Ella sat. She needed time to think. If Maxine Doran was Harriet Wellsley’s great-granddaughter, then she had been related to Karen Trevor. And if that were true . . .
“Does Maxine have inheritance rights? Is Manor House hers by right?”
“I don’t think so. Of course a solicitor would have to verify but as far as I know Harriet was disinherited quite legally by her family. Disowned. But now you can understand why Maxine must have Manor House, can’t you?”
Ella nodded agreement just to pacify Andrew but she still did not understand.
“Does Rob know that Maxine is a Wellsley?” she asked.
Andrew stood up and grabbed her hand. “Let’s find out. Maybe he does and that’s why he sold so quickly to Jason Laide. We’re going to see him this minute.”
“Wait! Slow down, Andrew. Better ring first to see if he’s available.”
“No! Come on. We’re not going to give him a chance to avoid us.”
He caught Ella by the elbow and steered her out the door. She allowed herself to be led along. Her husband, soon to be her ex-husband, was in no condition to be left alone.
* * *
Oliver Griffin sat at his desk with the office door locked and his phone off the hook. Words had always come easily to him. Until now. He stared from the photograph of his wife and children to the blank sheet of paper in front of him. The hand holding the pen shook. Ever a man for protocol he was anxious to follow correct procedures. That was the trouble. Other than the instinctive knowledge that you penned rather than typed a suicide note, he was unsure of how to proceed.
Lowering the pen onto the paper he wrote the date. Then Dearest Tricia. He smiled at the irony of the juxtaposition of the word ‘dearest’ with his wife’s name. What an unfortunate combination Tricia’s expensive shopping habit had made with his gambling addiction. Hating himself for being unfair, yet again, wanting to at least face the truth now, he bent over the page and gripped the pen more tightly.
‘I’m sorry to tell you I have run up debts of half a million euro. I gambled too much and lost too often. The money is owed to a very ruthless man. Sorry. Take care of the children. And yourself. Love, Oliver.’
He stared at the spidery writing. At the self-pitying note. I owe. I go. Take care. You clear up the mess because I can’t. Tears welled in his eyes and spilled over. A large drop plopped onto the page and landed over his name. He watched hypnotised as the word Oliver became all blurry and edged in wavering blue. Tie-dyed. Duck-egg blue streaked with violet. Just like his young daughter’s eyes. Her clear, innocent eyes, gleaming now with anticipation of her First Holy Communion Day.
A loud sob escaped from deep within the place where Oliver Griffin hid all his fears. Shoulders shaking, he put his head in his hands and cried as he had never cried before. He wept for his wife, his children, for opportunities lost and for shame. Why oh why had he not stopped in time? Why had he not asked for help, told the truth? The answers rang in his head, loud and clear. Because he was weak, vain, selfish. Stupid! Driven only by his need to experience that thrill, the incomparable feeling of putting everything on the line, of confronting fate, of believing in his own ability to outwit chance.
Even now, as he sat here drenching his suicide note in tears, his heart beat fast with recollections of his triumphs. He’d had many wins. Poker games, horses, dogs, blackjack, roulette. There had been some glorious winning nights in the Eureka Club. In the place where he had first met Jason Laide. Nights when even the croupier had applauded Oliver’s good luck. But smiles and cheers had disappeared with the winning streak. There were polite conversations at first, the management pointing out that Mr Griffin had run up considerable debts. Then there were gentle reminders. Finally threats and demands. Pay up or be disgraced. That was when Jason had come to his rescue. That was when Oliver Griffin, Chief Planner, had sold his soul.
And now, at last, Oliver fully understood that his gambling was a fire which needed perpetual stoking, his life a disposable commodity for Jason Laide to use or abuse at will, his only escape the one he was planning to take tonight. A leap from the bridge into the freezing, polluted waters of the river would douse the fire. Feet tied together and weighted. A quick plunge to the muddy bottom. A mucky end to a murky life.
Oliver took a deep breath and sat up straight. Only a few hours left before he could safely make his way to the bridge and prepare for the biggest step of his life. He already felt a sense of relief. An unburdening of responsibilities he could no longer shoulder. The page on the desk was crumpled and soggy. Full of self-loathing he snatched it up and tore it to pieces. Oliver Griffin had made a mess of his life but he was determined to orchestrate his passing with all the control he had lacked in his living.
Taking out a clean sheet of paper, he began again. He had the date written when there was a knock on his door. He sat very still, barely breathing. Whoever it was knocked again. He began to get angry now. He had warned his secretary that he was not to be disturbed. What in the hell was she doing at his office door when he had told her stay away? There was another knock, louder, more urgent this time.
“Oliver! Let me in. I must see you.”
It was Pascal McEvoy. The panic and desperation in Pascal’s voice were audible through the thickness of the door. Oliver knew then that Jason Laide had carried out his threat to involve Pascal’s son in some type of sleazy blackmail scheme. Jason Laide! He should be the one with his feet tied together falling headfirst into the freezing water. Scum!
“Open up, Oliver! It’s urgent!”
Pascal was not going to go away. Oliver wiped his eyes and patted his hair. He put the dated page into the pending tray. He would get back to it. As he rose he felt old and weary. When he opened the door, he was shocked to see that Pascal looked older, wearier.
“I’ve been trying to contact you for hours. What in the fuck are you doing locked in here?”
“A lot of paperwork to get through. I needed peace and quiet,” Oliver answered and felt like crying again so strong was his need for the very peace and quiet about which he had just lied.
“Look at this,” Pascal said, passing a large envelope to Oliver. They both sat down and Pascal watched as his friend fumbled with the envelope before finally drawing out an eight by ten photograph. Oliver examined the picture closely. It had been taken in the city centre. At night. At the side entrance of a fast-food outlet. A narrow street running off one of the main thoroughfares. A group of teenagers stood laughing and chatting on the left-hand side of the shot. In the centre of the picture, a few yards away from the group was a man wearing a woolly ski hat, his back to the camera. Facing the lens, features clearly shown, was a fair-haired boy, young teens. His hand stretched out towards the older man, open and ready to receive the small packet of white powder the man was passing to him.
“Jesus! Your son? Hugh?”
“That’s my boy all right,” Pascal said. “The stupid little bollocks.”
“Christ! He’s only a child. How long has he been on drugs?”
“He’s not. He was just bribed into acting as go-between.”
“Really? Are you sure?”
“Yes. It’s taken me all last night and most of today to get the truth out of him but I know he’s being honest now. He’s too terrified to be otherwise. This picture was dropped off at my home late last evening. Motorbike courier. Real gangland stuff. That’s Hugh in the picture all right. He’s not denying it. But he was buying for the older boys. Just acting as a stooge, the little idiot. He was promised a place on the rugby team. That’s how fucking cheap my son sold his life away.”
Oliver glanced at the pending tray with the yet to be completed suicide note. Christ! How well he knew about selling life away! How cheap was it in the end? An IOU, a place on a rugby team? Jason Laide, the vile criminal he was, had set himself up as the arbiter of life and death. Oliver had chosen his path, had lied and cheated, had allowed himself be drawn into Laide’s clutches. But a thirteen-year-old child!
Oliver scanned the terse, typed message: ‘If you want to keep this out of the media contact your friend in the Planning Office.’
The paper fell from Oliver’s hand. It was as if he had already taken the leap from the bridge and was falling through the dark void towards an unknown endpoint.
“Jason Laide’s behind this,” he mumbled.
As soon as the words left his mouth he knew the sentence was incomplete. Jason Laide had organised the picture-taking, the delivery, the destruction of a child’s life but none of it would have happened if Oliver Griffin hadn’t involved this piece of filth in all their lives in the first place, if he hadn’t met him in the Eureka Club, if he hadn’t taken the first loan, if he hadn’t placed the first bet . . .
“Do you mean Laide, the transport guy?”
Oliver nodded silently. Words were stuck in his throat. Words of apology, of explanation, of excuse. They were choking him. He coughed, cleared his throat yet still the words pressed on his windpipe. Sweat broke out on his forehead.
“You’d better talk, Oliver. And quickly. I’m on my way to the police with this. It’s only out of respect for the friendship I believed we had that I came to you first. What is all this about and why has my son been dragged into it? And what in the fuck have you got to do with covert surveillance and blackmail?”
Oliver was incoherent at first. Half-formed words, half-finished sentences. His mouth was dry, his heart thumping but gradually, admission by admission, the lump in his throat eased and the words began to flow more easily. Confessions of gambling debts, deceit and utter stupidity tumbled out. Pascal never took his eyes off Oliver’s face as his onetime friend told his story of addiction.
“So you’re a gambler, Griffin. What has that got to do with my son?”
Oliver glanced at the pending tray again. He would not have to write his final note now. Pascal could tell his story for him. Every grotty detail from his indebtedness to Jason Laide to his foolish promise that he would deliver the casino licence for him.
“The casino licence . . .”
“You told him I would guarantee his name on the casino licence?” Pascal asked incredulously.
Oliver nodded, suddenly too tired for any more words. His body ached as if he were bruised and battered all over. He could not look at Pascal, could not meet the disdain in his eyes.
“Why in the fuck did you promise something you knew you could not deliver? I wouldn’t be swayed anyway but you know the system. What you were promising was impossible. We’re not a banana republic. Even if I’d wanted to, I couldn’t have done that. What did you think I’d do? Buy off the whole government? Surely Laide understood that too. He must be an intelligent man. He couldn’t have got as far up the ladder as he has if he was that inane.”
Oliver looked up and cringed in the face of Pascal’s glare. He must find the strength to make one last effort to be understood. To be pitied.
“The only thing Laide understands is cruelty. He bullied his way to the top. He finds weaknesses and exploits them. I presented mine to him. He thought your son was your vulnerable point. He’s trying to get to Andrew Ford as well. He wants Ford’s Ballyhaven site. And yes, before you ask, I told Laide about that too.”
Oliver focused on the picture of his wife and family on his desk. Then he reluctantly looked at Pascal McEvoy. At his old friend. He saw all the disgust and contempt he had expected in Pascal’s eyes. But nothing like the disgust and contempt he felt for himself.
Oliver closed his eyes and longed for the feel of the bridge parapet underneath his feet, for the rush of wind as his body sliced through the air, for the impact of his contact with the water, for the coolness of the depths, the darkness, the oblivion. He stored the image, the feelings, then opened his eyes. Pascal was still glaring at him. Oliver’s jump into the void was taking far longer and the chasm was deeper than ever he had imagined.
* * *
Sharon woke with a start, not sure where she was. The yards of frothy voile draped on the posts over her bed soon told her that she had been sleeping in the Ideal Homes parody her Irish house had become. She jumped out of bed. It was late afternoon. How could she be wasting time sleeping when there was so much to do? The answer of course was that her exhausted body could not have taken a minute more of restless wakefulness.
Going into the bathroom she laid her make-up out on the vanity unit. Bottles and jars lined up, some with the lids off. She quickly tied her hair up in a bun and put on a towelling robe. A glance in the mirror satisfied her that she appeared to be a woman about to spend hours applying make-up. Or so Jason would think should he come into the bedroom. Probably not likely. Jason had got what he wanted from her earlier. Roughly and cruelly. A punishment for not having his files.
Sharon locked the bedroom door before taking down Jason’s treasure trove of videos and files from the top press. She smiled as she saw how conveniently, and stupidly, Jason had left contact numbers for all his victims. A blush crept up her neck and face now at the thought that she had at one time admired Jason for his intelligence. What did that say about her own IQ?
Shrugging off her discomfort, she began to tap in numbers, confirming the appointments she had already made, leaving voicemail when there was no reply. If everything went according to plan she should have this raft of cruel blackmail back to its rightful owners today. Then she would be ready to tell, not ask, Jason Laide that she wanted a divorce.
Having not yet got a reply from Maxine Doran’s number, she tried again when she was through with her other calls. As she sat listening to the ring tones she imagined that Maxine must be at some glamorous location, probably on a beach, Caribbean maybe. Blue skies, warm, gently lapping sea . . .
“Hello. Maxine Doran speaking.”
Sharon dragged herself back from her daydream. “Hi, Maxine. Sharon Laide here. How are you?”
“Actually I’m busy, Sharon. Just waiting to go on stage for a final bow at a show. Is there something I can do for you?”
Sharon noted and understood the coldness which had crept into Maxine’s voice. She had always put Maxine’s aloofness down to conceit. Just another misjudged assumption. The girl must hate her, believing that she was Jason’s partner in crime.
“I’d like to meet up with you, Maxine. I’m back in Ireland for a little while. I know we don’t really know each other. We’ve just met socially. But there’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”
“I’m in Amsterdam. Sorry.”
Sharon frowned. She began to have doubts about her plan. How much was she going to have to reveal in order to persuade Maxine to meet her? How much should she reveal? Perhaps Maxine was happy with the status quo. Maybe she had a fixation on Jason. A Svengali-type relationship. It was not unknown. A sick bond between victim and perpetrator. But the girl was at least entitled to make a choice.
“I’m going to have to trust you here, Maxine. You mustn’t tell anybody about this call. I’ve recently come across a piece of property which belongs to you. It’s quite old. Maybe eight or nine years. Very explicit. Do you know what I mean?” There was silence on the other end of the line. “Maxine?”
“Yes. I’m here. What do you want, Sharon? Are you doing Jason’s dirty work for him now?”
“No! I want to give you back your property. You see why I have to trust you not to say anything? You know my husband, maybe even better than I do. He can’t be told about this. Please meet me.”
Sharon heard somebody call Maxine’s name.
“I’ve got to go,” Maxine said quickly. “I’ll be back in Ireland tomorrow morning. I’ll contact you.”
The phone went dead just as Sharon heard the front door open and then bang loudly. Jason’s tread across the hall was heavy. She just had time to put the files back and unlock the bedroom door before Jas
on hurtled into the room.
“Christ! Are you still dolling yourself up? C’mon! I’m spending a fucking fortune on a bloody palace for you and you can’t even be bothered to come to see it.”
“Just five minutes and I’ll be with you,” Sharon said as calmly as possible. Her hands shook as she quickly applied make-up and put on her clothes.
Jason stared as she slipped into her navy Dolce & Cabaña suit and added Swarowski earrings and a scarf to hide the bruising on her neck which was by now bluish yellow. She had not mentioned that she had been at the hospital in Salzburg and Jason couldn’t ask her about it. How could he explain O’Shaughnessy to her? Or maybe he should. Let her know that he would always be watching in future as he should have been in the past. Not that O’Shaughnessy had reported much to Gussie other than the visit to the hospital and the trip to Geneva to get the papers and tapes she had now so stupidly lost. No visitors to Junkerstrasse except Frau Henner’s family. That bitch was living well off Jason. Taking over. Moving her bloody family in. Sharon and that lump of a woman were too close. That would have to change too.
“Are you sure you’re feeling all right?” he asked.
Sharon glanced at him as if he had no right to ask that question. “I’m very well, thank you. Do I look unwell?”
“You look the part,” he announced. “Lady of the manor. Lady of Manor House.”
She stood and examined him from the top of his thinning hair to his beige-leather cowboy boots. She smiled at him. “You look the part too.”
Considering himself complimented, Jason allowed the frown on his forehead to relax a little. It must have been the old bag of a housekeeper who had needed the hospital visit. Sharon just accompanied her. That must have been it. Pity they hadn’t kept the old bag there.
He took Sharon’s arm and led her out to the car, the pressure of his fingers biting into the soft flesh on the top of her arm. He meant business.
And so do I, thought Sharon as she and Jason headed in the direction of Manor House.
Ebb and Flow Page 33