
But before she can complete the thought, something else occurs to her.
Where does all of this leave Mark Griffin?
She rushes over to the counter and picks up her mobile. She calls his number again, and waits.
As before, the answering machine comes on.
Damn.
‘Mark, hi,’ she says. ‘It’s Gina Rafferty. Please call me.’ She repeats her own mobile number. ‘Please. It’s urgent. I think I might be wrong about… you know, what we were saying the other night. So call me, OK?’ She pauses. ‘And listen, whatever you do, don’t… don’t… just call me, OK?’
It takes Mark just under an hour to get to the Garryowen Business Institute in Terenure. Set in old church grounds – half of which have been redeveloped for residential use – the Institute consists of three single-storey modern buildings. There is a parking area to the front and a large playing field to the side. The parking area is more than half full, and Mark finds a space not too far from the main gates. He stays in the car after he has parked it, and looks around. This campus may be fairly nondescript, but the Institute has a reputation for churning out successful young entrepreneurs and future business leaders. Today it is hosting an IT conference, and the minister is due to address the delegates at half past two.
Mark looks at his watch.
It’s 2.17.
He shifts in the seat.
Driving out here he was aware all the time of the knife concealed in the lining of his jacket – he could feel it pressing against his side. He can feel it now.
He looks around again.
There are a few people gathered at the entrance to the largest of the three buildings. They could be a reception committee. Or smokers. Mark can’t quite see from this distance.
Another car – the second or third since he arrived – comes through the gates behind him and cruises around looking for a parking space.
Mark glances at his watch again: 2.21.
He puts his hand into his jacket pocket and takes out the three photographs. He glances at each of them in turn, but tentatively, as though afraid he’ll react again. But he doesn’t feel anything – except a curious sense that his emotions, as well as his reason, have been fast-tracked, heightened to a pitch where he’s no longer conscious of them. He feels that he’s now operating without any guidance system, that his internal GPS has been deactivated.
In the distance he hears seagulls squawking.
He puts the photographs back into his pocket. He opens the door of the car and gets out. He straightens up and automatically buttons his jacket – then remembers, and unbuttons it again.
He glances around. There is no one nearby. He reaches into the slit in the lining of his jacket, takes the knife by the handle and partially withdraws it.
He looks down. He tests his grip on the handle. When he’s satisfied, he eases it back in.
He starts walking very slowly towards the main building.
Thick grey clouds are gathering, and it seems as if it could rain at any second. The trees along the far side of the playing field – a straight line of tall evergreens – are swaying in the wind.
Mark doesn’t look back, but he’s aware of another car – or cars, maybe – coming in through the gates behind him. A moment later, a black Mercedes glides by on the driveway. It is followed by another car, a silver Opel. The two cars pull up at the main building, the ministerial car flush with the entrance.
More people have gathered, and as Mark gets closer he sees that it is a reception committee – made up, no doubt, of students, lecturers, administrative staff and conference delegates.
Two men get out of the second car first. They are in their late thirties or early forties, and are obviously Special Branch. One of them, medium height, thin, and with a moustache, walks forward and opens the back door of the Merc. The other one, tall and burly, goes straight inside the building.
The minister gets out and is greeted by a man in glasses and a grey suit – the Director of the Institute presumably.
Mark has walked to the edge of the parking area and approaches the little gathering from behind. He moves through it and within seconds is at the front – barely three yards away from the minister, who is standing with his arms folded, nodding, listening to the Director of the Institute.
Mark studies the Special Branch detective. He is standing next to the minister, and is doubtless armed – but Mark has the advantage here because no one will be expecting anything… because no one, surely, looks on this as any kind of a security risk. The scene, in any case, is informal, it’s relaxed, with the minister and the director – clearly for the benefit of those gathered around – engaging in some good-natured banter.
‘That’s right, the Venture Capital Symposium. Yes, I remember now. Lord, that must be, what -’
‘Two years ago.’
‘Two?’
Mark closes his eyes.
‘I’m afraid so, Minister. Tempus fugit, as the man said.’
‘Well, let me tell you, if greying hair and stomach ulcers are any index to go by, it feels a lot longer than that.’
This gets a generous laugh, and as Mark lets the sound of it wash over him he tries to visualise the next twenty seconds – to see himself pulling out the knife and lunging forward, driving the blade into the minister’s side, twisting it, shoving it up as far as it will go. Then releasing it and withdrawing. Then bedlam, maybe a gunshot or two, the minister falling forward into the arms of the director, both of them staggering sideways for a moment before falling over. Then the Special Branch man and others grabbing Mark, like in a loose scrum, forcing him down, pinning him to the ground.
Screams, groans, chaos.
Blood.
Mark opens his eyes. Now is the time to move. But his arm feels leaden all of a sudden. He feels leaden. It’s like an anaesthetic taking effect… those final few moments before you go under.
As he stares at the minister, in profile, Mark realises that this isn’t going to happen – that he can’t do it. So he just stands there, paralysed, disorientated, watching the next twenty seconds unfold for real – though in slow motion it seems, in silence: the director raising an arm and mouthing Shall we? at the minister, then guiding him towards the entrance to the building… the Special Branch man following close behind, the small crowd moving forward as well, people shuffling through the door, disappearing in twos and threes.
Then, from one second to the next, everyone has gone, and Mark is standing alone, out in the open.
Holding his breath.
Eventually, he exhales. His whole body is trembling. The anger is still there, still raging inside him, but its power has been undercut by an awful, creeping, undeniable sense of relief.
After a few more seconds, he puts a hand out to feel the first, tentative drops of rain, and turns to go – at which point he sees that he’s not alone.