Single Obsession

by Des Ekin

  ‘Surname. And please, don’t ask what my first name is. I never tell anyone that. Would you like something to drink? Tea, coffee?’

  ‘Coffee would be terrific. Thanks.’

  He lifted the phone. ‘Claire? Could you get us a pot of coffee? And maybe some of those oaty biscuits, please?’ He winked at Mags, as though inviting her to share in some forbidden pleasure. ‘Great. Thanks.’

  Mags was leafing through a file of back copies. ‘How long have you been the editor of Street Talk?’ she asked suddenly.

  ‘Just over two years.’

  ‘Dr Macaulay tells me it was just another Dublin event guide when you took it over,’ she said. ‘But you transformed it into a shit-hot investigative news magazine.’ She flicked through the pages, pausing here and there to read a headline, then glanced up and studied his face curiously. ‘I have to say, I was expecting somebody a lot older.’

  Hunter shrugged.

  ‘What age are you, anyway? Twenty-six, twenty-seven?’

  He laughed. ‘You can be my PR agent any time. I’m thirty-two.’ He noticed her surprise. He was used to being mistaken for a younger man, and now that he’d passed the thirty mark it didn’t annoy him the way it used to when he was in his mid-twenties and was constantly refused entry to pubs. There had been a time when he’d resorted to cropping his hair in a severe military style, wearing glasses he didn’t need, and cultivating a cynical scowl, all in a desperate bid to make people take him seriously. But now he didn’t care any more. His brown hair was allowed to flop over his forehead, the way it grew naturally, and he didn’t try to suppress the student-ish grin that made him look both friendly and apologetic at the same time.

  Mags had returned to the file of magazines. ‘All these big stories,’ she said. ‘The political corruption thing. The gun-smuggling thing. The planning thing. You broke all those stories first?’

  ‘Yes. All the other newspapers followed them up. We didn’t always get the credit.’ He lifted a pen and notebook. ‘And talking of stories, Mags, I want to hear yours. Let’s get down to business.’

  MAGS Jackson was a model witness. She stuck to her story about Kate Spain’s abduction, and no matter how many times Hunter took her over it, she didn’t change a single detail. She was perfect.

  Only one thing bothered him: her accent. He was usually very good at pinpointing regional accents, but this one eluded him like a half-forgotten memory: it was nasal, like Belfast, but slightly singsong, like Cork. He couldn’t place it at all.

  He’d been typing as she talked, and when she’d finished he pressed the print button to produce a hard copy of her statement.

  ‘That’s great, Mags. Now’ – he smiled apologetically to let her know it wasn’t personal – ‘I’m going to have to ask you for some identification. Driving licence? Passport?’

  She was already shaking her head. ‘I don’t drive and I’ve never been abroad. How about a bank card?’ She fished in her handbag. ‘And here’s an electricity bill.’

  ‘That’ll do.’

  He took the electricity bill and confirmed the name and address. Margaret Jackson, 15 Ardee Terrace, Passage North, Co. Athmore. No problem there.

  ‘Have you a phone number at home?’

  Mags shook her head again. ‘No. It’s a flat. We share a payphone in the hall, but the landlords wouldn’t take kindly to the sort of calls I get late at night, so I never use it. Contact me on my mobile instead.’ She wrote down the number. ‘Oh, and do me a favour,’ she said. ‘Don’t let on to anyone that I’m a hooker. I do part-time work in a library in the next town – as a sideline, you understand.’

  Hunter handed back the documents and nodded. ‘We’re both in businesses that require discretion,’ he said. ‘Ah! Here’s our coffee.’

  A tall, willowy woman had appeared in the doorway, carrying a tray of coffee and biscuits. ‘Thanks, Claire.’ Hunter was already on his feet, relieving her of the tray. ‘Mags Jackson, this is Claire Hermitage, my personal assistant.’

  Claire shook Mags’s hand and smiled beatifically. Hunter found himself smiling, too. Claire might possess the body of a supermodel and the sort of long blond hair you normally never see outside shampoo adverts, but the most unforgettable thing about Claire was her smile. She had a cryptic Mona Lisa smile that gave her an air of unflappable serenity. Some of the bitchier women in the office attributed this inner peace to everything from Prozac to pregnancy. The reality was less colourful. Claire practised TM twice a day, and the meditation made her twice as efficient and yet twice as relaxed as any of her colleagues.

  ‘While you’re here, Claire, I’d like you to witness Mags’s signature on her statement. That okay with you, Mags?’

  ‘Sure. No problem.’

  Mags borrowed Hunter’s pen and signed the document.

  ‘Total secrecy on this, Claire. As usual.’

  Claire nodded as she signed her name on the statement.

  ‘Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must remain silent,’ she quoted brightly as she breezed out of the office, somehow managing to leave her enigmatic smile floating behind her in the air like the Cheshire Cat in Alice in Wonderland.

  Mags stood up. ‘One question before I go,’ she said. ‘Will you speak to Joseph Valentia before you print this?’

  ‘Yes. We’d never publish such serious allegations about him without giving him a chance to reply.’

  ‘It’s just that I’m afraid of him. Of what he might do.’ She shifted uneasily. ‘Now that I’ve given my name and address to the police, he would know where to find me.’

  ‘I can understand your concern.’

  ‘So I’ve been staying away from my flat for a while,’ she said. ‘Here and there. With various girlfriends, boyfriends, around the place. But you can always get me on my mobile. And I’ll phone you every day just to keep in touch.’

  ‘That’s fine. Just so long as I know where to contact you. And, Mags – don’t worry. You’re doing the right thing.’

  ‘I know I am.’ She smiled hesitantly. As their eyes met, he saw her expression waver. For a second, it seemed as though she was about to tell him something else.

  Then the moment passed and they shook hands in a formal goodbye.

  The woman walked off down the corridor, but after a few steps she turned and came back. Hunter noticed with astonishment that her hard eyes were brimming with tears.

  ‘Promise me, Hunter,’ she said. ‘Promise me you won’t let him get away with it.’

  MARK Tobey stood at Hunter’s office window, high above Baggot Street, and watched the tiny figure of Mags Jackson melt into the multicoloured swirl of pedestrians.

  ‘Hunter,’ he said, ‘I thought you had better taste than that. I just passed her on the stairs and, quite frankly, I gave her a wide berth. Can I take it you’re calling in the fumigators? If not, you don’t honestly expect me to sit in that chair?’

  Hunter didn’t look up. He was used to his news editor’s histrionics. Mark’s parents had been actors, members of an old-fashioned touring repertory company, and as a child he had learned to play up every situation. But as many people had found to their cost, his rather precious mannerisms masked an underlying character that was hard and sharp as flint.

  ‘Calm down, Mark,’ Hunter said at last. ‘So Mags is a prostitute. So what? Doesn’t mean she’s got leprosy.’

  Mark walked slowly over to the corner water-unit and helped himself to a cup of mineral water. He took his time. He was a thin man whose close-cropped black hair, sharp nose and nervous, jerky movements gave him the appearance of a predatory dinosaur from a Spielberg movie.

  ‘What did you say her name was?’ he asked at last, tempting fate by sitting down on the contaminated chair. He crossed his legs and, as usual, his left foot began jerking up and down in agitated metronomic twitches.

  ‘Mags. Mags Jackson. She lives in Passage North.’

  Mark nodded slowly and stroked the beard he cultivated to disguise his long, pointed chin. ‘
She would, wouldn’t she. And what’s she doing here, exactly? Did you forget to pay her last night, or something?’

  His foot was twitching like a demented marionette.

  ‘She’s got a story,’ said Hunter. ‘Possibly the biggest story you and I are ever likely to encounter in our lifetimes.’

  He handed him Mags Jackson’s statement.

  ‘I’m not saying Joseph Valentia killed Kate Spain, Mark,’ he said finally. ‘He might just have been one of the last people to see her alive. I’m not even saying that Mags Jackson’s story is true. Not yet. All I’m saying is that it’s worth checking out.’

  ‘Worth chucking out, you mean.’ Mark tossed his plastic cup into the metal wastebin with a resounding clunk. ‘The whole thing is patently a tissue of fantasy. Come on. It’s ten past two already. I suppose I’d better allow you to buy me lunch before you lose all your money to Valentia in the libel case of the century.’

  They walked the short distance to Doheny & Nesbitt’s pub and manoeuvred themselves into a corner seat with plates of sandwiches and pots of tea.

  ‘The problem is, I really need this story,’ Hunter confessed. ‘Addison’s been leaning on me to produce a really good exclusive for the tenth anniversary edition.’

  Mark Tobey spread his hands dramatically. ‘For goodness sake, Hunter, why don’t you tell him that he’s the publisher and you’re the editor and that he should keep his nose out of editorial decisions?’

  Hunter smiled ruefully. ‘If only life were that simple.’ He poured his tea. ‘He keeps reminding me that our last four cover stories weren’t exactly earth-shattering.’

  Mark raised his eyes to heaven and gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘This is a small country,’ he said. ‘Major stories don’t come every week. What does he want, scandal on tap? Hot and cold running Watergate?’

  ‘Probably,’ said Hunter. ‘But I’ve got a gut feeling about this one. By the law of averages, I’m due a break. I’ve had a run of bad luck recently. Good stories collapsing all over the place.’

  Mark raised a cautionary finger. He reached into his pocket and flipped a coin in the air. It fell noisily on the ancient mahogany table and rattled to rest.

  ‘When you flip a coin, what are the odds of it coming up heads?’ he demanded.

  ‘Easy,’ said Hunter. ‘Fifty-fifty.’

  ‘Right. If you flip a coin twenty times, and each time it comes up heads … when you flip that coin again, what are the odds of it coming up heads?’

  ‘I give up,’ said Hunter, smiling. ‘Millions to one?’

  ‘Fifty-fifty,’ said Mark. ‘Exactly the same as they were the first time.’

  ‘Very interesting,’ said Hunter. ‘Your point being …?’

  Mark spread his spindly arms wide in a gesture of revelation. ‘That, just because you’ve had a lousy run of stories recently, it doesn’t mean that this one won’t be a bummer, too.’

  Hunter shook his head and took a bite of his sandwich.

  ‘Just warning you, matey.’ Mark delicately dabbed some mayonnaise over the cheese in his sandwich. ‘Don’t touch it with a barge pole. Walk away. Don’t do it.’

  ‘Come on, Mark. Can’t do any harm to make a few inquiries.’

  ‘If you insist,’ the news editor said reluctantly. ‘Where d’you want to start?’

  Hunter thought for a moment. ‘First, we’ll compare notes on Valentia,’ he said. ‘Let’s go over everything we know about his background – anything at all that could shed some light on this business.’ He glanced up at Mark. ‘You first.’

  ‘What do I know? What you know, what everyone knows. He was born in Passage North, when? Fifty, fifty-one years ago. Son of a civil servant, Andrew Valentia. Andrew worked at the County Council office and eventually rose to take the top job there. Young Joe upped and went to America as soon as he left school.’

  Mark frowned.

  ‘After that, his life is a bit of a blank,’ he admitted. ‘At one stage he’s just another no-hoper working the building sites in Boston, then he emerges a few years later as a millionaire. Nobody’s quite sure how. Ask Joe himself, and he’ll be more than happy to tell you how he pulled himself up by his own bootstraps through sheer hard work, living proof of the American dream.

  ‘Mind you, the cynics aren’t buying that story. Over the years, there have been plenty of dark stories about Mafia links, and gun-running for the IRA, even drugs, but nothing’s ever been proven, and personally I’ve never believed any of it – oh, shit.’

  He wiped a drop of mayonnaise from his tie.

  ‘All we know is that every so often, Joe would arrive back home to Passage North on a visit, and he’d be greeted as a hero,’ he continued. ‘He bought his beloved dad a new Beemer and a house on the hill. Said it was the least he could do for the man who raised him straight and true, and educated him in the right values of thrift and industry.

  ‘Meanwhile, he got himself married. To Ruth Utrillo, wealthy Washington debutante, incredibly well-connected with top people on the far-right wing of American politics. The gossips say it’s a marriage of convenience, but it can’t have been that chaste, since they had two kids, both long since grown up – Joey Junior works as a lawyer in some big US Government agency, Charley trained as a lawyer too, but didn’t like it and went into acting instead.’

  ‘And meanwhile, Joe was developing a taste for politics,’ Hunter prompted.

  ‘Yes. Under the influence of Ruth’s family, he went deeper and deeper into the politics of the religious right wing. He bought up one of those fundamentalist radio stations in the Deep South and used it to propagate his own brand of old-time religion and racism over the airwaves. Before long, he became the main spokesman for the fanatical wing of the anti-abortion campaign.’

  Hunter nodded. Valentia’s views on abortion were extreme and uncompromising.

  ‘And it was also around that time,’ said Mark, ‘that Joseph Valentia began to develop this dark and inexplicable fixation with single mothers.’

  EMMA felt a pang of guilt as she kissed her son goodbye. Normally Robbie would skip happily into his afternoon crèche, but today he seemed exceptionally clingy and fretful, almost as though he was picking up and amplifying Emma’s mood of anxiety and apprehension.

  It had been a tense, frustrating morning. Emma had arrived early for her appointment at the police station and had been kept waiting for nearly an hour.

  The moment she was ushered into the office of Detective Sergeant George Arkwright, she knew she was wasting her time. Arkwright was the same officer who’d taken the statement from Mags Jackson, and he was known locally as an ardent admirer of Valentia and his policies.

  The detective, a large barrel-chested man in his early forties, had sat tight-lipped and motionless as she told him about her experience in the conference hall and the possible connection between Kate Spain and the two other women. Then, thanking her for her interest, he had shown her straight to the door.

  ‘You’ll check it out?’ she’d asked as she left.

  Arkwright stared at her with undisguised contempt. ‘We’ll give it the attention it deserves,’ he said.

  Now, four hours later, Emma had the irrational feeling that her movements were being monitored.

  On her way back from the crèche, she took a detour to the garage for petrol. There was a red Honda motorbike behind her, a few car-lengths back. It took exactly the same circuitous route.

  She heaved a sigh of relief when the Honda pulled in to the garage and drew up at the air pumps on the other side. Coincidence, she told herself. She would have to keep a tighter rein on her imagination. Stop jumping at shadows …

  There was a long queue at the cash desk. By the time she re-emerged, she was surprised to find the Honda still there. The rider had taken off his full-face helmet and was tinkering at the engine.

  He was a thickset man with wiry hair and a Roman nose. As she passed, he swung around towards her and Emma started with surprise. The right side of his face was
disfigured by a huge red birthmark, the sort that used to be described as a port-wine stain. There was a long stain above, and a smaller one beneath, sweeping across his eye and cheek at an angle to form a diagonal exclamation mark. Combined with his Roman nose, it gave the ominous impression of an Indian warrior in full battle-paint.

  She felt the man’s eyes following her as she climbed into the BMW and drove off. All the way back to the clinic, she kept a wary eye on her rear-view mirror – but the Honda motorbike was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘HE thinks single mothers are responsible for all the evils of society,’ Mark Tobey was explaining. ‘They encourage irresponsible fathers, they rear equally feckless sons, and their daughters grow up to become single mothers themselves. They spread a virus that threatens to destroy our civilisation. At least, that’s the way Joseph Valentia sees it.’

  Hunter and Mark were walking slowly back towards the Street Talk office. It was only mid-afternoon, but already dusk was falling over the city and a chill wind was blowing from the mountains in the west.

  ‘Utter bilge, of course,’ Mark continued, ‘but try telling that to his supporters. A few years ago, Valentia returned permanently to Ireland and formed his own political party. In its very first election, it won six seats and held the balance of power. So Valentia agreed to join a coalition and was immediately elevated to the role of deputy leader of our nation, second only to our beloved Taoiseach, our wonderful Prime Minister, Orla Byrne.’

  They entered a Georgian doorway, nodding to the security guard as they passed.

  ‘But Valentia became the real power behind the throne,’ Hunter prompted.

  ‘Yes. Right from the start, it was a case of the tail wagging the dog. Joe went on a right-wing rampage, cutting welfare, demonising single mothers. And Orla Byrne was powerless to stop him.’

  ‘Why? Her party’s much bigger than his.’

  ‘Survival, Hunter. She needs his six votes, or she’s history. You don’t get second chances at her age.’

  His voice echoed up through five storeys as they climbed the stately stairway towards the Street Talk office. At the first landing, Mark paused for breath.