by Roz Goldie
This was a democratic decision taken under the proper procedures. However, the vote to restrict the flying of the flag precipitated an immediate mass protest from Unionists and loyalist groupings and individuals, and saw a resurgence in death threats to politicians, attacks on political party premises, the blocking of major roads, violence towards police and counter-demonstrators, street rioting, personal injury and criminal damage leading to the closure of some businesses and widespread negative international media coverage – and a source of aggressive debate on the local airwaves.
Veronica looked for other and contradictory versions of events, comparing these accounts with her own notes. There was nothing at odds with the core of the story. Some sites named individuals and their proclamations that cultural and human rights were being abused. Others quoted politicians on the two sides of the debate, and the middle ground party that was the most virulently loathed by the flag protesters.
Veronica sighed as she read accounts of leading figures saying that of course they condemned violence on the streets but that people could not be pushed too far.
“So it’s okay to set the place on fire if you feel you don’t get 100 per cent of what you want?” She was talking to herself, as was normal procedure when chewing over the endless outraged claims and counter-claims. She yawned involuntarily, rubbed her eyes and looked to see what time it was. Half past one in the morning and she had been pouring over these details for three hours.
She now seriously wondered why she had been so keen to convince Barry Doyle he should have Eliza on the show to discuss this running dispute. And how she could possibly have imagined they could make it enormously funny? Frustrated by the intractable nature of the fight about flags, she still could not let go of the idea – somewhere at the back of her mind, there was an angle. It was too late now to think any more about it, but she’d sleep on things and talk it over with Barry.
* * *
Chapter Two
Barry Doyle was in full flight when Veronica arrived in studio the next morning. He was in ebullient form, cheerfully greeting studio guests and those phoning in. His endless enthusiasm for broadcasting was infectious and the daily production team came to life when the green light came on each morning.
Veronica took the researcher Emily Foster aside, asking, “Have you had much interest in the flag’s dispute in the past couple of weeks?”
“No, the few calls we got were clearly orchestrated and Barry didn’t want to let them anywhere near the air.” She looked at Veronica questioningly, “Why do you ask?”
“I met an academic – bit of a spoofer. That’s her thing, so I have been researching it, thinking we might do something really funny. I know it sounds a mad idea and after spending hours on the internet, I wonder if I’m losing it, but my instinct is that we could do something. Anyway, have a look at my notes and the file on Eliza Taunter and let me know if you think there’s an angle for Barry.”
“Any rush on it?”
“No, sometime this week will do fine. I’ll run it past Barry and the two of you can see what potential it has. I’ll need to get my thoughts together in the meantime.”
The two women turned to give their full attention to Barry Doyle, doyen of radio as he playfully contradicted a senior member of the civil service. “You don’t expect me or the listeners to believe that now, do you?”
The grey-suited public official was clearly unused to anything less than deference, even from the media, and reddened with clear resentment. “Actually, Barry, I do expect to be believed. These are the facts of the report!”
“Ah yes, the report. Well, what have you to say to Mrs Tilson?” He spoke in a neutral tone as he greeted the incoming phone call, “Mrs Tilson, what have you to say about the facts of the report?”
A hilarious pantomime ensued as the woman caller contradicted the civil servant on a number of counts, citing UNESCO statistics and a large number of recent research reports. Barry Doyle revelled in the controversy. Denying both of the speakers any further comment, he closed the feature with, “And there you have it, listeners. You make up your own mind.” In the background, the sound of a seriously disgruntled civil servant could be heard, tearing off his microphone and hissing a threat to report Doyle to the Controller. It added a farcical note to the whole business. A musical interlude provided the opportunity for him to talk to his team, addressing Veronica by name.
“Enjoying the pantomime?” He was at his happiest when challenging any part of the establishment. “Lunch at the Golden Palace anyone?”
Veronica was the only taker that day, and she accompanied Barry to his favourite haunt and a decidedly lacklustre meal.
Over chicken nuggets, mayonnaise and iceberg lettuce, she told Barry about the missing Nicola Tebaldi. “Have you come across him?”
“Nico, oh yes, a charming young man. Always beautifully dressed and what a body! Not my sort, of course, but a real young god.” Under the apparent banter, Barry was clearly concerned. “How long has he been missing?”
“I think about a week now but I’m checking out the details. He was supposed to house-sit for Jack Summers’ father but didn’t show up as arranged. Desmond’s junior lad, Sandy, will know and I’m going over there after we’ve finished up here. I’ll keep you in the loop – promise.”
After another half hour, the two had agreed on the main features for the rest of the week and Veronica had convinced Barry that if and only if they could turn it into a really funny piece, she’d bring Professor Eliza Taunter into studio.
“Sounds crazy but I thought it was all so ludicrous that you could turn it around. After some hours online, my head was completely done in and I’m not so sure now. Somehow, I can’t let the idea go, but I’ll not push it. Agreed?”
“Agreed. Oh, great one!” He teased her mercilessly but only at times when they were in complete agreement.
* * *
In late September, Botanic Gardens was already drenched in the red, yellow and orange of autumn foliage. The hot August hastened the seasonal changes in this northerly region. The Palm House flourished with rich tropical plants from more exotic climates, drawing a steady stream of visitors, and amongst them was Eliza’s former husband, Leo Richards.
Richards had arrived in Belfast unannounced, and planned to finish his business as quickly as possible. He had no liking for Ireland or the Irish, and his brief experience there, as a young soldier had not altered his fear of the place and his loathing for their politics. He wandered around mixing with a bus load of American tourists, admiring the lush, well-tended vegetation with little enthusiasm. He had half an hour to kill before meeting John Colliers.
Sir John Colliers was the esteemed President of the Royal Arts Society and a pillar of respectable Unionist Society. Richards hoped that he could convince Colliers of the provenance of the pictures he was offering for sale, but relied on the fact that he was a man whose artistic choice and purchases were more venal than truly educated. Names meant more than nuanced aesthetics. Richards wandered behind two beautifully coiffed, white-haired ladies from the Southern States who talked incessantly. He looked at this watch. It was 3:45, and his appointment was for 4 o’clock precisely. He had sufficient acquaintance with Colliers to know he should not be a minute late.
Although he had the pictures in his possession, Richards planned to start negotiations with no more than digital images and a series of supporting documents which purported to show his legitimate ownership of the paintings. His proposition was that he was giving Colliers a first look and a chance to make a bid before the works went to auction in Dublin.
The inane and high-pitched chattering grated, and the increasing humidity of the Palm House drove Richards out into the fresh air where he took a bench and sat patiently for the next ten minutes. Although he knew every brush stroke behind the digital representations, he spent that time watching the computer images of paintings by Louis le Brocquy, John Luke and William Conor. He would never have to work again if he could pu
ll off this deal – or even half of it.
A Louis le Brocquy painting entitled Tinker Woman with Newspaper from the 1940s set a world auction record for a living Irish artist, at Sotheby’s Irish Sale in London, in May 2000. The enormous price it fetched put le Brocquy securely among a select group of British and Irish artists whose works had commanded prices in excess of £1 million during the painters’ lifetime. Le Brocquy’s painting technique used palette knife and strong, thick paint-flows. He married in the late 1950s and set up his home and studio in the south of France, where his two sons were born. He died on 2012. The value of his work had therefore increased considerably since then.
William Conor and John Luke were two other artists whose paintings were much sought after. Richards had managed to acquire several of their putative works among his substantial portfolio.
* * *
Veronica was regretting having eaten those chicken nuggets as heartburn set in. She knew that Desmond had a virtual medicine cabinet in his salon, as he frequently ministered unto his clients.
“So, you lunched at the Golden Palace then?”
She nodded and gratefully accepted some brand medication.
“They will have to see about the catering – it’s bordering on the dangerous!” Desmond’s exaggerated tones were somehow soothing. “Anyway, what are we going to do this afternoon? A hint of colour?”
“I am in your all-powerful hands, Desmond – and happily so.” Veronica sat back in the certain knowledge that her hairdresser would perform another of his near-miracles.
“Sandy will wash your hair and you can cross-examine him about Nico.”
As the junior gently massaged her scalp, Veronica felt no urgency about her inquiries and settled into a reverie under the strong soothing hands of the young assistant.
When he was applying the conditioner, Sandy began, “So, you’ve heard about Nico? It is very strange, I can tell you that. Nico is always reliable and he’d never let old George Summers down.”
“Did he say he was going away?”
“No, his parents are dead now, so he only visits his grandparents, and that’s occasionally, even though he is close to them.”
“And he wasn’t planning a trip away somewhere else?”
“Not that I know of. We were supposed to meet last Thursday, but he didn’t show up. I’ve tried his phone, but it’s dead.”
Not wanting to sound as old and out of touch as she knew she was, Veronica didn’t ask if Nicola had perhaps just forgotten to charge his phone.
“Have you got a number for him? I could ask somebody I know to trace whether it has been used recently.”
Sandy produced a card, with Nicola’s contact details. “It’s the only one I have. Can you copy what you want?” He spoke with a strangled tone in his voice – although Nico was not gay, Sandy had a huge crush on him.
“I’m sure we’ll get to the bottom of this Sandy.” Veronica managed to sound sufficiently convincing to reassure the lad. She had every intention of asking Jack Summers to do some detection work and track the use of Nicola’s phone.
Passed back to the expertise of Desmond’s skilful hands, she abandoned herself for the next hour, enjoying every moment of this self-indulgence.
As he was putting the finishing touches to her hair, Desmond asked, “Did Sandy have anything to say that was helpful?”
“Yes,” she lied. “I have a phone number I can get a track on.” She was not prepared to disappoint Desmond at that point. Veronica also had a strong feeling that she was going to solve this mystery, although there was nothing by way of evidence that she could follow up.
* * *
Wild Fern Alley had been getting a great deal of publicity, despite the abundance of hard stories in the press and broadcast media. Television cameras appeared at the opening and later at the ceremony where an award was made to the group for environmental and community improvement.
Then things turned very sour. Councillor Cobbles put out a news release critical of Wild Fern Alley, alleging that some residents objected to changes being made without consultation. He was joined in his efforts by McVeigh and Stewart and another property owner by the name of Seamus O’Doherty – known to the group as Seamus O’Property.
Marianne was livid but refused to respond to media invitations for comment. Instead she put her efforts into contacting every resident to ascertain whether there were any complaints or objections. She understood this was a ploy to sow the seeds of distrust among the group and in the local community – but that was not going to succeed! As there were none, she contacted other local Councillors to gain their support for Wild Fern Alley.
“I have emailed or spoken to all the residents – including students and there is no opposition or criticism.”
“We are obviously in favour of this sort of project and the Green Party will support you.” Rachel Johnston asserted confidently.
By the time the story went to print, Cobbles had changed his version of events. He claimed that the residents had dug up the concrete surface of the Alley.
Marianne challenged him to his face. “And what do you mean by that? We took away some concrete to expose the original cobblestones – which are the preferred surface for runaway in built-up areas. Have you not read your own Council’s policy on urban redevelopment – and don’t you know your party’s views on this?”
He shrugged and looked blank. “I have a letter from the Department saying that repairs need to be done.”
“Yes, repairs to restore the original Alley! Johnno in number 31 is an expert on the 19th-century use of cobblestone you know! The concrete surface leaves it prone to flooding.” Marianne was still sticking to the agreed group policy of keeping this a good news story – and avoiding any public confrontation.
A further account emerged when the local radio had interviewed local Councillors about the controversy. Brendan Cobbles quoted his partner in property, Shappie McVeigh. “These recycling bins could catch fire. They are a safety hazard beside this block of flats.”
Marianne was shocked that the reporter did not question this ludicrous suggestion but remained silent – until the evening, she came out to find Cobbles and McVeigh escorting Seamus O’Property along Wild Fern Alley – ignoring the protestations of an elderly woman. “How did you get in here?” she demanded an explanation. “You have no right to keys!”
They sneered at her and walked away, leaving two gates unlocked and open.
Thaddeus came out hearing Marianne’s raised voice and calmed the situation by coolly following the men and locking the security gates.
The next stage would be open hostility between Marianne and the landlords. However, she had yet to tell Veronica Pilchard about this antagonism.
* * *
The sunroom at Marianne’s was empty when Veronica emerged from her shower for coffee and the first cigarette of the day.
No other guests had stirred. It was 6:30, and she had slept well, if not for long. She took a few sips of the strong, black coffee she had brewed and flipped open the phone. There were several messages, but the most welcome and least expected was from Margaret, Lady Beightin. She lit a cigarette and opened the message.
“Had a wonderful cruise until the ship was struck with some mechanical problem, then a ferocious storm, so we went into port in some Adriatic town, where the dreaded tummy bug hit the ship. At my age, I can do without that, so I decided to trek back overland. It will take some time, so keep me posted about your own news. Yours aye, M.”
Veronica felt a twinge of regret, realising how much she missed her friend and confidante. She also had to admit that she was missing Glenbannock after a fortnight in the city. She drew on her cigarette, exhaled and sighed, reluctant to tell Margaret how she felt just at that moment. She hastily replied, “Am in Belfast working and looking for a new place to live – will explain later. Otherwise fine and busy with Barry. VP.” There was no need to mention that she had met up with Jack Summers again, or that Harry was being a pig.
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By the time she had dealt with her other emails and messages, Margaret had responded.
“Harry being a swine then? Have been thinking about our last case – is my intuition letting me know that you are about to embark on solving another mystery? S.”
She tapped a quick answer, “Yes to the first, and probably not as regards the second. Let me know when you get home, and I can tell you all.” She hoped that Margaret would take a direct route home, only slightly ashamed at her selfishness.
* * *
Nicola Tebaldi woke to the sound of the front door slamming shut. He could hear some muffled talking in the distance but could not make out the words or whether it was one or more people speaking. Straining to hear, he put his ear to the basement door. Thin dawn light came through the cobweb-caked glass on the small window.
The voice disappeared as quickly as it had materialised. He might have been hallucinating, or just imagined the voices. He was unshaven and badly in need of a shower. The bucket in the corner was stinking, and he felt nauseous. This nightmare made no sense. Tears welled up in his eyes, and he swore loudly in Italian to restore his sense of rebellious refusal to accept his incarceration.
The large box of French breakfast cereal was almost empty but he was so hungry that he devoured the last of its contents and what water was left in the one remaining plastic bottle. Nicola was not religious, but had experienced an upbringing that habituated him to prayer in times of adversity – and this morning he got to his knees, crossed himself and prayed fervently for delivery.