Single Obsession

by Des Ekin

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  ‘FIRST, the ground rules,’ Orla Byrne told Hunter. ‘There’s only one: this meeting never took place.’

  Hunter stared at the familiar face of the Taoiseach and wondered if the blow to his head was making him hallucinate. Orla Byrne, dressed in a kelly-green woollen shawl over a charcoal suit, was sitting beside him on the steam-soaked wooden benches of the jockeys’ changing-room, talking to him in that distinctive Cork accent as though this were the most natural situation in the world.

  ‘If you accept that condition, then we can make progress,’ she continued practically. ‘If not, I’ll return straight away to the VIP balcony, collect my winnings on the last race, and leave you to your fate. Whatever happens, I’ll have witnesses who are prepared to swear I never left the balcony all afternoon.’

  Hunter’s eyes drifted across to the blue-jeaned figure of Mary Smith, standing guard by the door.

  ‘Oh, you can forget about Mary Smith as a witness,’ said the Taoiseach airily. ‘She doesn’t exist. There’s no such person. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, I understand everything.’ Hunter studied the politician with thinly disguised contempt. ‘I understand that Mark Tobey was right. There is a conspiracy to protect Joseph Valentia, and the conspiracy goes right to the very top.’

  Orla Byrne clucked her tongue in irritation. ‘The only conspiracy has been designed to save you from yourself, Hunter,’ she said patiently. ‘And if Mark Tobey knew anything at all about politics, he would also have told you that I loathe Joseph Valentia and despise everything he stands for.’

  ‘Then why did you go into partnership with him in government?’

  ‘We don’t have the luxury of indulging in political analysis right now, Hunter. You already know why. I made the error of thinking I could surf Valentia’s wave of popularity and then force him to moderate his views. Major miscalculation. I’ve made no secret about that. Let’s concentrate on the present.’ She checked her watch. ‘We’ve only four hours to go before your deadline. Are you going to trust me or not?’

  Hunter shrugged, then raised his arms and let them fall helplessly to his sides.

  ‘You’re right,’ Orla Byrne said. ‘You’ve nothing to lose at this stage. Do I continue? Are we agreed?’

  ‘Okay. Agreed.’ He shook his head incredulously, glancing from the policewoman to the politician. ‘One of you doesn’t exist, and the other isn’t here. It’s all crystal-clear.’

  Orla Byrne stood up and began restlessly pacing the room. ‘I made a mistake in hopping into the sack with Valentia,’ she said. ‘Politically speaking, of course. But until two weeks ago, I didn’t realise how big a mistake. I knew I was dealing with someone whose views were extreme, almost fascist. I didn’t realise I was dealing with a criminal.’

  Abruptly, Hunter abandoned his weary slump and sat upright. ‘You knew he’d committed crimes? Even before the election?’

  ‘Hear me out, Hunter.’ She turned her back on him and paced towards the window. ‘There had always been questions about his vast wealth – how he’d gone to America as a penniless emigrant and returned as a millionaire. There were all sorts of theories about shady business deals, gun-running, Mafia links. But everyone fell into the same trap of assuming he’d made his money out there. Nobody considered the possibility that the cash was coming from Ireland.’

  ‘What are you saying? That all his US businesses were just a front?’

  The Taoiseach nodded. ‘We’ve done exhaustive checks with the IRS in America. Nothing he did made any money out there. It all originated back home in County Athmore.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I’ll tell you how.’ She opened her briefcase with a snap and grabbed a stack of aerial photos. ‘The Athmore Peninsula, pictured around 1960,’ she said, tossing a picture into his lap. ‘Beautiful, unspoiled, an environmentalist’s dream. Breathtaking views. Paradise.’

  She tossed another photo at him. ‘Same peninsula, taken today,’ she said. ‘From forty shades of green to forty shades of grey. A concrete-and-asphalt nightmare. To quote Bob Dylan, they paved Paradise and put up a parking lot.’

  ‘Joni Mitchell.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Joni Mitchell. “Big Yellow Taxi”, 1970.’

  ‘Okay, Joni Mitchell, then. Look at it from ground level.’ She threw him another photo. ‘Holiday villages, jerry-built hotels, summer homes with ten-foot walls sealing off the beach. Every scenic route has bungalows on the seaward side. Once this view – this one pictured right here – was celebrated in verse and song. Now all you can see is a big white wall with broken glass at the top.’

  ‘I’ve been there.’ Hunter tossed the photos back at her. ‘It’s a bloody disgrace. Why was it allowed to happen?’

  ‘It wasn’t supposed to. Even in those days we had standards, Hunter,’ Orla Byrne said. ‘We had rules and planning regulations. But in the Athmore Peninsula, there were no controls at all. Every restriction was overruled, every objection ignored. It was planning anarchy.’

  She sat down again. ‘We found out why only this year, and then purely by accident – a spin-off from a separate investigation by a parliamentary committee.’

  She slid a colour portrait across the bench to Hunter. It showed a fiftyish man with black hair and a military moustache. He wore horn-rimmed glasses and an expression of severe, uncompromising rectitude.

  ‘The late Andrew Valentia,’ she said. ‘The manager of Athmore County Council. And probably the most corrupt man in the country.’

  ‘Joseph Valentia’s father. His hero. His mentor.’

  Orla Byrne nodded curtly. ‘Andrew Valentia was on the take for forty years, right up to the day he died. Everyone who wanted to build anything anywhere in County Athmore had to keep him happy first.’

  ‘You mean they had to bribe him.’

  ‘Yes, but never directly. He had all sorts of methods. Consultancy fees in favour of relatives, dodgy charitable organisations, civic pride events … whatever the route, it all ended up in his pocket.’ She picked up the aerial photos again. ‘It was all penny-ante stuff, a few thousand quid here and there, until the Athmore Peninsula really took off as a holiday destination. And then every entrepreneur from here to Belfast wanted to build hotels, villa complexes, caravan parks. From that point on, Andrew Valentia went into the big league.’

  ‘How big?’

  ‘Huge, for those days. Hundreds of thousands were rolling in. He had to hide it somehow. So he hit on the idea of using his son in America. Joe would trek backwards and forwards across the Atlantic with trunkfuls of hot money. The cover story was that he’d done brilliantly in the USA and was sending money back to his family in Ireland. Everyone pretended that Junior was supporting Dad. But it was really the other way around.’

  Hunter whistled. ‘So when Joe Valentia boasted that he was a self-made man who’d made his own luck, pulled himself up by his own bootstraps –?’

  ‘It was all bullshit. Excuse my language,’ said Orla Byrne. ‘He was never anything more than a glorified bagman for a greasy little civil servant on the take.’

  Hunter sat forward eagerly. ‘What about Camp Valentia? The charity that stands to benefit from the two million tonight? Was it involved in the racket?’

  ‘No. I’m sorry, Hunter.’ She watched his face fall. ‘Camp Valentia was set up after Andrew’s death, and it’s totally legit.’ Orla Byrne shook her head. ‘Woefully inefficient, though – top-heavy, cash-rich. With the money they pay their fat-cat directors and consultants, they could afford to send each of those deprived kids on a luxury cruise to the Bahamas.’ She snorted. ‘Nobody’s going to lose any sleep if Camp Valentia doesn’t get its two million.’

  Hunter was checking his watch again.

  ‘Okay, forget the charity,’ he said impatiently. ‘If you really have evidence that Joseph Valentia obtained his wealth illegally, then we can go into that meeting tonight and –’

  ‘Whoa, slow down there.’ The Taoise
ach gestured with open palms. ‘Joe’s smart, Hunter. He covered his tracks pretty well. It will take years of work with the IRS to trace the source of his income.’

  Hunter felt his entire body slump back, dejected. Dull throbs of pain fought their way through the cottonwool numbness of the painkillers.

  ‘So the bottom line is that you’ve got absolutely nothing on Joseph Valentia,’ he said at last.

  ‘Nothing. I’m truly sorry, Hunter.’ She looked sincere. But then, thought Hunter cynically, politicians were masters of the art of looking sincere.

  ‘Then what was the point –’

  ‘Hear me out. Joe Valentia had other problems – psychological problems that dated back to his childhood. Perhaps they lay at the root of his attitude towards women, I don’t know. But his vast wealth, and his position at the head of bogus US companies, gave him the power to indulge in certain socially unacceptable activities.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘There were several mysterious incidents out in the US, mostly involving assaults on young women. The most damaging to Joseph Valentia’s reputation was an incident involving a young female researcher at his radio station in Mississippi. Witnesses saw Valentia offer her a late-night lift home in his car. Four hours later, she was admitted to hospital after surviving a vicious beating. In her first statements to the police she named Valentia as the perpetrator. But later she denied everything, left the job, and bought a house for herself in Key West or somewhere.’

  ‘He paid her off.’

  ‘Looks like it. There were other incidents, enough for the FBI to take interest and to liaise with our own police through Interpol. But nothing could ever be proved against him, so when he finally came home after his father’s death, he came back as a local hero, an Athmore boy made good, with a squeaky-clean background.’

  ‘But he couldn’t stop himself doing what he did. To women, I mean.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Orla Byrne’s face turned grim. ‘Earlier this year, I was given a highly sensitive file from the Garda Commissioner about the disappearance of a German woman, Frieda Winter, in Cavan. Frieda’s sister is a powerful business figure in Frankfurt. She paid one of Ireland’s top private investigators, Alexandra Fearon, to look into the case. And it seems that this detective uncovered a tenuous link between the missing woman and Joe Valentia. The sister used every connection she had to put serious pressure on our ambassador in Germany. Again, there was no solid evidence to go on. But the Commissioner dug up the file from Interpol, and what worried him was that the Winter case seemed to be a carbon copy of the incident involving the radio researcher in Mississippi.’

  ‘Did she have red hair?’ Hunter asked suddenly. ‘The American researcher, I mean?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Why?’

  ‘Was she a single mother?’

  Orla Byrne looked at him as though he were mad. Then her brow buckled in a thoughtful frown. ‘Yes, now you come to mention it: she had twin sons from a teenage relationship. Why are you asking these questions?’

  ‘Because those are the women Valentia targets. Single mothers with red hair. You must have realised that by now.’

  Hunter rapidly filled her in.

  ‘Jesus,’ breathed Orla Byrne. ‘You mean, there are three possible murders here? I was aware of only two. Kate Spain and the German woman.’

  ‘Plus Karen Quinn. Single mum from Dublin. Another redhead. And those are only the ones we know about. There could be more.’ Hunter rubbed his brow in frustration. ‘But I still don’t understand, Taoiseach. You had suspicions about Valentia before the election? Yet you were still prepared to go back into government with him?’

  Orla Byrne’s eyes flared. ‘I never said that, Hunter. I’d always stressed that I was keeping my options open. I didn’t want to say anything that might alert Valentia and compromise the police investigation at this delicate stage. But rest assured – I had no intention of sharing power with that man, ever again.’

  ‘Okay, okay. I believe you.’

  ‘When you blew the Kate Spain story, we knew you were on to something,’ Orla Byrne continued, calming down. ‘The modus operandi was exactly the same. That’s why I pulled out all the stops to keep you safely under surveillance until I knew what was going on. Then it became obvious that Valentia had set you up. Exactly why, we don’t know, but we should know’ – she checked her watch – ‘as soon as Dr Macaulay arrives back in Dublin on the Government jet.’

  Hunter closed his eyes. This experience was becoming too much like a morphine hallucination. Any second now, he’d probably wake up and find himself lying in a hospital bed with both legs amputated.

  ‘You’re bringing Emma back from Copenhagen on the Government jet?’

  ‘Yes. Together with Valentia’s daughter Charlotte, who’s willing to testify about her role in the cover-up. But it’s not enough, Hunter,’ she stressed as he raised his fist and gave a whoop of triumph. ‘If we’re to nail Valentia, what we really need is proof that he was actually involved in those killings. And that’s where you come in.’

  ‘You already know more than I do. I can’t tell you anything.’

  ‘Valentia has always kept a detailed diary,’ Orla Byrne continued, as though he hadn’t spoken at all. ‘It’s one of his vanities. He intends to publish his memoirs some day. Every spare moment he gets, he’s tapping away on his laptop.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘If we could get our hands on the diary, it might throw some light on his activities on the days the three victims disappeared.’

  ‘Oh, come on. He’s hardly going to write incriminating evidence in his diary.’

  ‘No, but we may find something. Anything. A pointer that will lead us in the right direction. At the moment, we have absolutely zilch. Hunter’ – she leaned forward until her face was almost touching his – ‘it’s our only chance. Your only chance.’

  Hunter stared at her, uncomprehending.

  The Taoiseach turned and walked away from him. ‘From now until at least seven-thirty, Valentia will be at a meeting at the office of the European Fishing Confederation,’ she said, as though addressing the ceiling. ‘He’s left the laptop behind in his Dublin apartment.’

  ‘Hang on,’ Hunter said. ‘You’re not suggesting that I –’

  Orla Byrne opened the door of the changing-room and looked back at him, horrified. ‘Certainly not, Mr Hunter,’ she said indignantly. ‘My job is to uphold the law at all times. I’m not suggesting anything of the sort.’

  ‘SHE is, you know,’ said Mary Smith, as the door abruptly closed behind the politician’s back.

  ‘You can’t be serious,’ said Hunter, staring after her. ‘She’s suggesting that I burgle Valentia’s flat and read through the material on his laptop?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘But she didn’t tell me that. In fact, she told me the opposite.’

  ‘She has to do that, you idiot. Now she can honestly swear she didn’t say anything to compromise herself. Even if your meeting took place at all. Which it didn’t.’

  Hunter rubbed his eyes tiredly. ‘But you’re telling me that this is what she wants.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And if anything goes wrong, will she protect me?’

  ‘No. We’ll make it easy to get in, and we’ll monitor you from a distance. That’s all.’

  ‘Well, if it has to be done, why can’t you do it? Your organisation, I mean. You’re the dirty-tricks department, after all.’

  ‘Because this is Ireland, Hunter, and the term “Secret Service” is a contradiction in terms. Somewhere down the line, it’s bound to come out.’

  ‘Okay. Hire a professional criminal to do it. That’s never stopped you before.’

  Mary Smith was already shaking her head. ‘A criminal wouldn’t know what to look for. Besides, if he did the job for money, he’d be prepared to talk about it for money. And after covering herself in glory over Northern Ireland, the last thing Orla Byrne wants is to go down in history as the Irish equi
valent of Richard Nixon, with her lifelong reputation blown by some petty burglary scandal.’

  ‘And what if I talk?’

  ‘You mean, what if you were to claim the most powerful woman in Ireland met you in the gents’ toilet at Forthill and gave you the idea of burgling her deputy’s flat? This, from the man who made up the Valentia abduction story?’

  Hunter smiled sourly.

  ‘Think about it, Hunter.’ Mary Smith clapped a hand on his thigh. ‘If she orders my unit to do it, and we’re caught, she’s in deep trouble. But if you’re caught, nobody will raise an eyebrow because, as far as the public are concerned, you’re insane anyway. In fact, it’s just the sort of crazy thing people would expect you to do.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’ Mary Smith’s voice turned a shade less harsh. ‘You see, Hunter, you’re not the only person facing a deadline. Orla Byrne is up against it, too. She’s pragmatic enough to realise her career is over. The only question is: will she get a chance to retire with honour? If the police build up enough evidence to nail Valentia, she’ll be forever tainted by her association with him. But if she manages to get the evidence first, she can say she was the one who exposed him, through her own investigations. She becomes the heroine.’

  ‘I see. Wheels within wheels. Hidden agendas all over the place.’

  ‘Welcome to politics, Hunter. Plus, she has another powerful motive. Valentia out-manoeuvred her and destroyed her career. She wants to rain all over his parade tonight. Never underestimate the power of human hatred.’

  ‘But why me?’

  ‘Because the deadline has made you desperate. Because your difficulty is her opportunity. Because you’ve nothing to lose and everything to gain. If you pull this off, your reputation is restored and you’re free and clear.’

  ‘You’re forgetting that I’m being sought for questioning about Kate Spain’s murder.’

  Mary Smith shook her head irritably. ‘Forget it. That’s sorted. Sergeant George Arkwright is on six months’ suspension, with plenty of time to regret pulling that little stunt. Focus, Hunter. Focus.’