He wishes now that he hadn’t been so bloody self-controlled that day up on the forty-eighth floor of Richmond Plaza. He could easily have got away with it, spun some story. She was upset, I suppose, about her brother – depressed you might even say. Anyway, I got alarmed and stepped forward… I tried to grab her, but…
It strikes him as extraordinary now that if he had, all of this could have been avoided.
At one o’clock he switches on the radio again – to a breaking news story. An exclusive RTÉ report is claiming that the source last Wednesday for the original leak to the media about Larry Bolger’s private life was someone in the Taoiseach’s office. Hardly an exciting development next to the multiple killings in Cherryvale, but to any self-respecting news junkie the story’s significance is unmissable.
Norton reaches for the phone and tries Bolger’s mobile, but it goes straight into voicemail. He tries the Department but is told the Minister is unavailable. Then he tries a number he has for Paula Duff.
‘Mr Norton.’
‘Paula, how are you? I’m trying to reach Larry. Do you know where he is?’
She sighs loudly. ‘Oh, don’t ask. He’s gone AWOL for the afternoon.’
‘What do you mean? I thought with all this -’
‘I know, I know, tell me about it. We were trying to keep the story on hold until tomorrow but somehow it got out. A bloody leaked leak about a leak, can you believe it? Anyway, Larry chooses this afternoon, God knows why, to go off and bond with his old man.’ She pauses. ‘Out in Wicklow somewhere.’
‘He’s going out to the nursing home?’
‘Yeah. I suppose that’s it. I don’t really -’
‘Why? What did he say?’
‘He didn’t say anything, Mr Norton.’ She pauses. ‘But for the last few days he’s been in the weirdest mood. I don’t know if it’s -’
Norton cuts her off. ‘Soon as you hear from him, get him to call me, would you?’
‘Of course.’
He puts the phone down, slowly, onto his desk.
He leans back and takes a couple of deep, calming breaths.
After coffee and a shower, Gina phones BCM. She talks to the receptionist for a few minutes, mainly about Noel, and then asks if she can get a number for Dermot Flynn’s widow.
‘Of course, Gina, no problem. I have it here somewhere.’
‘Thanks. What’s her name?’
‘Claire. She’s lovely. The poor thing. The removal is tomorrow, by the way.’
‘Right.’
‘Here it is. I’m sure she’ll appreciate the call.’
‘Yeah.’
But Gina waits a while before actually making the call. She and Sophie sit together and drink more coffee. They talk things through but end up going around in circles – so when Gina picks up the phone again it’s nearly eleven o’clock. As the phone rings, she gazes out the window. The day is starting to cloud over.
‘Hello?’
‘Claire? Hi. My name is Gina Rafferty. Er… my brother and your husband both worked -’
‘Yes, I know,’ Claire interrupts. ‘Hello.’
‘Hello.’
‘Gina, did you say?’
‘Yes. I hope I’m not… intruding.’
‘No. Well.’ She clears her throat. ‘What is it? What can I do for you?’
‘I’d like to meet up with you, if that’s possible. Soon. I need to ask you something. It’s important. I realise this is not -’
‘Ask me what?’
Gina closes her eyes. ‘I know this is going to sound pretty blunt, but I don’t believe my brother’s death was an accident, and I’m wondering if you have reason to believe… anything similar. About your husband’s death I mean.’ She opens her eyes, stares at the floor, waits.
Ten seconds pass, maybe fifteen – it’s hard to tell. Then Claire Flynn releases a slow, whispered ‘Jesus Christ.’
Gina waits for more. In vain. Eventually, she says, ‘Claire?’
‘Hhmm.’
‘Can we meet?’
‘Yes.’
‘Now?’ Another long pause. ‘Later today maybe?’
‘OK. This afternoon. I have to, er…’
‘That’s fine. Whatever.’
‘Three thirty, four? Here?’
‘Yeah. The -’
‘Forty-seven Ashleaf Drive. Sandymount.’
Gina is about to say something else, but Claire has already hung up.
At midday Gina goes out to get an early edition Evening Herald. On her way back to the apartment, she makes a detour into Blackrock Park, where she sits at a bench by the pond and reads through the paper’s coverage. The only thing of significance they can add to what she’s already heard on the radio is the fact that the second man in intensive care, whose name they’re still not releasing, is the owner of the warehouse where the incident took place.
Which amounts – as far as Gina is concerned – to a confirmation of his identity.
His condition, on the other hand, remains critical – though what exactly that means Gina isn’t sure at all. But shouldn’t she be doing something to find out? At the very least contacting the hospital to make enquiries? Probably. But something is holding her back, a reluctance, an awful feeling of guilt.
She gazes out over the pond.
If she hadn’t dragged Mark into this, he most likely wouldn’t be in the ICU right now, fighting for his life. So chances are the last person he’s going to want to hear from is her.
And who could blame him?
Gina puts the newspaper away.
After a while, to distract herself, she takes out the two mobile phones. She examines them. There are three numbers for Paddy Norton on Fitz’s phone, and she finds her own number on Mark Griffin’s. But nothing else she comes across means anything to her. Then, as she’s leaving the park a few minutes later, she drops Fitz’s phone discreetly into the pond. Because these things can be detected, can’t they? And located?
As for the other one, she decides… well, if there’s any chance at all, she’d like to return it in person.
Back at the apartment, and at Sophie’s insistence, Gina finally gets around to ingesting something other than black coffee. She has half an orange, followed by a poached egg and a slice of toast.
She turns on the radio and listens to the one o’clock news – and as she does so can’t help feeling increasingly dislocated from reality. Because even though the bulletin presents the two main stories separately, she knows that in some crucial way they are connected. Later on, heading in towards Sandymount on the DART, it occurs to her how like a classic symptom of clinical paranoia this is – seeing a pattern that no one else is seeing, reinterpreting the news, twisting it so it conforms to some personal context or scheme of grievances.
But she doesn’t care anymore, not after last night. She knows what she knows. And besides, she’s not alone. Claire Flynn, the woman she’s about to visit, seems to know something, too.
As they pull into the driveway leading up to the Glenalba Nursing Home, Bolger realises that he hasn’t been out here for over three years. He has seen the old man in that time, of course – at his sister Una’s house. She lives in Bray and takes him for Christmas and birthdays and whatnot. Larry lives in Deansgrange, but with the extra distance, and the old man’s condition… well, it never made much sense to do it any other way.
Besides, he and the old man have never really got on. Larry was always second best, and he was certainly the second choice when it came to a career in politics. After Frank died, the old man pushed Larry hard, schooled him, moulded him, and even though Larry did well, very well, there was always a tension between them. Larry resented how he was being manipulated, and the old man could never really forgive Larry for not being Frank. But by the time Larry made it to the cabinet, the old man’s influence in the party had long since waned, as had his interest – even to the extent that Larry felt he was barely showing up on the old man’s radar screen anymore.