by Sam O'Brien
This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organisations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
Published 2020
by Poolbeg Press Ltd
123 Grange Hill, Baldoyle
Dublin 13, Ireland
E-mail: [email protected]
www.poolbeg.com
© Sam O'Brien 2020
© Poolbeg Press Ltd. 2020, copyright for editing, typesetting, layout, design, ebook
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978-1-78199-396-5
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
www.poolbeg.com
DEDICATION
To my mother and Marine
PROLOGUE
November 25th, 2005
Richard McMahon swung his white Mercedes off Clontarf Road and wound slowly through the streets. He took an indirect route to his luxury apartment block, checking the mirror every time he turned. He was fairly sure he was not being followed, but in the grey half-light of a drizzly evening, all the cars looked similar in the mirror. He pulled into the parking lot and stared at the bushes and shrubs that shielded it from the road.
The streetlight was not working. A bead of sweat formed at his hairline. He lit a cigarette and devoured it. Richard’s skin was grey, almost translucent, his brow was furrowed and his crow’s feet were craggier than usual. An all-day meeting with his lawyer had robbed him of energy and any sense of security that he had a few days ago.
His company was still reeling from the drugs find, and he stood to lose a fortune. Then there was the matter of the suddenly silent Italian flight steward. Still, he was glad he had left the letter for his brother, even if it was too late to make amends – he should have treated Oliver better and helped him out when he came looking for Richard’s backing and support.
Slightly calmed by the nicotine, he scanned the car park, picked up his briefcase and the long, heavy torch he kept on the passenger seat. He locked the car and hurried toward the sanctuary of the building. There was a sound from the bushes. He shone the torch, but could only make out leaves and shadows.
“Come out! I, I know you’re there,” he called, with a quiver in his voice. Breaking into a trot, he made for the lobby door.
Swearing, he dropped his briefcase trying to pull the passkey from his pocket. He never got to turn the lock.
* * *
The hooded man checked the photograph in his hand and satisfied himself that it was Richard McMahon approaching the lobby door. Looking left and right, he silently crossed the road and came up behind his target. As he moved, the iron bar slid down the anorak’s sleeve into his hand. The blow dropped Richard to the ground. He was out before he hit the floor.
The man glanced down the street, then took his victim’s watch, ripped the shoes from his feet, and searched for a wallet. Pocketing the banknotes, he tossed it aside. Then he stabbed a used syringe into his victim’s neck.
Richard groaned. “Please, please . . .”
The man rose to his feet and bent over Richard. “You should’ve kept your mouth shut,” he said. Then he swung the iron bar in a long slow arc. There was a dull crack and blood spilled onto the stone tiles.
The man walked briskly down the street, turned the corner and continued through four or five cross streets. He reversed his anorak and dropped the bar down a storm drain by the kerb on an empty street. The shoes he stuffed into a bin behind a convenience store. He fondled the Rolex and considered keeping it, but reluctantly tossed it into the waters of Dublin Bay.
As he walked along the coast road, he smiled, pushed the hood off his head and made a call.
“You tell our friends, it’s done,” he said.
* * *
Limerick - Nine days later
The driving rain ran through Oliver McMahon’s hair and down his neck, soaking his collar. The damp sensation seeped under his overcoat and spread over his shoulders. He lowered his brother’s coffin into the ground, assisted by two of Richard’s college friends and the brother of his girlfriend, all of whom had been pressed into being pallbearers. Genuine mourners were in short supply at the funeral service of the workaholic who had little time for people. The company had helped with the funeral arrangements and provided a guard of honour for the coffin, although none of them looked particularly grief stricken: Oliver noticed some of them glancing at their watches.
A politician had phoned his mother, Evelyn, the night before to ask if he could say a few words about this great leader of business and a creator of Irish jobs. She had been too stunned to reply and Oliver told the man that he could give the eulogy if he liked, as neither he nor his mother were up to it. The man turned out to be a cabinet minister – Oliver couldn’t remember which one – and was undoubtedly looking to gain public relations points, as he arrived to the church with a photographer and a journalist in tow. When he stood at the pulpit, he spoke at length about how Richard McMahon was a visionary, and what a privilege it was to have known him and dealt with him in his quest to see home-grown Irish business succeed.
Oliver sat in the pew, with one arm around his mother’s shoulders, riveted in disgust. Why do we revere guys like my brother, Rich? He wondered. Why do we portray them as geniuses and saviours? All Rich did was to figure out a way to make money; he exploited his staff and used other people to make himself wealthy. Hell, there were plenty of rumours about how he managed to get the wheels greased. The fact that he created jobs was, to him, an unfortunate and costly side-effect; he would have done without crew if only he could have somehow automated the airline. Oliver remembered his brother fantasising one Sunday that if he had contacts in the arms business, he could push to get unmanned drone technology into his planes and then fire the whinging pilots.
Meanwhile, the priest mumbled bland, generic words about a man he had never met, as Oliver’s mother held his arm tightly throughout the entire service.
The silence of the meagre crowd gathered in the Limerick city graveyard was broken by Evelyn’s sobbing. She had spent the last four days in a state of despair, and now she stood by the freshly-dug grave and watched her eldest son laid to rest beside her husband. Oliver felt the shiny teak box come to rest on the dirt, and let the rope drop from his hands. It made a clunk on the coffin lid and, for the first time, the reality of the past few days hit him. Hard. His mind fell into a chasm of dizzy emotion and confusion.
The Gardai had been monotone and businesslike when they had stood on his mother’s doorstep and delivered their report of what had happened: “There’s been a sharp rise in muggings and petty theft in the last few months.” They had explained, “Drug crime, most of it. Addicts venturing into the more respectable areas of Dublin to find the means to support t
heir habit. It’s likely that your son was unfortunate to have been in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Evelyn had collapsed in hysterics, unable to stomach the details of her son’s murder, and Oliver had asked one of the policemen to call their local doctor, who arrived promptly, prescribed sedatives, and helped Oliver put his mother to bed.
Later, Oliver had sat in the kitchen gulping whiskey, while the policemen looked wistfully at his glass. “Your brother had been robbed of his cash, watch and shoes,” they continued. “He had been stabbed in the neck with a dirty syringe, and struck a number of times with a blunt instrument: all the hallmarks of desperate drug crime. We are very sorry for your loss,” they had said to Oliver.
The next day, Oliver had driven his mother to Dublin, checked her into a hotel, then gone to formally identify the remains and make arrangements for the funeral. There were few calls or messages of condolence. He called his fiancée, Rebecca, who said she would come over from America to support them, but he insisted there was no need. After all, she was busy and had never even met Richard.
The well-oiled PR machine in his brother’s company, Freefly Airlines, made formal statements to the press. However, they seemed more occupied with deflecting the recent drugs-find scandal and finding someone to take over from a man who had never appointed anyone to deputize for him.
These events replayed over and over in Oliver’s mind as he huddled under the umbrella with his mother at the graveside. He put an arm around her, and for the first time felt a sense of loss. He also felt guilty for not reaching out to his brother, as his mother had wanted. People filed past and shook his hand. He was unaware of who anybody was, until the politician sidled up. Oliver reluctantly gripped his palm without looking directly at the man. He finally snapped out of his thoughts moments later when a small, clammy hand limply took his own, and he was reminded of his brother’s feeble handshake. His eyes ran up the arm to the small body and thin mousey face in front of him.
“Thank you,” said Oliver on autopilot; staring through the man.
“My name’s Martin Forrester.”
“Oh, OK.”
“I worked for your brother. Anyway, I’m sorry to bring this up now, but I really need to talk to you. It’s very important.”
Oliver noticed the urgency in his eyes. “Well, er, OK. Why don’t you come to the house for a drink after, and we’ll chat there?”
Back at home, Oliver put his mother in her favourite chair by the fireplace, and made her tea. The other pallbearers had returned to have a drink and sandwiches, along with a handful of others, but most were anxious to leave again. Oliver wished they would.
A little over an hour later, Oliver sat alone with his mother on the arm of her chair, holding her hand. She stared into space. Martin Forrester appeared in the room like a ghost.
“Bloody hell,” said Oliver, standing up. “Where’d you come out of?”
“Ah, sure I stayed out of the way in the kitchen, and ate some of your lovely fruit cake. I’ve always been able to sink into the background – a lifetime of being afraid of your brother.” He tried to backtrack. “Oh, er, well, y’know. He was a tough boss.”
Oliver’s expression was half-grimace, half-smile.
Evelyn snapped out of her trance, “Look, I may have been the only person in the world who loved Richard, but I won’t have a bad word spoken about him. Not in this house. Not today.”
Martin looked like he wanted the ground to open and swallow him. Oliver felt sick.
“Mum, I wish I . . .”
His mother stood, the colour returning to her cheeks. “Please, Oliver,” she gripped his hand. “We all wish for things: mostly that they were different. But they’re not. So we just have to face up to it and deal with the mistakes of the past as best we can.” She sighed. “I think I’ll have another cup of tea and then try to sleep.” She departed for the kitchen.
Martin perched himself awkwardly on the fender by the fireplace.
“What’s so important?” said Oliver.
Martin took a deep breath. “I think your brother’s death is a bit convenient.”
Oliver stared, his mouth slightly agape.
“I’ll start from the beginning, so?” said Martin.
“That’d be great.”
“A few weeks ago, a pilot came to me complaining about a steward on the Opulence Service – our private jets. Staff complaints happen quite often, but this time the pilot was livid. He said he thought something dodgy was going on, and wanted me to have the guy investigated. He said he’d go to the police if I didn’t. I told him to calm down and get a hold of himself. Then I reported the matter to your brother, who hated squabbles and always dealt with them swiftly and severely.
“Anyway, when I mentioned that the complaint was against the Italian he had personally hired and put on the service, Richard became very agitated. He said it was all just bullshit and that the pilot had a history of making racist remarks about cabin crew – which is true – but I could tell he was nervous. And, God knows, nerves weren’t something your brother usually suffered from.”
“Unless he was losing money,” said Oliver.
“You’ve a point there. Not that he ever lost much in the years I knew him. Anyway, he told me to leave the matter to him and not tell anyone,” he went on. “The next day, your brother disappeared from the office. Later, I found out that he’d had a long meeting with his lawyer. Then, over the next few days, more meetings. I never saw him so stressed.” Martin let out a long sigh. “Next thing you know, one of the Opulence jets gets searched. Turns out, the pilot went to the cops himself.
"You see, most of the pilots don’t like your brother. That is, they didn’t; on account of the long hours he made them work. This pilot really hated Richard: he got sued for calling a black flight attendant a coon, your brother paid her off, but used it as an excuse to really screw the guy on his salary. He couldn’t even leave, or your brother would’ve leaked the story to every airline and newspaper in the country. So, I think he saw this as revenge.” Another deep breath. “Anyway, the cops searched the plane and the Italian crew member after a trip to Ibiza. They found two kilos of cocaine, hidden in hollowed out wooden souvenirs in his bag. Even the guards seemed delighted to get Freefly Airlines for something – you know what the begrudgers are like.”
“Yeah I do, when it came to my brother, I was one of them, but that’s another story.”
Martin looked puzzled. “Anyway, I don’t think the company’ll fail because of it, but the scandal’s fairly big. We’ll probably have to close the Opulence Service. The cops are livid that the Italian won’t tell them anything. He just sits there muttering in his own language and he won’t say a word to an interpreter. Suddenly he can’t speak English. So they’re dying to believe that your brother was shipping drugs around on his planes.”
“How’d you find all this out?”
“I, er, I’ve contacts in the press. And they’ve contacts in the guards.”
The outlandish idea of Richard as a drug dealer made Oliver pause. “OK, so you think my brother was killed in some drug war?”
“Actually, no. No, I don’t. You see, um, the thing is . . . I know you work for Marco Romano.”
* * *
The offices of James Foster, solicitor
January 2006
Oliver took the envelope and held it in his hands for a second, he felt like a widower at a séance. He ripped the brown paper open and read the spidery handwriting.
Dear Ollie,
I’m sorry for being such an asshole. I was only focused on business.
Mother tried to make me face a few truths that day you asked me for money, but I couldn’t take back what I said, because I’m not good at admitting I’m wrong and because you were so upset that you wouldn’t have listened, anyway. I wanted to make up with you, but I never got round to it. Now I’m scared enough to finally do something about it. So I did some thinking, changed my will, and did the only thing I have ever b
een able to do: throw money at someone instead of investing emotion.
I suppose I learnt that from Dad, but I’m not just throwing my money at you: I’m giving it to you so you can live the kind of life you deserve. I had it all but never stopped to enjoy it.
Look after Mother – who am I talking to? Of course you will.
The truth is, you always looked after Mother better than I did. You were there for her; I just saw that my money was there. And I was never there for you.
It’s only in the last few days I realised what I’m like. I’ve had to face a few truths. Ollie, I’ve nobody to turn to or confide in.
Now I’ve got myself into deep shit – and I have nobody for support.
I’ve done something stupid. I agreed to take on a relative of Marco’s, and he’s been caught smuggling drugs. I didn’t think it would be a problem, because nobody knew I had been asked to employ him, but I realized the awful truth. Guys like Marco NEVER ask these kinds of favours directly, they use middlemen or messengers, but Marco DID ask me directly. Now I have to ask myself if he’ll trust me, or if he’ll want to break the link between us.
I can’t face telling the full story to my solicitor or the police. It would be the end of the airline, and it would finish Mum, and possibly you. I’ll have to wait it out and see what happens. But if you’re reading this, then something has happened to me, and I want you to get out of business with this guy.
I know this letter’ll be a shock, but you can handle it. Sit and get a plan straight in your head. Don’t worry about James – he’s been well paid to wait and do what you want. He’s a good man.
Be careful, Ollie. Do better than I did. You know you can. I know you can.