Conna in Crisis & The Marriage of Ulick

by James Kilcullen

  *

  It had taken Jose De Laka, the new USE chief accountant, nearly a month to get an appointment with the Director General, Derek Walden-Smyth; he finally met him in the Paris office after a meeting of the Commissioners. Jose, a native of Madrid, had worked in the executive accounts department for ten years; now as chief, ensconced in palatial offices overlooking the Seine, he lorded it over his former colleagues.

  A very private, dapper, extremely well dressed little man of forty five, he lived alone in an upmarket apartment in Massy. He was the obvious choice to succeed old Petroni—when he finally retired and went to live near Pisa—but there were many who thought otherwise.

  The DG, an Oxford Don, had been boss for four years; his contract would be up for renewal in another year. A handsome fit man in his forties, he looked the part, with clean cut features, clear blue eyes and dark—dyed—hair. Always photographed relaxed and smiling, he lived with his wife and two daughters in a fine old mansion in Sunningdale.

  He greeted Jose De Laka affably, showed him to a comfortable armchair. Then he ordered coffee. Jose tried to appear relaxed; he hadn’t met the DG before today.

  ‘It’s very good of you to come to see me, Jose,’ he began, ignoring the fact that his subordinate had been chasing him for the past month.

  ‘It’s very good of you to see me at such short notice, sir.’ Might as well play the game.

  The coffee was served.

  Then the DG sat back and smiled. ‘Settling in well into your new position, Jose?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  He didn’t waste any time. ‘How may I help you?’

  Jose opened his briefcase and extracted a file.

  ‘I’m sorry to trouble you, sir, but as part of my responsibilities I’ve inherited a number of outstanding contracts.’

  The DG nodded and waited for him to continue.

  ‘Well, sir,’ he sounded apologetic and he was. ‘We’ve made large payments for a new motorway in southern Italy. It looks perfectly legal and above board: the problem is this motorway hasn’t been built, it hasn’t even been started.’ He paused. ‘And I can’t find the contractors concerned.’

  The DG’s smiled faded.

  ‘Let me see the file.’

  Jose handed it over; the DG perused it carefully, becoming more and more concerned.

  ‘Who handled this contract for us?’

  ‘Senor Petroni should have signed off on it, but the file doesn’t say so.’

  ‘Have you asked him?’

  ‘I tried, sir. He was drowned in a boating accident in the Bay of Naples a month ago.’

  ‘Who authorised the payments?’

  ‘I haven’t been able to find out, sir.’

  ‘Have you traced the payments through the bank?’

  ‘I tried, sir, but the money was moved out the same day; the bank can’t trace it.’

  ‘What financial year is concerned?’

  ‘The payments were made over two years; last year and the year before.’

  ‘So, technically this relates to closed years.’

  ‘That’s correct sir, but if this becomes public?’

  The DG sat back; he could do without this.

  ‘So what do we do now, Jose?’

  ‘I don’t know sir; that’s why I came to see you.’

  The DG frowned. ‘This mustn’t get into the public arena; it would be very embarrassing. I assume it’s Mafia connected. Leave me the file; I’ll appoint someone to investigate fully and report back to me.’

  Jose rose, looking relieved; whatever happened now he was in the clear.

  ‘I think that’s the best course of action, sir.’

  *

  Madame marched into Matt Reilly’s—not unobserved—and made her way to the fruit counter. She looked around in some confusion. Matt approached quietly.

  ‘I wish to purchase an apple,’ she demanded.

  Matt smiled. ‘I’m sorry, Madame, we have no apples for sale.’

  ‘You cannot do this; you must supply your customers.’

  ‘Not if it’s going to cost me 1,000 euro a day.’

  ‘We’ll see about that.’

  She stalked out of the premises and marched down to Shona Murray’s: no apples there either. Returning to the office she pulled out the manual and studied the regulations relating to retail business. If she couldn’t find what she wanted she would simply contact Brussels and arrange for the issue of a new Directive.

  *

  The following morning, Martin Sandys drove into Conna and parked his Rolls Royce outside the Agency. Ned, the efficient traffic warden, made a point of being absent. Entering, Martin was shown into Crat’s office, where he took a seat before the august Director.

  ‘My mother died this morning,’ he began.

  Crat didn’t look up.

  Martin continued. ‘I was told in the clinic that this form requires your signature.’

  He put the form on the desk before Crat who looked at it briefly.

  ‘That’s correct. What was your mother’s full name and address?

  ‘Bridgie Sandys, River House, Maam Valley.’

  He input some data on his computer: then pushed the unsigned form back to Martin.

  ‘We have no record of this person.’

  Exhausted and upset after the long final vigil at his mother’s bedside, he was rapidly losing patience.

  ‘What does that mean?’ he demanded.

  Crat put two more forms before him.

  ‘First of all, you have to register this person. If she is deceased, you will require an Affidavit from a Notary Public or a death certificate signed by an approved doctor. When that is completed to my satisfaction, I will register the person and, on receipt of the required documents, deregister her and sign the burial permission form.’

  Martin couldn’t believe this.

  ‘How long is all this going to take?’

  ‘A week, maybe two; depends on how quickly you get the forms completed.’

  With great difficulty, Martin restrained himself. Leaving, he drove out to Ulick’s house.

  Ulick, knowing immediately the expected had happened, took Martin by the hand and put his arm around him.

  ‘I’m so sorry, lad. Bridgie was one of the finest mothers in Connemara.’

  He led him to an armchair in the living room—Ella had already left for work—and put him sitting down.

  ‘I’ll get you a brandy.’

  ‘No, Ulick, I have to stay clear headed today.’

  He told him about his visit to Crat. Ulick took the form and examined it.

  ‘I’ll ring Judge John Ivers.’

  *

  For no good reason that he could understand Crat was beginning to feel unloved, even disliked by his subjects. Didn’t they understand he was bringing security—and happiness—to this desolate area? No longer required to earn a living, they could spend more time on the finer things in life.

  There was only one person he could rely on: Madame Anna. She was one hundred per cent behind him; applied make-up skillfully; dressed attractively and was interested in him as a man. She was kind enough to suggest that he handle the prosecution in the forthcoming court action in Galway.

  Madame’s attention to her appearance had nothing to do with her boss. Having failed to find Ozzy in the computer, she wandered into Paulo’s—during a lull in the afternoon activity—and inquired about the said gentleman. No, Paulo was sorry, he had never seen the man called Ozzy before; he had some idea he came from outside the area. Madame kept a friendly eye on people in the Main Street; a believer in fate, she was sure Ozzy would show up again. In the meantime, she graciously accepted an invitation to dine with her boss.

  *

  Derek Walker-Smyth, rang his deputy Georgio Caplio, in Rome and asked him to come to London as soon as possible. This suggested there was a problem, but he didn’t offer to discuss it on the phone. Tearing himself away from his latest mistress, Georgio Caplio took an evening flight to Heath
row; walked quickly through Arrivals and, avoiding the media people, took a taxi to the DG’s home in Sunningdale. Normally he would be collected by one of the DG’s Mercedes, but that would attract media attention.

  A native of Florence, educated in Rome and Oxford, he served as a minister in the Italian government for a number of years before being appointed deputy DG in the USE. 42, dapper and completely bald with large luminous brown eyes, he wore only designer clothes—usually light grey suits and white shirts. His undoubted ability and sense of humour was well known; married three times he was currently heading for another divorce. That didn’t upset him; he always said it was better to love and leave. He was devoted to his four children although rarely saw them. Life was good: he was at the pinnacle of his career, played golf regularly, visited the tables in Monte Carlo and was usually surrounded by beautiful women.

  Arriving in Sunningdale, he was shown—by the butler—into the DG’s study, a big luxurious room with wall lined book shelves, deep beige carpets and tall windows looking out on the vast estate. The DG greeted him affably and waved him to a comfortable armchair. They were old friends; had worked closely together in various capacities for the past eight years. The butler served brandies and left them.

  The DG told him about De Laka’s visit. He frowned.

  ‘Why is he raising this now? Those things happened in closed accounts years. Everyone knows the USE is taken for billions every year. What’s the fuss?’

  ‘I agree, but if this gets out, it could be embarrassing for us.’

  He nodded sagely. ‘I suppose you’re right; can we trace any of this money?’

  ‘No, there’s no paper trail.’

  ‘Well then, is nothing; have you the file?’

  ‘Yes, I have, but I’m worried about De Laka; we daren’t sack or even move him.’

  He smiled now. ‘Relax, my friend, no worries. I appointed him; I would never appoint anyone to such a senior position unless I had the goods on them. De Laka will not rock, as they say, the boat.’

  The DG rose, happier now.

  ‘Let’s go into dinner, Georgio.’

  ‘Is your good lady joining us?’

  He had never met the beautiful Diana Walden-Smith.

  ‘No, Georgio, she’s gone to one of her charity dinners.’

  ‘What a pity.’

  He didn’t agree.

  *

  The cortege made its way in the Galway road and slowed down at the entrance to the town. A large crowd lined both sides of the street; as the funeral passed the men took off their hats and everyone blessed themselves in the best traditions of the Church. Martin—with his young son, John, in his arms—walked behind the hearse with his beautiful wife, Anne and his brothers and sisters. His father, John, wasn’t well enough to attend.

  When the cortege approached the centre of the town, Crat walked out into the centre of the road and held up his right hand imperiously.

  ‘Stop, stop at once.’ He cried out. ‘This is an unauthorised funeral. You must return to the clinic at once.’

  The hearse stopped. Martin strode forward accompanied by Ulick.

  Crat glared at Martin. ‘I told you this funeral could not take place until the paper work was completed to my satisfaction.’

  Ulick reached into his inside pocket. ‘Take it easy, Martin.’

  He handed the form to Crat.

  ‘This form is correctly completed by an officer of the Court.’ He handed it over. ‘Now, get out of the way before I ask Sergeant Muldoon to remove you physically.’

  Crat examined the form; realised he was on a loser, but was determined to have the last word.

  ‘This form should have been returned to my office.’

  Martin was itching to get at him.

  ‘Get out of the way.’

  Crat stood aside. Martin muttered out loud. ‘That bastard doesn’t want to let us live or die.’

  The cortege proceeded to the local Church.

  *

  Ulick was surprised to be invited to visit the Bishop of Galway, none other than Dr Barney Brennan DD, whom he hadn’t seen since the famous court action in which the worthy bishop failed to get possession of the Turla lodge Hotel and estate. Shown, by a young curate, into the bishop’s sumptuous palace overlooking Galway Bay, Ulick was invited to take a seat in the drawing room. Ten minutes later, as was customary to emphasise the difference in rank, Big Barney (as he was known to the less virtuous) entered, wearing a long black soutane. Ulick rose dutifully bowed and kissed his ring.

  ‘Thank you for coming to see me, Mr. Joyc, please take a seat.’

  My Lord Bishop spoke slowly in an accent unknown to the natives. He never recognised Ulick as President; he didn’t accept that anyone in Hi-Brazil might even share his exalted pedestal. Ulick sat down; his Lordship sat opposite him.

  ‘Mr. Joyc, this is a very delicate matter in which I would appreciate your help.’

  Ulick nodded. ‘Certainly, you’re Lordship.’

  ‘I have received a confidential letter from His Holiness.’

  So had all the other bishops, but he didn’t consider it necessary to disclose that.

  ‘It seems a religious order has defrauded the Church of several million euro.’

  Ulick looked puzzled; what could this possible have to do with him?

  His Lordship continued.

  ‘In an organisation as widespread as our Church, it would appear that controls are not always as rigid as they should be; after all, we are servants of God not mammon.’

  Ulick nodded and waited. He’d heard that one before.

  ‘A religious order of nuns committed a grave sin when they sold their convent—which wasn’t theirs—and disappeared with the proceeds.’

  ‘They must have had the deeds,’ Ulick remarked.

  ‘Yes, they had.’

  ‘It would be legal then, you’re Lordship.’

  ‘No, it’s not. That property was built with the contributions of the faithful, hundreds of years ago.’

  ‘Ownership is a moot point then. It would appear to depend on possession.’

  His lordship shook his head.

  ‘Normally, perhaps, but His Holiness has made an order that the sale of any church or order property requires his written approval to be legal.’

  ‘How could this sale have taken place then?’

  ‘The order was made since the sale, but, and this is the important part, His Holiness has made it retrospective. We are therefore seeking the return of the proceeds of this sale, and I may say, the perpetrators of this crime will be excommunicated.’

  Ulick would not be expected to know what “retrospective” meant. His Lordship expected his flock to behave like sheep; hadn’t they always!

  Ulick replied calmly.

  ‘Can His Holiness back date an order?’

  ‘His Holiness can do as he wishes,’ he responded crisply.

  ‘But surely these nuns will contest a back dated order?’

  ‘They don’t know it’s back dated.’

  I see, your Lordship. But how may I help you?’

  ‘There’s talk about the new owners of Hopkins Hotel near Roundstone. Could these be the nuns we’re looking for?’

  Ulick smiled broadly. ‘I think I can put your mind at rest, your Lordship; these ladies are not nuns.’

  His Lordship smiled for the first time.

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it, Mr. Joyc; when we find these nuns, and we will, we’ll have to act very discreetly. I wouldn’t want this mess in my diocese.’

  Ulick was bemused as he drove back to Conna. The masters of spin. They were good, but then they’d been at it for two thousand years. Could the nuns’ story be true after all?

  *

  A large number of Conna people travelled into Galway to attend the Circuit Court, in support of Mat Reilly and Shona Murray. Ulick took his place with his two clients while Crat led the prosecution with Madame sitting beside him. Judge John Ivers listened—with his usual inscrutable expre
ssion—while Crat quoted the Directives at great length. To everyone’s relief, he finally ended his long boring lecture with his submission.

  ‘Your Honor, I therefore ask the court to order the closure of these two premises and impose a substantial fine on the defendants.’

  The judge looked down at Ulick.

  ‘Mr. Joyc.’

  Ulick rose.

  ‘Your honour, I would like Mr. Bur O’Crat to take the stand.’

  ‘Very well,’ the judge responded.

  Crat objected. ’This case is absolutely clear cut; there is no need for further discussion. It’s entirely unacceptable that I take the stand.’

  The judge looked down on him. ’That’s for me to decide. Kindly take the stand.’

  Crat rose.

  ‘Your honour, as a senior member of the USE I do not need to take the oath; I always tell the truth.’

  ‘Well then, you won’t mind taking the oath; let’s get on with it.’

  Reluctantly, he took the stand and the oath.

  Ulick rose. ’Mr. Bur O’Crat, you have stated that it is contrary to the competition directives that two traders should sell the same apples at the same price?’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘Yet, when they sell the apples at different prices, you accuse one of them of profiteering?’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘Do you not think there is a contradiction here?’

  ‘I’m not paid to think, sir: I’m paid to enforce the directives.’

  ‘I see. You have nine colleagues holding similar positions to yours in the USE?’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘Do you all receive the same salary?’

  Crat looked at the judge. ’I refuse to answer that question; it is irrelevant.’

  The judge looked sternly at him.

  ‘Answer the question.’

  ‘It’s not a valid question, your Honour.’

  ‘That surely is for me to decide. Answer the question.’

  Reluctantly. ’Yes.’

  Ulick smiled. ’You all receive the same salary. So, you are all in breach of the Competition Directives.’

  ‘I don’t accept that. The responsibilities are not comparable.’

  ‘In what way.’

  He began to look a bit rattled. ’My responsibilities may be more onerous than those of my colleagues.’

  ‘So, you should be paid more.’