by Des Ekin
‘But –’
‘Why have they been made up?’ prompted Valentia. ‘I don’t think we need an investigative journalist to find the answer to that one, do you? If we look at the ownership of the magazine in question, and the history of this owner’s business interests vis-à-vis my own business interests, it becomes very obvious.’
‘Let’s call a spade a spade,’ Bill Floyd said. ‘We’re talking about Simon Addison here. He’s the sole owner. Everybody knows that. And his editor, TS Hunter, is a highly respected journalist. Are you seriously saying they made all this up in order to embarrass you? Are you really asking us to believe all this?’
The studio producer squawked into Madden’s ear. ‘Getting into libel territory, Hugh. Be careful.’ This discussion was becoming dangerous.
‘Simon and I enjoyed a business rivalry for a long time,’ said Valentia. ‘I was under the impression that it had all ceased when I went into politics and gave up any direct involvement in business. But it appears that the rancour remains.’
‘Well, why don’t you sue him?’ Floyd challenged.
Valentia turned back to Madden. ‘I will indeed be taking legal action,’ he said. ‘Not only against Street Talk magazine, but against all the other national newspapers and broadcasting media that have since repeated the original allegations against me in any form whatever.’
‘Holy shit,’ the producer breathed into Madden’s ear. ‘That includes us.’
‘Since nearly every paper and broadcasting outlet in the land has done so,’ Valentia was saying, ‘I’ve been assured that such a legal action would occupy the courts for years and earn me many, many millions in damages.’
His sheer self-confidence left the entire studio stunned. This did not sound like a man who was bluffing.
Madden wished he could be a fly on the wall of every newsroom in town. Right now, there would be outright panic as front pages were changed, early editions were pulped and solicitors were dragged from their beds.
‘However,’ said Valentia, and he let the word hang for several seconds. The studio was totally silent. This wasn’t a debate any more. It was a one-man show.
‘However,’ he continued smoothly, ‘I am not a vindictive man, and I have better things to do than waste the next decade of my life in court. I will commence legal action against all the media outlets. But I will be prepared to withdraw this action, without demanding any damages or costs, provided they set the record straight and undertake not to repeat these allegations against me in any form whatever.’
Madden could practically hear the sighs of relief, all across the city.
‘Street Talk magazine is a different matter.’ Valentia’s voice turned hard. ‘This was not a simple mistake. This was a matter of malicious defamation. I will not demean myself to communicate directly with Simon Addison at all. But now, on air, in public, I intend to give him my terms for an out-of-court settlement.’
‘I hardly think it’s appropriate –’ began Madden.
‘Tuesday, 28 November,’ continued Valentia, ignoring him, ‘exactly five days from today. At 9.00pm precisely, I shall be waiting at the conference room in the Westcourt Hotel in Dublin. There, witnessed by the nation’s media, I shall expect Simon Addison to stand in front of me and apologise most humbly and sincerely for his actions. Then I shall have pleasure in accepting from him a payment which I think is substantial enough to serve as a punitive deterrent. That payment will be a sum of two million. Non-negotiable.’
Madden’s eyes widened. No one had ever got libel damages on that scale before. ‘You seem –’
‘Please hear me out,’ said Valentia. ‘I would like to make it clear how much of that money will go to me. The answer is: not a single penny. Mr Addison should make out a bank draft directly to Camp Valentia, the charitable fund which has always been closest to my heart.’ He looked around at Hugh Madden. ‘You were saying?’
The presenter stared at him, dumbstruck. Madden was a professional cynic, but he couldn’t think of a single ulterior motive behind the politician’s reaction. Valentia had founded Camp Valentia in honour of his father, but he had nothing to do with the running of it. It was an independent charity, scrupulously audited. Joseph Valentia clearly stood to gain nothing from this payment.
Here he was, a man who’d lost everything over the past few days, and he was behaving like a bloody Franciscan monk. There’s only one explanation, Madden thought rapidly. He really does have something to hide.
‘I was about to say, you seem very sure of your ground,’ he said carefully. ‘What if Simon Addison refuses? What if he says he’ll see you in court?’
Valentia shrugged, as though expecting the challenge. ‘I can understand your cynical reaction, Hugh,’ he said. ‘But it may give some indication of the strength of my position if I make three points.
‘Number one: the police are searching high and low for this anonymous young lady who allegedly witnessed me giving Kate Spain a lift in my car. I guarantee they will not be able to find her, for the simple reason that she does not exist. She is a figment of Simon Addison’s vengeful imagination.’
He paused. Someone had considerately placed a bottle of mineral water in front of him. He poured himself a glass, taking his time.
‘Number two: the car I was supposed to be driving was indeed rented by my family during that week. That was no secret – it was common knowledge in Passage North. But on the night in question, at the hour in question, it was not being driven around the town. It was parked in a locked garage at my home. I have a police witness who will testify to that.’
He paused so long that Madden thought he’d forgotten his final point.
‘And the third point?’ he prompted.
‘Point number three is the most important of all,’ said Valentia. ‘At eleven o’clock on the night of 20 October, according to Street Talk magazine, I was allegedly kerb-crawling near the docks of Passage North, offering young women lifts in my car. The facts are different. At eleven o’clock on that evening, I was engaged in a private meeting with someone else.’
‘Oh yes?’ Floyd’s voice was sceptical. ‘And who was that, then?’
‘Someone whose word I think even you would be prepared to accept,’ said Valentia smoothly. ‘The Bishop of Athmore, the Most Reverend Dermot O’Mara.’
WATCHING it all on TV in his house in Ranelagh, Hunter sat transfixed in his armchair as a slow, deathlike chill spread through his entire body. His brow was clammy with cold sweat and he was finding it difficult to breathe; he felt as though his entire chest was clamped in a metal vice. His phone had been ringing for the past twenty minutes, non-stop. He had ignored it.
Finally, as the closing credits rolled, he switched off the TV and phoned Mark Tobey.
‘Yes, of course I saw it,’ said Mark. ‘I’ve been trying to reach you for the past half-hour.’
‘I can’t believe it,’ said Hunter. ‘I can’t believe what I just heard.’
‘I can,’ said Mark, with an irritating smugness. ‘In fact, I half-expected it. Didn’t you? The cover-up has started, Hunter. It’s started big-time.’ His voice quickened. ‘All political scandals follow the same pattern. First there’s a simple cover-up, then a bigger cover-up operation to conceal the first one, and so on, and on, lie upon lie, until the whole rotten edifice finally collapses under its own weight.’
‘But he claims he was with Bishop O’Mara that night,’ shouted Hunter. ‘You can’t have a cover-up at that level. It’s just not possible.’
‘Wake up and smell the church incense, Hunter!’ Mark yelled back. ‘The Church would be the first to protect Valentia. Think about it. Thanks to him and his party, they’re back at the centre of political power for the first time in years. They’re not going to throw that away just because he killed a little bit of skirt. “Here’s your absolution, here’s your alibi, don’t do it again, now get back up on that platform and do your job, son.” That’s the way the Church worked alongside the Mafia in Italy, tha
t’s the way it worked alongside Mussolini and Hitler, that’s the way it’s always worked.’
Hunter’s head was spinning. He felt like a character in a Kafka story. Church and State, perjury in the highest places …
‘And what about the rental car?’ he reminded Mark. ‘Valentia says he’s got a cop who’ll swear it never left the grounds of his home that night.’
‘Sure he has,’ said Mark. ‘Just like he’ll find a dozen cops to swear there was never any statement from Mags Jackson. It’s easy to provide alibis in retrospect. He’s had plenty of time to cook them all up. This is the Establishment we’re talking about here, Hunter, or have you forgotten? Church, State, lawmakers, law-enforcers – they’re all part of one big organism. Attack it at a vital level and its skin will stretch, cover and heal itself. At any cost.’
Hunter ran his fingers through his hair and found it damp with sweat. ‘At least we’ve still got our main witness,’ he said, feeling a growing sense of unease even as he spoke the words. There had been a dread-inspiring note of certainty in Valentia’s voice when he’d predicted that Mags Jackson would never be found.
Mark gave a frustrated snort. ‘That’s why I’ve been trying to reach you. Have you given her name and address to the police?’
‘No. Not yet.’
‘Have you given it to anyone?’
‘Just Emma. Oh, and Claire, who witnessed her statement.’
‘Good. The fewer people who know, the better. The police in Passage North already know who she is, obviously, but it might take a bit of time to filter up through the ranks to the top. Maybe I’m being paranoid, Hunter, but I think she’s in terrible danger.’
Hunter fell silent as Mark’s meaning sank in. ‘You think they’d try to kill her?’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, stop being so bloody naïve, Hunter!’ Mark exploded. ‘These guys didn’t get where they are by being gentlemen. Do you know that eighty percent of all wealth is in the hands of one percent of the population? You don’t get that sort of power, and you don’t keep that sort of power, by fighting by the Queensberry Rules. You think they’d stop short at wiping out a hooker?’
‘Yes. I do think that.’
‘You heard Valentia. He predicted she’d never be found. And you know what? He’s right. Because she’s probably already lying in a ditch somewhere. If she’s not, you’ve got to get in touch with her right away, Hunter. Get her out of the country, into some safe house abroad. As far away as possible.’
Hunter said goodbye and cut the connection. He rose from his armchair and walked over to the window. He pulled the curtain back just slightly and looked out into his street, a quiet cul-de-sac off the main Ranelagh Road. He’d noticed an empty Hiace van parked there earlier, about fifty metres down the road on the opposite side. It was still there.
Hunter tried to shake himself out of it. This was how people went insane, imagining plots and conspiracies lurking around every corner. A van? So what? It probably belonged to one of his neighbours.
He picked up his phone and dialled Mags Jackson’s mobile number. He’d talked to her at least once a day since their first interview, sometimes two or three times a day, double-checking details and informing her of developments. Now he needed to warn her that she was in serious danger.
He frowned and pressed the redial button. Up until the day before, Mags had always answered on the first or second ring, even late at night. But now her phone just kept on ringing. Ringing and ringing, with nobody answering. Just like it had every time he’d rung her in the past twenty-four hours.
HE didn’t even hear the front door open. He didn’t hear the muffled sound of footsteps across the carpet. The first time he knew he had visitors was when the sitting-room door opened to reveal two figures standing in the darkened hallway.
He spun around, fists clenching instinctively, then relaxed. ‘Oh, it’s only you,’ he said with relief. ‘You took me by surprise.’
Jill crossed the sitting-room to the fireplace, half-ignoring him, as cool and impersonal as an office worker who’s found herself alone in the canteen with a colleague she can’t stand. She’d had her hair restyled and high-lighted, and she was wearing an expensive-looking black dress that reached almost to the knee and complimented her slight, slender figure. She looked absolutely stunning.
‘I wouldn’t have come,’ she said, her voice oddly formal, ‘only I thought you’d gone up to Passage North for a few days. To her. That’s what they told me.’
‘They were right. But I had to come back early.’ Hunter decided to adopt the same formally polite approach. With everything in the hands of the lawyers, there was nothing to be gained from heated personal arguments.
‘I just came back to collect a few things.’
‘That’s okay.’
‘I wasn’t asking permission.’ She walked across to the stereo unit and began sorting through the CDs. Clatter, clatter, slap. The sound of the plastic cases clattering into one another as she sorted through them, followed by the occasional slap on the wooden table of each CD she selected, was a sound Hunter found intensely depressing. It was as though she were sorting through the good times and the bad times of their relationship, with the bad times far outweighing the good.
‘We may be getting divorced,’ he said, ‘but I thought we might still behave decently to each other.’
‘Decency? That’s rich, coming from you, Hunter.’
He sighed. The voice behind him was slurring slightly on the sibilances. He knew Anya was drunk even before he turned around to see her, standing in the doorway, holding two large gin-and-tonics.
‘Decency?’ She crossed the room, lurching slightly, and handed one of the drinks to Jill. ‘After all these years, you’ve finally been caught out in one of your many deceptions, and I, for one, am not sorry.’
Jill had stopped her manic clattering to accept the drink. She turned and stared directly at Hunter for the first time. Her eyes had a haunted, frightened look.
‘Hunter, is it true?’ she burst out, suddenly. ‘What they’re all saying? That you made up a story to discredit Joseph Valentia just because he was a business rival of your boss?’
Hunter shook his head. ‘I can’t believe you’re even asking me that.’
The silence hung heavily in the room. He could tell that neither woman believed him.
‘Hunter, I don’t care what’s happened between us,’ said Jill. ‘Just tell me the truth. I need to know. Did you make up that story?’
‘Of course he bloody did,’ crowed Anya.
‘Anya, leave us alone!’ shouted Hunter.
‘Yes,’ said Jill, turning to her. ‘I think you should leave us alone, Anya.’
Hunter stared at his wife in surprise. It was the first time he’d ever seen her taking a stand against Anya.
The other woman drained her glass and left for the kitchen with a shrug of feigned indifference. ‘I’m going to freshen my drink,’ she said.
As the door slammed behind her, the atmosphere between them thawed slightly. Jill gave a frustrated toss of her head that seemed to hint she was beginning to tire of Anya’s constant interference.
‘The answer is no,’ said Hunter.
‘No, you didn’t concoct the story?’
‘Yes. I mean, no, I didn’t concoct the story. I swear I wrote that article in good faith, and to the best of my knowledge it’s true.’
Her eyes dropped, unable to meet his stare. ‘I just don’t know what to believe any more, Hunter. Anya says you’ve been totally discredited. She says you could even end up in jail.’
Hunter reached forward to take her hand. She didn’t resist. ‘Listen, Jill,’ he said gently, ‘I’ve never told you this before. I thought it would do more harm than good. But you need to know why Anya is holding such a grudge against me.’
Her eyes opened wide with apprehension. ‘Hunter, don’t …’
He paused, wondering whether this was the right time to drop the bombshell. Would there ever be a right t
ime? More to the point, would he ever get another chance?
He glanced over towards the sofa. Her eyes followed his and slowly, almost imperceptibly, her head began to shake: no.
My God, he thought to himself. She knows.
Jill held up her free hand to interrupt him. ‘Don’t go on, Hunter,’ she whispered. ‘I know already.’
‘But how …?’
‘I knew the morning after it happened. It’s okay. I forgave you. It’s got nothing to do with … with what’s happening now.’
For the second time that night, Hunter felt the solid ground give way under him, like shifting sand. ‘You … you forgave me?’ he asked hoarsely.
‘Yes.’ She slowly withdrew her hand. ‘Anya told me everything over lunch the next day. She said it was probably all just a mistake, that you were tired and confused after the flight back from our honeymoon and you thought she was me.’
‘What?’
Jill stared at him. ‘Oh, come on, Hunter, there’s no point denying it now. There’s nothing to be gained by it.’
She took a step backwards, increasing the distance between them.
‘What exactly did Anya tell you?’ he asked.
‘Just what happened. How you went to sleep on the sofa, and when she came over to wake you, to tell you she was going home, you started groping her all over and demanding sex. How she managed to fight you off and get away. No, listen’ – she wouldn’t let him speak – ‘don’t stay mad with her. She was very good about it, very understanding. She said she’d overlook it because it was completely out of character for you. God knows what would have happened if she hadn’t been so nice. She could have reported it.’
‘Reported it? You mean to the police?’ Hunter couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
‘Yes, to the police,’ said Jill, emphasising the words patiently. ‘I don’t know what made you behave like that, Hunter, and quite frankly, at this stage I’ve no desire to know. Maybe it was mistaken identity, or maybe you thought marrying me gave you sexual rights over my friend too, but the law would have regarded it as indecent assault.’