by Des Ekin
Hunter was too astounded to respond.
‘Don’t sweat it, my man,’ Addison said consolingly. ‘I’m not holding it against you. But this is what happens to executives who put their family lives ahead of their careers.’
‘YOU have to go back,’ said Emma.
‘I can’t do that.’
‘You have to,’ she repeated. ‘Your reputation is at stake. Your whole career could be too. It’s only lunchtime, Hunter, you could be back in Dublin by seven. Hold a press conference or something. Fight back! Give your side of the story. If you don’t, they’ll eat you alive.’
Hunter gave Robbie another push on the garden swing. The little boy shrieked with delight as he soared higher.
‘I can’t leave you and Robbie,’ Hunter said. ‘Not at a time like this.’
‘He’ll be fine now that Chato Cook has left town,’ she assured Hunter. ‘The cops reckon the creep will lie low in Dublin until the heat dies down.’ She made a funny face at Robbie, who squealed with laughter. ‘They believe he was working alone and I think they’re right – I was getting some scary phone calls for a while, but they’ve all stopped now. Go back to Dublin, Hunter.’
He pushed Robbie again, more gently this time. ‘I don’t know,’ he said.
‘It’s probably best that you don’t stick around in Passage North, anyway,’ she said. ‘There’s a bad atmosphere around the town. A sort of dangerous tension. People are furious at Street Talk for bad-mouthing their local hero. If they find out the editor’s right here in town, you could be facing a lynch mob.’
‘Oh, come on.’
‘I’m deadly serious, Hunter. They’re outraged over what you said about Valentia, but at the same time they’re not sure how much truth is in the article. They’re ambivalent, but they don’t want to admit it. It’s a classic formula for mob hysteria.’
Hunter grunted with exasperation. ‘How many of them have even read the article? The local newsagents are refusing to sell it.’
‘Which makes it even more enticing. It’s being photocopied and passed around, like some forbidden religious tract.’
He stopped pushing. ‘Did you hear any theories about Valentia’s whereabouts?’ he asked.
Emma shook her head. ‘There’s one rumour that he was seen swimming out to sea. Others say he’s fled the country. The truth is that nobody knows. That’s what makes the situation so volatile.’
Robbie hopped off the swing and ran towards the house.
‘There’s another reason you should go home,’ Emma said. ‘Jill will have heard the news. She’ll be worried sick about you.’
Hunter looked at her. He had the feeling that she understood everything, although her face remained expressionless.
She looked away. He continued to watch her as she buttoned up her navy waxed-cotton jacket. The image froze like a photograph. He knew he’d hold it in his memory for a long time, how she looked at that moment: the contrast of colours as her strawberry-blonde hair blew wildly against the bird’s-egg blue of a cold winter sky.
‘Emma –’
She looked at him directly. ‘Don’t, Hunter. Please don’t.’
‘But –’
‘Go,’ she said, giving him a quick hug and walking away. ‘Just go.’
ALL the way back to Dublin, Hunter’s mobile rang incessantly. When it became impossible to drive, he switched the phone off and monitored his dozens of recorded messages.
He answered only one: a call from his personal solicitor advising him that he was going to face a tough battle to keep possession of his home in the face of Jill’s application to begin the separation process.
‘I’ve already got the first letter from her solicitor,’ the lawyer said. ‘Basically, she wants to take over the house.’
Hunter winced. He loved that house, a red-brick Victorian terraced house with a back garden that went on forever. ‘She can’t do that. It’s my house as well as hers.’
‘That’s true. But she wants you out of it.’
‘This is ridiculous.’ Hunter applied his brakes fiercely as a farmer, without looking left or right, drove his tractor out of a laneway and took up residence in the narrow main road, travelling at 15mph and spattering Hunter’s windscreen with slurry.
‘Jill’s going to apply to the courts for possession of the family home,’ the solicitor continued. ‘You can counterclaim, of course, but it’s only fair to warn you that most cases end with the husband moving out and the wife staying. That’s just the way it is.’
‘Hang on a minute. I bought the damn house, long before we got married.’
‘Doesn’t matter. The law says half the house is hers. Remember that ceremony, with the ring and all that? The bit that says “with all my worldly goods I thee endow”?’
Hunter pulled out to overtake the tractor, squinting through the mask of slurry that was still spraying on to his windscreen. Being shat upon seemed to be his role in life these days. ‘So Jill gets the house, while I have to leave it all behind and move into a bedsit? And that’s supposed to be fair?’
‘It’s justice. Nobody said anything about fair.’
‘Wonderful.’
‘We’ll contest it, of course,’ said the solicitor. ‘But she’s throwing everything at you. Mental cruelty, failure to support her to her previous standard of living, adultery.’
‘Adultery?’
‘Says you continued a sexual relationship with Emma Macaulay after your marriage.’
‘That’s nonsense. I was never unfaithful to Jill.’
‘Just warning you that it won’t be clean and pretty,’ his lawyer said. ‘I’ll keep you informed. Oh, and by the way, congratulations on a great story, Hunter.’
‘Thank you.’
AT the roadside pub where he stopped for lunch, the widescreen TV was permanently tuned to the news channel. The same clips were repeated over and over again. One showed a tight-lipped official from Valentia’s party standing in front of a ‘Cancelled’ sign at an election rally.
Another showed a pale and equally unresponsive Ruth Valentia driving out of the gateway of her home in Passage North, ignoring the shouted questions from reporters.
Meanwhile, Orla Byrne, the Taoiseach, gave her unqualified support to Joseph Valentia in statements that carried more and more qualifications, and less and less conviction, as the day wore on.
With each news bulletin, the suicide theory appeared weaker and weaker. There were rumours that Valentia’s car had been spotted travelling across the border into Northern Ireland; eventually a reliable witness was able to confirm it.
The focus of investigations shifted eastwards, to the ports and airports around Belfast. Then, as evening drew in, Francis Xavier Fitzwilton scooped all his colleagues with a front-page story in the Mercury.
The same car, driven by a man answering Valentia’s description, had boarded a ferry at Larne and disembarked at the Scottish port of Stranraer. Both his entry and his exit had been clearly recorded on video.
What had once been speculation was now established as fact. Just hours before a crucial general election, one of the nation’s most powerful politicians had been linked to a murder – and he had responded by fleeing the country.
‘I WAS right, wasn’t I?’ Mark Tobey’s face was flushed with elation. ‘Valentia’s done a runner. The man is as guilty as sin. We’ve done it, Hunter. We’ve pulled off the biggest story of the millennium.’
Hunter returned his vigorous handshake. Mark’s enthusiasm was infectious. Nothing, not even the seven-hour drive he’d just endured, could dampen the heady, adrenalin-boosted excitement that coursed through every vein in his body right now.
‘Okay, better get inside.’ Mark glanced up and down the deserted street before ushering Hunter into his cottage overlooking Scotsman’s Bay in southside Dublin. ‘I wouldn’t go home until much later, Hunter. Every reporter in the city is looking for you.’
‘I know. They’ve been phoning me all the way from Passage North.’ Hunter thr
ew off his coat and sat down. ‘I’m deliberately avoiding them. All they want to know is Mags Jackson’s identity.’
‘So they can get her for themselves. They can forget it. She’s ours.’ Mark lifted a sheet of paper. ‘What we can do, what we should do, is release a statement to all media. I’ve done up a draft. What do you think?’
Hunter ran his eye over Mark’s press release. It was perfect.
Street Talk magazine was standing over its story. Hunter and Mark would be co-operating fully with the police. Allegations of political smear campaigns were totally unjustified: no rival political party had been involved in the article. Street Talk had merely performed its duty as an independent publication to uncover the truth in a matter of overwhelming public interest.
‘Is it okay?’ Mark seemed almost childishly anxious to please.
‘It’s great. It’s exactly right.’
‘Super. I’ll turn it into an e-mail and block-address it to everyone in the business. It’ll take only a few seconds … then we can concentrate on writing our acceptance speech for the Pulitzer Prize.’ He glanced up from his computer. ‘Isn’t technology wonderful?’
‘MINISTER in Murder Mystery Vanishes’, screamed one headline in the batch of newspapers that landed heavily on Hunter’s doorstep the following morning. ‘Valentia Flees after Death Link Claim’, said another. A third posed a cheeky challenge: ‘Val Vamooses! Where Are You, Minister?’
It was the morning of the general election, and the papers had gone to town on the Valentia story with a recklessness that would have given barrister Samuel Zeicker a heart attack.
None of them had any new information, Hunter realised as he scanned rapidly through the heap of broadsheets and tabloids. Most carried rewrites of the Street Talk story, together with some quotes from the press statement Hunter had circulated the previous night. As though to compensate for their lack of originality, they carried some very dangerous innuendoes linking Valentia directly to the murder of Kate Spain.
When the ballot boxes opened for business, Hunter stayed tuned to the hourly news bulletins. By late afternoon on polling day, one thing had become painfully obvious. The people of Passage North were voting with their feet – they were keeping them up on the sofa and watching TV.
The area had its lowest turnout in decades. Valentia’s supporters stayed away in droves. They withheld their votes in a sulky protest over the eccentric behaviour of their former idol, but kept their options open by refusing to vote against him, either. It was a classic cop-out, and it cost Valentia his seat.
By 10.30pm, with the ballots closed and the results of the first exit polls collated, the incredible results of the election were already clear. Valentia had lost his safe seat, and his party had been wiped out.
By eleven that night, it was obvious to Hunter that the Government had fallen. Deprived of Valentia and his party’s vital six seats, Orla Byrne would never manage to get the eighty-three votes necessary to obtain a majority.
But with the opposition consisting of a rag-tag mixture of smaller parties, nobody else would be able to form a government, either.
Orla Byrne would remain as caretaker boss until some sort of temporary coalition could be cobbled together.
And it was then, just as everyone had almost given up on him, that Joseph Valentia chose to make his comeback.
Chapter Eight
TV presenter Hugh Madden stiffened as his producer’s voice sounded through his concealed earphone. He glanced across the studio for confirmation. The producer nodded excitedly.
Madden took a sharp intake of breath and sat bolt upright. Although he was one of the most experienced presenters on Irish television, his heart began to pound and his hands began to sweat. He had a ridiculous urge, like some rookie novice, to straighten his tie and comb his fingers through his hair, even though he knew he was live on screen. He realised that the next few minutes were going to be the most important in his entire career. They would be beamed to TV stations all over Europe. They would be recorded, labelled and archived. They would become part of history.
He checked the studio clock: 11.57pm. His election-night special was due to wrap up in three minutes. He prayed that someone in control would have the sense to extend the programme.
‘If I could just interrupt you, Mr Floyd, for a moment.’ Madden raised his hand to cut off Bill Floyd, the leader of the New Ireland Socialist party, in mid-flow. ‘We have an important development.’
Madden’s trademark was his cool unflappability. He deliberately kept his voice calm, mellow, almost bored.
‘On this programme, we pride ourselves on being first to bring you the news,’ he said. ‘But sometimes we actually make news ourselves.’
He smiled directly into camera. ‘Just entering our studio, we have the man at the centre of the current controversy: Joseph Valentia. Minister, you’re very welcome.’
Camera Two focused on Valentia, who had taken a seat beside the open-mouthed Socialist. He wore a charcoal-grey suit with a tiny Pioneer pin, a cream shirt and a red silk tie. His wiry black hair was Brylcreemed into submission and even his sallow face seemed to radiate inner calm. This was no desperate fugitive from justice; he looked more like a man who’d just come back from his holidays.
‘Thanks, Hugh,’ he said, his face creasing into a smile. ‘It’s good to be back.’
‘Where have you been, Minister? We were all quite worried about you.’
Madden pitched his tone at just the right level: not breathless or panicky, just interested and slightly amused. The voice of a concerned host wondering why a dinner-party guest had disappeared into the bathroom for half an hour.
‘Actually,’ said Valentia, ‘I’ve been on a retreat.’
‘A retreat.’ Madden’s voice was even. He was determined not to be out-cooled.
‘Yes. A religious retreat. I found it extremely beneficial.’
The camera cut to Bill Floyd, who was staring at Valentia in sheer astonishment.
‘But Minister, you are aware there has been a general election in your absence?’ Madden reminded him with gentle good humour. ‘And that, while you were on your retreat, you appear to have lost your seat?’
He arched one eyebrow inquiringly.
‘Well,’ said Valentia, shifting to an even more relaxed position in his leather chair, ‘I realise that I owe an explanation and something of an apology – not just to the Taoiseach, or to my party officials, but directly to the plain people of Ireland. And to my family. That’s why I’ve come here tonight.’
What a pro, thought Madden. Through his earphone, the producer informed him that the programme was being extended. Damn right it was.
‘As you know,’ continued Valentia, ‘over the past few days I have been subjected to the most extraordinarily scurrilous allegations and vile libels –’
‘But is there any truth at all in these reports?’ Madden cut in. His terrier instinct was beginning to take over.
‘Of course not. They are totally, utterly false,’ said Valentia. ‘In fact, they are easily refuted.’
‘So why did you disappear, Minister? Why didn’t you stay here, refute the allegations, and save your seat?’
‘I don’t know.’ For the first time the voice faltered a little, and the camera zoomed in to a tight close-up. ‘The truth is that these allegations caused me so much pain and distress, in the middle of a very stressful election campaign, that I suffered what I can only describe as a personal crisis. Some might even call it a breakdown. I don’t know.’
The eyes fell, the lip quivered slightly, then stiffened with resolve. ‘When I heard that they planned to print these … these evil lies about me, I began to wonder why I had given up a thriving business career to enter politics. For the first time ever, Hugh, I regretted leaving my comfortable life in the USA to return to Ireland in some quixotic attempt to make my homeland a better place to live in. Was this the gratitude I was to receive for public service? To be smeared and sullied? I thought of my b
eloved wife, of the memory of my dear father … and I was so upset, I simply turned my back on the whole business and walked away. I knew I ran the risk of losing my seat; but, basically, Hugh, I just didn’t care. I needed to get away somewhere, to rest and think things over.’ His eyes lifted again, pleading for understanding.
Congratulations on an Oscar-winning performance, thought Madden. But you’re not going to get off that easily.
‘Let me get this straight, Minister,’ he said, adopting the gently probing tone that his interview victims always dreaded. ‘You suffered something of a breakdown … yet you still managed to drive all the way to Larne, book a ferry and travel to Scotland? Had you any idea where you were going?’
‘Of course I knew where I was going. I was travelling towards the place where I have always gone for comfort and succour: the holy island of Iona, off the west coast of Scotland. There, at a religious retreat centre dedicated to our own Saint Columba, I passed twenty-four hours in prayer and meditation before feeling strong enough to come home.’
‘Without informing even your wife of your whereabouts?’
Valentia nodded sadly. ‘That was the extent of my distress. And that, as I say, is why I have come here tonight. To apologise to my wife, to my friends, to my colleagues, to the ordinary people of Ireland. To apologise … for being human.’
‘Hang on,’ Bill Floyd burst in, loudly breaking the spell. ‘You’re talking as though you’re the victim here. Yet a young woman in your constituency has been brutally murdered, and according to a statement made to the police, you know something about her last hours.’
‘Fair question,’ smiled the presenter, like a chairman at a university debate.
‘And it deserves a fair answer,’ said Valentia. ‘Which is simply this.’ He took a long pause. ‘There never was any meeting between myself and the late Kate Spain on the night in question.’
For once, Madden was lost for words.
‘I met Kate Spain on one occasion only, and that was at my constituency clinic, in broad daylight, in the presence of my secretary,’ Valentia continued evenly. ‘I never met her at night. I never gave her a lift. All these allegations are completely false. They have no foundation in fact. They have simply been made up.’