by Eoghan Egan
The art dealer turned right in Kilcormac.
After Saint Cormac’s Park, he pressed a fob to unlock cast iron electric gates. Noticed fresh tyre imprints.
Madeline’s back.
He steered into the grooves cut by his wife’s jeep and drove through the tree-lined avenue, headlights reflecting on the mock-Palladian mansion, and parked beside an Audi Q7. The hall door opened. A woman stepped into the entrance.
‘When did you get here?’ The man brushed by his stick-thin wife.
‘An hour ago. This weather … Didn’t think I’d make it. Happy Birthday.’ Madeline leaned in and gave her husband a kiss on the cheek. A dry peck, more suited to greeting a distant cousin. ‘Ugh, you’re wet.’
‘Had to check the farm.’
Madeline’s nostrils quivered at the faint stench of silage and cow manure. ‘Why bother? The part-time farm manager—’
His glare cut like the graze from a bullwhip. Madeline flinched, retreated a step, arms folded. ‘I’ve booked Spinner’s restaurant for nine.’ Her timbre changed from bearish to benign. Anything to avoid another night marred by a mean mood. ‘I wasn’t sure what time you’d get here.’
The art dealer eyed a speck of mush on his shoe.
‘I’ll take care of that,’ Madeline said. ‘Have a shower. If you wish.’ She squeezed out a tight smile. ‘Good day at the office?’
‘Fine.’
‘What’s new in the art world?’
‘Sold a Paul Henry earlier. That was the highlight.’ The art dealer crossed the hall to his library, removed the David Hockney book from his briefcase and slipped it back into its slot, lining the spine precisely with volumes on either side. Upstairs, he turned his face to the shower spray, expecting the cascade to wash the migraine away. This time, it didn’t recede. He conjured up images of Roberta Lord’s last moments, but they didn’t generate any gratification.
Why? Is it because it was too fast? Too quick? Too easy? I need a different technique. A new challenge will boost stimulation. I want someone with spirit. Bolder. Sharper. Competitive.
A finger of expectation caressed his senses. Tomorrow he’d vacuum the garage car and begin another search. One more. In time for her anniversary.
Chapter 2
Tuesday, 8 January
Morning
‘Shit.’ Hugh Fallon stared at the mobile phone screen. ‘You won’t believe this.’
‘What?’ Eilish’s voice floated from the en suite.
‘Denis Wiseman phoned. I’m included in the selection for redundancy.’
Eilish stuck her head around the doorway, curling tongs clamped to her long, Irish-setter red hair. ‘But you said you were—’
‘I thought I was—’
‘God, Hugh. That’s … What’ll you do? How—?’
‘Denis said—’
‘Ask for an individual meeting, Hugh. Ask him to—’
‘—he said, on behalf of Pharma-Continental, thank you for your endeavours, and I wish to re-affirm our commitment to handling this process sensitively,’ Hugh quoted.
‘Christ. Over the phone?’ Eilish left the wand down. ‘That’s cold. Sounds like he’s reading from a prepared script. Forget Denis. Get Ferdia to—’
‘I’ll meet him in Mullingar, but—’
‘I’m way late, Hugh.’
Hugh frowned. ‘I get it. You’re in a rush, but Jesus…’ He pointed at the phone screen. ‘Do you have to go now? Can we talk this through?’
‘What can I do?’ Eilish spread her arms wide. ‘What do you want me to say when I don’t know what to say? Mum’s rung twice already. She’s afraid the bargains … sorry.’ Eilish shrugged, edged past Hugh and studied the contents of a free-standing wardrobe. ‘Oh, Ciara McGuire and I arranged a meal out tonight. Could be late when I’m back.’ She hand-flicked through half-a-dozen coats and removed a jacket from a hanger. ‘Look, talk to Ferdia. He’s got contacts. There must be someone who’ll … We’ll talk later if you’re awake.’
‘Course I will. How’d you expect me to sleep after—’
‘I know.’
‘Coffee?’
‘Don’t have time.’
‘I’ll clear the ice off your car.’
Hugh shivered in the freezing air and pushed a plastic ice scraper across Eilish’s windscreen. Another snowfall had been dumped on the Midlands overnight. Eilish rushed out, air-kissed Hugh in case, he supposed, he messed her make-up. She studied his tall frame, from the jet-black hair that fell in little whorls above warm brown eyes, to the shoes covered in slush. ‘Please tell me you aren’t going to a meeting looking like that.’
‘What?’ Hugh finger-combed his hair.
‘Not your hair. The clothes. You need a new suit.’
‘I’m jobless, Eilish. Spending is officially on hold until—’
‘Fine.’ Eilish’s hand sliced the air. She opened the Passat door, perched on the seat rim, and swapped high heels for flat pumps.
‘Careful driving,’ Hugh said.
‘You too.’ Eilish swivelled her legs into the car, shut the door and drove out.
Hugh sat into his own car, depressed the clutch and turned the key. Nothing. He pumped the accelerator, twisted the key again and the engine cranked once. Tried a third time, and it turned. An orange light he hadn’t seen before shone from the dashboard. He left the engine running and went indoors for coffee.
A group of hunched smokers clustered outside Pharma-Continental.
They sucked in nicotine with aggressive, jerky movements, bodies tight as taut springs, ready to attack at the slightest provocation. Hugh wished he still smoked. Inside, he asked the switchboard operator if Denis Wiseman was available.
‘Sorry, Hugh. He isn’t here.’
‘Human Resources?’
‘In a meeting.’
‘Ferdia?’
‘On his way. Are you one of—?’
‘Yeah.’
The canteen atmosphere was thick with tension. Anxiety and worry etched across furrowed brows, and expressions ranged from ashen-faced shock to red-faced rage. Hugh observed and listened to colleagues jostle for attention.
‘Some reward for pay cuts, dude.’ Ronan Lambe’s usual boy-band smile had disappeared. An Iron Maiden T-shirt clung to his wiry frame. He’d joined the company before Christmas as a web designer and tech support. Now he sat hunched in a chair, another jobless statistic. From a quick headcount, Hugh estimated a third of the workforce were present: sales, customer service, marketing, IT. Every department had felt the redundancy knife’s cut.
A Mercedes swung into a No Parking zone. Hugh watched Ferdia Hardiman uncoil from the driver’s seat, a mobile phone clamped between his shoulder and ear. Ferdia flicked a cigarette butt into the sludge, stretched and braced himself against the car, coaxing cramped leg muscles to function, and to relieve back pain—a souvenir from years as a lock in Ganestown’s rugby team. He’d worked in Pharma-Continental for thirty years, rising through the ranks and now, aged forty-eight, held the title of National Sales Manager. He’d appointed Hugh as a regional manager four years earlier, and even with a twenty-year gap between them, the two men formed a friendship. A year into his new position, Ferdia introduced Hugh to his young sister, Eilish.
Ferdia plodded towards the entrance and Hugh moved to intercept. Before he reached the inner door that led to reception, it sprang forward. Ferdia ducked under the lintel and barged through, his physique filling the door frame. A smell of cigarette smoke and peppermints wafted around him. He had russet-grey hair, wayward as a 1970s rocker, a boxer’s hairline scars under both eyes, a badly realigned nose and a bruise the colour of eggplant on his right jaw. He ended the phone conversation and nodded at Hugh. ‘Feckin’ taxi drivers. Lookit the state of my trousers. There I was, motoring along nice ’n’ steady, and there’s this fella in a Mondeo, in the outside lane, chattin’ a young wan in the back seat. Next minute, he crosses into my path and clipped my front wing, the gobshite.’ Ferdia peeled off his tie, ro
lled it into a fireman’s hose reel and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. ‘Well, Jaysus, I swerved, blasted the horn an’ tried to straighten the Merc. Dropped my sandwich, an’ the phone landed in the coffee cup between my legs.’ Ferdia rubbed his crotch. ‘Big John and the twins almost got scalded. Feckin’ taxi drivers.’
‘Least of our worries, Ferdia. This redundancy—’
‘Yeah. Caught me on the hop too. Only saw your name last night when I got the full list. You know what multinationals are like; they keep their cards close. Don’t worry. You’ll be grand.’
‘Grand? WILL I? God almighty. I’m redundant. This is the complete opposite to grand. I need a wage. I’m stretched beyond breakpoint.’
Ferdia held up a hand. ‘I’ve asked Denis to reconsider, and—’
‘That’s it?’
‘And I’ve—’
‘Guess how that’ll work out, Ferdia? Denis phoned me this morning. I mean, if you heard what he … Jesus.’
‘So he still hasn’t figured out a good way to deliver bad news, huh? But I’ve—’
‘A face-to-face discussion with him would be a start.’
‘Yeah, but I’ve—’
‘I. Need. Money,’ Hugh pushed closer to Ferdia. ‘Whatever annual holidays I’ve left, I want them now. I have to find a job.’
‘Willya listen?’ Ferdia said. ‘That’s what I’m saying if you let me get a word in edgeways. I’ve had a chat with Charlie. We’re meeting him in the morning. He’s got a short-term gig for you.’
‘Charlie McGuire?’
‘Yeah.’
Hugh knew Charlie, Ferdia’s brother-in-law. From a base in Mullingar he’d purchased premises in other Midland towns and changed the original hardware shop format to lifestyle stores. The double wammy of big-box competitors with buying clout, coupled with a recession, caused a backslide and McGuire’s never recovered. Now, it was on the rocks.
‘And I’ll put out a few feelers,’ Ferdia added. ‘Bound to be something stirring. I’ll book us into a hotel for tonight, and we’ll—’
‘I’ll drive back to Ganestown. I can’t afford—’
‘You’re not driving thirty miles home and travel back here tomorrow,’ Ferdia said. ‘No point in this weather. And it’ll suit if you drive me home afterwards. I’ll borrow wheels from a friend for a few days. Relax, lad. I’ll bury the hotel bill in expenses. We’ll talk tonight over a jorum of single malt.’
‘What’s the job with Charlie? His stores are on the brink of … How can—?’
‘Later. Look, I’ve no idea when I’ll get outta here, and I need to get the motor to a garage. We’ll get you sorted. It’ll be grand. Trust me.’
Ferdia pushed open the canteen door and stood sturdy as an oak, while the braying hordes circled. Panic and survival instincts transformed docile employees into a feral mob. Ferdia lowered his voice, compelling the clamouring crowd to listen. ‘It’s a bad day. Hadn’t a notion ’twould hit us to this extent. Soon as I get more information, I’ll answer—’
‘Fuck answers.’
‘We want our jobs,’ Hugh said. ‘End of story.’
Other strident voices swamped Hugh’s words.
‘Why’re you so anxious?’ John McGinley, North-West’s regional manager, fixed hostile eyes on Hugh. His body bristled with antagonism.
‘What makes you say—?’
‘Everyone knows Ferdia’s got a wee soft spot for you, seeing as you’re gonna marry Eilish. Hah. Guess who’ll get a cushy number in the reshuffle? Keep it in the family.’
Hugh pushed his chair away. ‘Piss off, John.’
‘Where’s the Wiseman dude?’ Ronan Lambe asked.
‘Off-site.’
‘Why isn’t he here? He sees us as a cost, dude, not a business asset. He’s—’
‘Yeah. He’s a great man to tell us people are the company’s biggest strength, and then this—’
‘Wiseman my arse,’ McGinley’s focus diverted, and an outburst of voices erupted, unified against the CEO. ‘Bet he hasn’t lost his job.’
‘Yeah. It’s all his fault.’
‘A monkey could run this place better than the current ape. When business is good, praise the captain. When the downturn comes, sack the team. Never a word about shite executive decisions—’
‘Yeah, Wiseman needs to go …’
Hugh left an update on Eilish’s voicemail and cancelled the car service he’d arranged. In the canteen, post-mortems got conducted in an atmosphere of benevolent hostility. Conversations became confrontational. Hugh spoke to and commiserated with members of his sales team, and by afternoon, he could see the early stages of a transformation from rage to acceptance, as axed groups clung together for support. They made assumptions and speculated how territories would get carved up. Rumours mutated into facts. Theories got debated, dissected, discarded and by evening, nobody was any the wiser.
Evening
Charlie McGuire’s mobile buzzed, breaking his concentration.
He picked it up. ‘Hello, Dorothy.’ His eyes returned to a spreadsheet and the column of figures he’d highlighted with a red marker.
‘Charlie? Hope I’m not interrupting.’
Charlie sat back and looked at the peninsulas of folders scattered round the office floor. ‘Not at all, Dorothy.’
‘Good. You’ll say I’m a forgetful old fuddy-duddy, but—’
‘Never, Dorothy.’
‘—you’ll never guess what’s happened. One of my paintings is missing. Stolen.’
‘No. When? How?’
‘Friday last. Right from under my nose.’
‘Impossible? You must’ve mislaid it.’
‘I know exactly where it was when Hattinger’s people finished the inventory. I’ve spent all weekend and yesterday searching. My McKelvey’s gone.’
‘Perhaps it’s—’
‘I’ve already tackled Ambrose Hattinger and threatened him with legal—’
‘Are you sure that’s wise? Without proof or—?’
‘Course I’m sure. And to shut me up, he’s agreed to pay for an independent consultant to help locate the piece and authenticate it.’
‘Why would he—?’
‘Because A, I’m a good client. B, he wants to keep me sweet, and C, he expects to make a fortune when I decide the auction date. His people were the last ones near it. He’s well aware I’ll move heaven and hell to get my precious painting back. All my contacts are on holidays, away from this cursed weather. With your connections, Charlie, you must know someone who can liaise—’
‘I don’t—’
‘—with Hattinger’s and validate my McKelvey when it’s found.’
‘Dorothy, I bet the painting’s in your house somewhere … Tell you what, Malcolm’s girlfriend, Sharona Waters, she’s an art graduate—’
‘Perfect.’
‘—works part-time as an exhibition co-ordinator and tour guide with the National Art Gallery—’
‘I’m a patron.’
‘I know. Sharona wants to set up her own gallery and—’
‘I like her already. When will she be free?’
‘God, Dorothy, you’ve no patience. I’ll ask her. Maybe she’s not interested in—’
‘Well, get her here as soon as possible, Charlie. She can link up with Hattinger’s manager, Jana Trofimiack. That’s J-A-N-A. T-R-O—’
‘You can give Sharona the details if she—’
‘Fine. Oh, did you give Ferdia his tickets for the Ball?’
‘I’m meeting him tomorrow.’
‘Tell him the first dance is mine. Must dash, Charlie. Say hello to Ciara and Malcolm for me. And call me the minute you hear from Sharona.’
‘That’s assuming she’s—’
‘Bye, Charlie. See you Saturday.’
Charlie sighed, scrolled through phone contacts and pressed Sharona’s number.
Night
Eilish’s mind was miles away as she spun into Ciara McGuire’s driveway.
From
the garden, a barrel-bodied snowman stared from the grey gloam. Ciara’s son, David, had been busy. Eilish sat, marshalled her thoughts, then marched towards the house, manufactured a smile and pressed the bell. Ciara opened the door, and Eilish pirouetted in front of the full-length mirror in the hallway: ‘Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all?’
‘Mirror, mirror, shiny glass, tell me that is not my ass,’ Ciara replied. ‘You look fantastic. Glowing. Nice dress.’
‘Thanks. Bought it today in Galway. A simple LBD. Your basic black. God,’ she studied her reflection, ‘I’m so pale,’ and breezed by her friend into the kitchen.
Ciara sniffed. ‘New perfume?’
‘Jo Malone. Like it?’
‘Love it. And the jacket?’
‘Cavalli. Feel it. Guess how much it cost?’
‘A lot, I’d say. I should’ve been a teacher too. Or did you win the lottery? Wow. Nice shoes!’
Eilish lifted a leg and pointed her toes. ‘My latest most valuable possessions. These are Jimmy Choos. Got them today too. Aren’t they beautiful?’
‘Yeah, but will they stop bloody blisters? Why can’t a designer produce stylish low heels?’
‘Bliss, not blisters. Beauty before comfort, Ciara. Time heals all wounds.’
‘And stilettos wound all heels. Quick coffee?’ Ciara offered.
‘Okay.’
‘What’s new?’
‘Hmm?’
‘What’s—?’
‘Oh, not much.’ Eilish slipped off her jacket, hung it on the back of a chair and left a red clutch bag on the counter. She leaned over the worktop and picked up a book. ‘On a positive note, it looks like this weather will keep the school closed for another week. God bless burst pipes.’
‘Lucky you.’
‘Yeah.’ Eilish riffled pages. ‘Since when did you need to consult a diet book?’
‘Last week. Payback for a month of too many chocolate Kimberleys.’ Ciara spooned coffee into mugs.
Eilish appraised the slim brunette, dressed in palazzo pants, Lacoste shirt and a narrow shawl. ‘Rubbish. You look smart, cool … Um, if you pack away that furry stole till next years’ parties, you’re good to go.’