by Des Ekin
Samuel Zeicker, who’d remained silent so far, raised a well-manicured hand for silence. ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen. May I remind you that time is money. If I could just make a suggestion, I think it would be beneficial to leave the issue of blame to one side for the moment and address the thorny question of what you’re going to do about Valentia’s ultimatum.’
‘And what do you suggest we do?’ demanded Addison. ‘You’re the expert.’
Zeicker paced to the window and back again. ‘You want my learned opinion?’ he asked. ‘Give the nice man his two million and say thank you to him for not asking for more.’ He lit a cheroot and extinguished the match with short, violent waves of his hand. ‘I hate to say I told you so.’
‘What if we fight the case in court?’ Addison asked.
Zeicker shrugged. ‘You haven’t a leg to stand on. Valentia will demand punitive damages, not just compensation. The case is unprecedented, but I believe he’d get more than a million – one point five, maybe two. But that’s just the start. Even if you settled on the steps of court, legal costs would bring it to well over two million. If you go the whole distance, without lodging a similar sum in court, you’d have to pay costs on both sides. That could easily bring the total to four million.’ He smiled thinly. ‘I know I’m depriving myself of a seat on that wonderful gravy train, but my honest advice is to cut your losses and get out.’
‘Hang on,’ said Hunter. ‘What if –’
‘No, you hang on,’ said Zeicker loudly, in the hectoring tone he used to intimidate witnesses in court. ‘Strictly speaking, your fate is no longer any concern of mine, Mr Hunter. But if you take my advice, you’ll get yourself a good solicitor skilled in the areas of civil and criminal defamation. He might just be able to stop you spending the next six months slopping out in Mountjoy Prison.’
‘What?’
‘In this country,’ said Zeicker, ‘newspapers are rarely accused of criminal defamation. But, in theory, if a libel is particularly monstrous and likely to lead to a breach of the peace, the journalist who wrote it can be sent to prison.’ He leaned over and, with deliberate rudeness, blew a cloud of smoke in Hunter’s face. ‘I would be very nice to your former employer if I were you, Mr Hunter, because if Simon Addison does not slap his bank draft on that table in the Westcourt Hotel by nine o’clock on Tuesday, Valentia will attempt to press criminal charges and demand that both of you be put in jail.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ said Hunter. ‘He can’t do that.’
‘I bow to your superior wisdom,’ said the country’s leading expert. ‘But just humour me for a moment and assume he can. If that does happen, I shall be advising Simon Addison to defend himself by saying he didn’t know anything about this article until he read it on the news-stands on Wednesday.’ He coughed. ‘That is what you tell me, isn’t it, Simon?’ he called out in his courtroom voice.
Addison, still standing at the window, gave a muttered grunt of confirmation.
‘Sorry!’ shouted Zeicker, relishing the publisher’s obvious embarrassment. ‘Hearing’s not what it used to be! That is what you’re maintaining, isn’t it, Mr Addison? That you had no knowledge at all that this vile defamation was going to be published? That your editor acted totally independently?’ Simon swung around from the window and glared at Hunter. ‘Yeah!’ he yelled defensively. ‘That’s how it is. That’s what I’m saying, all right?’
Hunter just shook his head.
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said the barrister. ‘Then there should be no question of your having the dubious joy of sharing a cell with Mr Hunter and some twenty-two-stone psychopath.’ He yawned as though suddenly bored. ‘Now. Anything else I can help you gentlemen with?’
‘Yes,’ said Hunter. ‘Nobody’s even considering the possibility that our story might be accurate.’
‘Indeed, that is true, Mr Hunter. Nobody’s even considering the possibility.’ Zeicker turned his back on him.
‘And if I can prove it?’
‘Farmyard animals will fly all over County Athmore, you will save your otherwise doomed career, and you will save Simon Addison two million. My advice to Mr Addison remains the same: pay up, painful as it may be.’
‘Painful? It’s more than painful,’ said Addison. ‘It’ll destroy me.’ He sat down, his head and shoulders slumped in defeat.
‘I beg your pardon, Mr Addison,’ said Zeicker, ‘but if the gossip columns are to be believed, you could take two million out of petty cash and not miss it.’
‘Normally there would be no hassle,’ Addison muttered bitterly, as though he were talking to himself. ‘I can raise the money, all right. But last year I sank nearly all my cash into industrial real estate in Eastern European countries – factories, warehouses, that sort of thing. It should make me a lot of money when those countries are accepted into the European Union. But it’s a long-term thing. Short term, if I have to sell them to fund the two million, I’ll be screwed with exchange controls and I’ll lose a fortune. In fact …’ He looked up. ‘I’ll be bankrupted.’
‘But surely Street Talk is owned by a limited liability company?’ said Zeicker in surprise.
Tom Hinch shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not, Sam. It’s privately owned by Mr Addison. He’s personally liable for everything.’ He looked across at the publisher. ‘I’ve warned him many times …’
‘Yeah, right,’ said Addison heavily. ‘Why don’t you say “I told you so” as well?’
There was a long silence.
Hunter stood up decisively. ‘It’s not too late,’ he said. ‘I’m going to Passage North to find Mags Jackson. If I can persuade her to testify, we could still be in with a chance.’
Zeicker raised his eyes to the ceiling and said nothing.
‘Can anyone think of a better idea?’ Hunter challenged. He waited for a few moments. ‘I thought not.’
He flung the door open and walked out.
‘Hey, Hunter!’ Addison’s voice echoed down the corridor after him.
Hunter paused in his tracks.
‘You’re still bloody sacked.’
Chapter Ten
HUNTER shivered in his raincoat as he waited for the bus that would take him to Passage North. He huddled closer to the grey concrete wall, hoping it would protect him against the worst of the sudden winter squall that despatched battalions of rain-showers along the banks of the Liffey. The sharp darts of rain, driven almost horizontally along the open river by a chill westerly wind, attacked the skin like swarms of aggressive stinging insects. They pierced Hunter’s Burberry raincoat, working their way through the tough fabric and forcing entry through neck and sleeve openings. Water ran down his face and into the collar of his cotton shirt. His brown suede boots had soaked to black, and every time he moved, his feet squelched.
It was only midday, but already Dublin was shrouded in gloomy twilight. Car headlights emerged from the murky clouds of drizzle, surfing through muddy brown lakes, sending huge sprays of filthy water over bad-tempered pedestrians whose umbrellas were blown inside-out by the malicious, unpredictable wind.
Hunter cursed Simon Addison every time he thought of his own comfortable Lexus, immobilised by a yellow clamp at the office car park. Victor, the security man, had said he was very sorry, Mr Hunter, but he was just following instructions. He was also under strict orders not to let Mr Hunter leave the building until he’d handed over his car keys, his office keys, and his company mobile phone. He thanked Mr Hunter very much, wrote him a receipt, and promised that all the personal effects in his desk would be boxed, sealed and despatched to his house by courier van. There should be no need for Mr Hunter to come back to the building again, and he should not do so without appointment. Should he try to gain entry, then, regrettably, Victor was under instructions to summon the police immediately.
Having delivered his speech, Victor had extended his hand and grasped Hunter’s in a warm gesture of personal sympathy. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Hunter,’ he said. ‘I hope things work out for you.’
Hunter nodded his thanks as he folded the receipt and put it in his inside pocket. ‘It’s okay. I know this wasn’t up to you, Victor.’
The security man glanced out at the thunderous sky and driving rain. ‘Can I get you a taxi, Mr Hunter? Mr Addison gave me strict instructions not to, but I could give you a docket and hide it under something else.’
Hunter accepted the offer gratefully. He took the docket entitling him to a free fare, shook Victor’s hand again, and walked out into the rain to the nearest taxi rank.
In the back seat of the cab, he felt around in his pockets and discreetly counted out his change. He had just about enough to pay for a single journey to Passage North … by bus.
He was lucky it was a Friday afternoon. Every Friday, fleets of private coaches descended on the Liffey quays, offering cut-price fares to the country for the tens of thousands of young ‘five-day Dubs’ who spent their working weeks in Dublin and their weekends at their family homes in the remote West of Ireland.
The coach bound for Passage North was a boneshaker, driven by a surly driver with long, greasy hair. He looked dishevelled, as though he’d been on the road all night, and the redness in his eyes could have been due either to road-weariness or to the smoke drifting around his face from a long-ashed cigarette that dangled from his lips.
Hunter handed over his money and reluctantly entrusted his life and safety to this man. He tried to psych himself up, inwardly reassuring himself that three hundred and sixty minutes of bone-shaking discomfort in this ancient jalopy was nothing compared to some of the marathon trips he’d taken across Asia and North Africa in his student days. Wet clothes or no wet clothes, he would make himself as comfortable as he could in the crowded bus – maybe even try to snatch a couple of hours’ sleep to sharpen his senses before beginning the most vital assignment of his career.
Six hours of jolting over murderous potholes, lurching around tight bends, inhaling the stomach-churning smell of exhaust fumes and burning rubber … he could cope with it all. None of it mattered.
Only one thing mattered.
He had to find Mags Jackson.
THE weather was kinder in Passage North. It was still raining, but it was more of a misty drizzle that settled gently on the skin. At least it was clean.
Hunter got off the bus and gratefully took a deep breath of the chill, moist air. The distinctive smells of Passage North were still there, all the smells he’d always hated – the salt air, the diesel, the fish – but compared to the nauseating stenches in the enclosed bus, they were as welcome as fresh air to a prisoner in solitary confinement.
Stretching his aching limbs, he walked stiffly to the bus-station café and ordered a black coffee to wake himself up.
Better contact Emma as soon as possible, he thought; tell her that I’m in town and, more importantly, that I’ll need a bed for the night.
Plastic cup in hand, he stood in line with several other passengers waiting to use the payphone at the back of the shop. He’d forgotten how difficult life was without a mobile phone. As recently as this morning, communication had been simple and instant. Now it involved waiting for ten minutes while a blond-haired student wearing a huge backpack chatted fondly with a boyfriend who was clearly on his way to pick her up anyway. Hunter checked his watch irritably. Ten past six. Emma would be leaving the clinic any minute. If the student didn’t hurry up, he’d be too late.
‘Yes. Me too. Lots and lots. Yes, of course I’m sure. Lots and lots and lots. Yes, I’ve missed you, too. Of course I’m sure.’
Hunter seethed with impatience, and he hated himself for it.
The truth, if he could only admit it to himself, was that he envied this girl and her boyfriend their uncomplicated happiness. Within a few moments, the boyfriend would arrive in some Japanese saloon car, muffled bass thumping from the stereo, and he would ferry her back to her family home, where there would be the welcoming smell of Irish stew and the friendly hiss of a steam iron. Her mother would emerge from the kitchen, wiping the flour from her hands and extending her arms in welcome. ‘Come on in out of that rain, Sinéad, and let me take a look at you. Lord save us and bless us, look how thin you’re getting. Have you been eating anything at all at that college up in Dublin? Come into the kitchen, sit down by the fire and tell me all about it …’
At last the student hung up the phone. She turned around slowly, giving Hunter the euphoric smile of someone who’s in the first heady weeks of a passionate affair. Hunter instinctively smiled back. She flinched and lowered her eyes as she pushed past him, making it clear that the smile hadn’t been meant for him.
Up until then, Hunter hadn’t had time to think about his personal problems. Everything had been swept aside by the Valentia story and its bizarre repercussions. But as he stood clutching the phone, still warm from the girl’s hand, still scented with her perfume, he suddenly felt like the loneliest man in the world. That smile, that unmistakeable smile, clawed at his heart and reawakened memories of times when women had smiled like that for him. For a while, Jill had smiled like that, every time they’d met outside her office, every time he’d come home from work, probably every time he’d phoned. And before he’d met Jill, another woman had given him that same smile. But he didn’t want to think about that. Not right now.
‘Hello, Athmore Clinic. Can I help you?’
Hunter shook himself out of it. ‘Dr Macaulay, please.’
‘I’m sorry. Dr Macaulay doesn’t work at the clinic any more.’
‘What?’ Hunter shoved his fingers through his wet hair in bewilderment.
‘Dr Macaulay isn’t with us any more. Can anyone else help you?’
‘I don’t understand. I mean Dr Emma Macaulay, the director of the clinic.’
‘Yes, sir. She doesn’t work here any more.’
Hunter sighed. ‘Get me her secretary, please. I want to talk to Geraldine.’
‘You mean the acting director’s secretary,’ the receptionist corrected him primly. ‘He’s in charge now. Hold on, please.’
Hunter was left to listen to several minutes of ‘Für Elise’ before Geraldine answered the phone. She was a retired nurse from Donegal, and Hunter had never known her to get into a flap about anything. But today her voice was tense and panicky.
‘Hunter?’ she burst out. ‘Thank God you’ve rung. I’ve been trying to reach you all day.’
‘Why? What the hell’s happened? What’s going on?’
‘Something awful. Emma’s been –’
And just then his money ran out.
HUNTER trudged slowly up the hill from the harbour. The regular squelch of his wet boots on the black, shiny cobblestones echoed the rhythm of the receptionist’s cryptic words, over and over again.
Emma doesn’t work here any more. Emma doesn’t work here any more. Emma …
It didn’t make sense. Emma would never voluntarily have left her clinic. Never. What on earth was happening? Had she been taken ill? Suffered some terrible accident? Or worse?
It had been impossible to find out. He hadn’t a penny left to make another phone call. He would have to walk to Emma’s house. But there was no point doing that until after seven, because she’d be collecting Robbie from the crèche. Meanwhile, he would do what he’d come here to do. He would call around to Mags Jackson’s flat at 15 Ardee Terrace and try to re-establish contact with his main witness.
The rain finally started to ease off as he reached the top of the hill, although the wind still whipped viciously at his wet clothes. The town of Passage North was practically deserted; the only other human being in sight was a middle-aged woman who was slowly and painfully climbing the hill, clutching several heavy carrier bags of groceries. Behind her silhouetted figure, the harbour was lit up like a Christmas tree against the surrounding darkness of the coastline. Beyond that, Hunter could see the Atlantic Ocean, vast and forbidding, its blackness illuminated only by the occasional flash from a lighthouse or the twinkle of passing fishing-craft.
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sp; It took him a while to find Ardee Terrace. It was obviously bedsit-land, the grudging temporary home of nurses and students and transient fish-factory technicians. Each of the terraced houses was split into three flats. The landlords clearly didn’t care too much about maintenance; the wooden window-frames were rotten and the paintwork on the front doors was peeling off.
Hunter felt his heartbeat quicken as he approached number 15 and noticed a light in the front downstairs window. Emma had told him that it was a ground-floor flat. Hoping and praying for the best, he pictured Mags Jackson perched on the edge of a threadbare sofa, watching some Australian soap and picking absently at a TV dinner. He quickened his pace. Mags was bound to be indignant about Valentia’s statements, eager to strike back. Together, they would come up with some plan of action.
The metal gate was rusty, and its unoiled hinges made a mournful whinge, like a frightened dog, as he passed through.
Hunter rang the bottom bell, the one that said ‘M. Jackson’, and waited. There was no reply. Inexplicably, he began to experience a sense of deep unease.
He rang the bell once more. No answer.
It began to rain again, even more heavily this time. The raindrops pattered on the porch roof, creating a drumbeat that sounded to Hunter like a tattoo of retreat and despair.
He was about to turn and leave when it occurred to him that the door might actually be unlocked. Pressing a hand against the peeling woodwork, he gave it a gentle push. It scraped reluctantly open.
The hall was gloomy, lit only by a low-wattage light-bulb made even weaker by a tasselled shade. A payphone, pockmarked with cigarette burns, clung unsteadily to the wall. Underneath, nearly blocking the passageway, was an old black bike. A flight of stairs led to the upper flats, from which drifted the muffled and mournful voice of Leonard Cohen.
‘Hello?’ Hunter’s voice echoed dismally in the gloomy hall. Nobody answered.
To his left, there was a door with a Yale lock. Through it he could hear the faint sound of a television.