“He’s gone!” she called back over her shoulder.
Hurrying to the door she checked the front garden, then went to the gate and looked up and down the street. It was deserted. No Oliver.
When she came back into the kitchen Pascal was already on his feet, putting on the jacket he had draped on the back of his chair.
Oliver’s phone was sitting on the table.
“His phone’s here. He can’t have gone far,” she said. “Maybe he just wanted a breath of fresh air.”
“So he snuck off without saying anything? I don’t think so,” said Pascal. “He’s not thinking logically at the moment. In fact, he’s in a bad way. We’d better split up and search for him. He needs help.”
Ella and Andrew grabbed their car keys. A quick consultation decided which direction each should take. The three cars drove out onto the road. Pascal would go west in the direction of Oliver’s home. Andrew was to head north towards the Planning Office in case Oliver had decided to go there. Ella could head south or east. South towards the airport or east into the city. She hesitated, trying to put herself in Oliver’s mindset. The road to the airport wound through some nice landscaped areas before joining up with the motorway. Some quiet, secluded areas. Probably what Oliver would be looking for now. The city centre would offer no peace or calm, even at this hour of night. Decision made, Ella drove away in the direction of the airport while Oliver strode with determination eastwards towards the city centre. Towards closure.
* * *
The three-way phone communication between Ella, Andrew and Pascal became increasingly more agitated. There was no trace of Oliver Griffin. He was not on his way to his office or on the road to his home. Ella was not as sure about the airport road. She was driving slowly, peering into the darkness on either side of the road. There were many little areas where someone could easily hide from passers-by if they wanted to. But yet how far could Oliver have got on foot? Ella had come out onto the motorway leading to the airport by the time Andrew contacted her again. He had rung Tricia on some pretext. Oliver was not at home. Tricia said he was at a business dinner.
“Shit!” Ella said. “He must be gone in the only direction we haven’t searched. He could have walked almost as far as the city by now. It’s only three kilometres. He could have flagged down a taxi or got a bus. I think we should all head towards the city centre. Will you let Pascal know? We’ll meet up by the train station. Okay?”
Andrew grunted a reply as Ella turned off at the next intersection and headed back towards the city centre. The further she drove the more convinced she became that Oliver had got some form of transport into town. How in the name of God were they going to track him down? She was remembering snatches of the scene in the kitchen tonight. How had she not noticed Oliver’s down mood, his silence, his detachment at the time? Too occupied with the unfolding story of his gambling addiction, she had missed the signs. How humiliated and guilty he must feel at this minute. How desperate.
Town was quiet, even for a week night. Ella kept her eyes peeled on the footpaths as she headed towards the railway station. She saw couples, groups of teenagers, some people sleeping in doorways, two gardaí on the beat but no sign of Oliver. Turning right to drive along the quayside, she glanced at the bridge spanning the river. She jammed on her brakes and pulled in to the side. A dark figure was hunched over the bridge, elbows on the parapet. He appeared to be staring into the murky depths of the river. Ella knew. She was too far away to see his face, his hair, his tormented expression but Ella knew she had found Oliver.
She quickly let Andrew know, then locked the car and began to approach the hunched figure. Instinct told her that she would have to move cautiously. Her legs shook as she crossed the wide bridge, terrified that Oliver would decide to act before she could reach him. She got within three yards of him. He was still. Just staring. Not even noticing her approach. Should she wait until Andrew and Pascal got here? Just keep watch. He knew them better than he did her. A young couple began to cross the bridge. They were engrossed in each other and did not seem to notice the man leaning over the parapet and the woman who was intensely watching him. They passed by. Where in the hell were Andrew and Pascal? Oliver moved. Just a repositioning of his feet but it was enough to make Ella act. She crossed the few yards between them and stood beside him.
“Are you all right, Oliver?” she asked gently.
He turned to face her and she was shocked by the devastation on his face. It seemed that he had aged ten years since he had left the kitchen in Ford’s house. In the yellow glow of the neon street lighting he looked like a man in the end stages of a terminal illness. Ella reached out and laid her hand over his on the stone parapet. His skin was icy cold.
“I need help,” he muttered.
“And I know just the person to give you the help you need,” Ella replied.
Tucking her hand into his arm she gently tugged him away from the parapet. He offered no resistance. They had begun their slow walk back to her car by the time Andrew and Pascal arrived.
“Back to our place,” she said and warned them both with a look not to say anything.
Oliver seemed to be very detached by now. He got into Ella’s car, allowed his seat belt to be tied and allowed himself to be driven to her house without saying a word. Back in the kitchen Ella sat him down and placed a cup of hot, sweet tea in front of him. He smiled at her. It was a wan smile but it was the first sign Ella had seen that Oliver still had some hope.
“I was thinking about jumping,” he said.
Ella sat opposite him and caught his hand. “You know, Oliver, that I’ve been through a pretty tough time lately. The accident and other things. There were times in the past year when I felt like giving up but I found someone to help me. His name is Peter Sheehan. Would you like me to ring him for you now?”
Oliver’s eyes filled with tears. “What have I done, Ella? I’ve ruined my marriage, my children’s lives, my friends. How could any doctor help? I’ve destroyed so many lives.”
“Your addiction to gambling has done the damage. Why don’t you talk to him about it? He won’t judge you, just as he didn’t judge me.”
Oliver nodded. A barely perceptible dip of his head. Ella seized the moment and dialled Peter Sheehan’s number. His hello sounded sleepy. For an instant Ella imagined him in bed, his torso bare, his hair tousled. She rushed on, ashamed of her thoughts in the circumstances.
“Sorry for ringing at this hour, Peter, but a friend of mine is in trouble. He needs help. Your help. Can I bring him to see you?”
Ella heard some rustling and she knew Peter was throwing back the duvet, swinging his legs onto the floor. His thighs would be tanned, muscles well defined.
“Where is he?”
“Here in my home.”
“Okay. I have your address. What are we talking about here? Emergency situation?”
“Exactly.”
“I’ll be with you in ten, fifteen minutes.”
Ella put down the phone and turned her attention back to Oliver.
Andrew and Pascal, both looking pale, walked into the kitchen. She told them about Peter Sheehan. Not everything. Not about her fantasies. Her imaginings. And in the middle of a crisis! That was something she would have to think about later.
* * *
It was a very long night. Peter admitted Oliver to hospital for observation. Ella went to the hospital with them while Andrew and Pascal went to see Tricia. Having tried to explain Oliver’s situation to his wife as gently as possible, they then brought her to visit her husband. He was sedated. Enjoying an artificial calm while all around him was chaos, guilt and regret.
Feeling that Oliver’s room was crowded since Tricia, Andrew and Pascal had arrived, Ella tiptoed outside and sat in the corridor. Her eyelids drooped. She jumped when Peter Sheehan sat beside her on the upholstered seat.
“Is he going to be all right?” she asked.
“He has a long road ahead but yes, with support he should be fin
e. What about you? How are you feeling?”
Ella looked into his clear green eyes with the dark lashes. She could not find words for how she was feeling. Tired, sad, emotionally drained. Yes. But also warm and comfortable in his green gaze. She felt safe sitting beside Peter Sheehan. She smiled at him.
“I’m fine, Peter. Thank you for helping Oliver.”
“No problem. You look tired. You should go home.”
Ella agreed. Going back into Oliver’s room she saw that Andrew was comforting Tricia. It wouldn’t be right to drag him away.
“I’ll drive you home,” Peter offered. “Your house is on my way.”
Ella said her goodbyes quickly. She was anxious now to get out of the hospital, away from the suffering which was evident in the lines and furrows on Oliver’s sleeping face and in the heartwrenching sobs of his wife.
In Peter’s car she lay her head back against the headrest and closed her eyes. She was lulled on the journey by the smooth hum of the engine and the clean smell of Peter’s aftershave. Maybe it was deodorant. Anyway it was nice. Like a summer meadow. Full of sunshine and the promise of harvest.
Ella woke with a start. Peter was gently shaking her arm. They were outside her front door.
“Andrew and I are going to get divorced,” she said and then cringed with embarrassment. What had possessed her to come out with that announcement? Spitting it out as if it was something of which to be proud. As if it mattered to Peter Sheehan. Lowering her head to hide her shame, she grabbed her bag off the floor with one hand and opened the car door with the other.
Peter’s hold on her arm tightened. “How do you feel about that?” he asked.
Ella pulled her arm away and put one foot on the ground outside. “I’m not your patient any more.”
“Just what I wanted to hear you say, Ella. I wouldn’t dream of being unprofessional.”
The meadowsweet smell engulfed her as Peter leaned close. She felt his breath on her face, the warmth of his skin as his fingers brushed her cheek. She closed her eyes and savoured the sensations. His lips touched hers. A butterfly caress. A thunderclap. A bolt of lightning. Opening her eyes she looked into the clear green of his. She saw compassion and understanding there. She thought she saw passion too but her judgement was being impaired by her racing heart.
“May I call you sometime soon?” he asked.
“Please do,” she answered and then she levered herself out of the seat and closed the car door in case she kissed him again. And again. She watched as he turned the car in the driveway and then drove away. She did not hear Andrew come home. She was sleeping too soundly and dreaming too sweetly.
Chapter 30
It was still dark when Jason woke. Looking at his watch he saw it was six o’clock. He hated dark winter mornings. Maybe when everything was fixed up he would take a sun holiday. In a lively Mediterranean resort full of sangria and young girls wanting to have a good time. He’d show it to them!
He glanced at the sleeping woman on the other side of the bed. His wife. Wriggling closer to her he leaned on his elbow and examined her beautiful face. Her dark hair was spread out on the pillow, her lashes black and curling. She had the delicate bone structure of generations of good breeding. Except, Jason thought angrily, this classy mare doesn’t breed. Until now. She was on her last chance. No more fucking around the world for her. That was all right when he had been so smitten he’d tolerate any behaviour from her. And while he’d had other interests to pursue himself. Not any more. He’d bought a fucking palace for her. He was going to own Ireland’s first and only super casino and he must have children to pass it all onto. If she couldn’t, or wouldn’t produce, he’d get rid of her. Replace her. Destroy her. Bitch! He was tempted to wake her now and let her know who was boss in this marriage. But he had too much else to do. Not least to track down his missing papers. He glared at his sleeping wife again. Stupid bitch! She should never have left those things out of her hand. Only she would consider her make-up more important than anything else. Though he had to admit she had a point about the danger of taking them through customs. Far more risky in bulk than when she was carrying them to Salzburg one by one.
Jason rolled out of bed and threw on some clothes. It was going to be a bad day. He knew it. His anger was boiling up and the sun had not yet risen. Going down to the kitchen he put on the kettle and made himself a cup of tea. He always felt better with a mug of sweet tea in his hand. Just like his mother. Nelly. That scrap of a woman who had borne eight children and lost four of them to sickness when they had been only babies. Lost them to poverty. To deprivation. To dampness and dirt and hunger. To injustice. To a class system which had allowed inner-city babies die and upper-class kids be coddled and protected. His father, big and rough and red-haired, had sneaked off to England and left his wife to her mourning and to deal with her surviving children as best she could. Nelly Laide had had no pleasure, no happiness in her life. Except a cup of sweet tea.
Outside the kitchen window, Jason noticed the sun struggling to surface through a sea of dark cloud. He drained his tea, got his jacket and checked his inside pocket. Assured that his precious notebook was snug inside, he smiled to himself. It wasn’t that he feared Sharon would read it if she found it. He knew how to deal with her anyway. It was just that the less anybody knew about his deal with Van Aken the better.
He got his car keys and then hesitated after he had put the key in the ignition. Where should he start? The airport? He had got the details from Sharon last night and the all-important reference for her piece of missing luggage. But maybe she was right when she said that creating a fuss would arouse their suspicion. They were all hyper about security now. Suppose they started asking too many questions, maybe searching the bag when it finally turned up. A fine film of sweat broke out on Jason’s forehead at the thought. He’d wait another day. Give Sharon a chance to work her charm on them. Anyway he had other things to do. He must set up another deal with Van Aken. Expenditure was heavy now with one thing and another. Gussie at the transport depot should be his first stop. All the money should be in by now from Dirk’s last shipment. He’d have to collect that and bring it to the accountant’s plush office so that the cleaning-up process could begin. The laundering. Some would appear to have been won in the Eureka Club or earned against ghost transport contracts for Jason’s legitimate business interests. Some would be spirited into foreign accounts, the rest to shell companies. The process of legitimising the money so that Jason could access it and spend it as he wished and not have to look over his shoulder. His anger smouldered again now. He knew all those pricks in suits, including his accountant, were ripping him off. Someday he’d prove it and then they would pay the price. Someday when he had everything he wanted. When his children were grown. Posh, well-educated children who had never known a day’s hunger in their lives.
Angrily he revved the engine and shot down the driveway. He didn’t like remembering where he had come from. It made him feel inadequate. A bit like Sharon made him feel.
He tried to concentrate on the day ahead as he sped along the road. There was the business of the casino. That snotty Andrew Ford and his peculiar wife. The muscles on Jason’s jaw twitched as he thought of that clique. The Fords, Oliver Griffin, Pascal McEvoy. Shits, the lot of them. Looking down on him. Thinking they were better than him but all they were was more educated. When he had the Ballyhaven site and the casino licence secured he’d destroy the lot of them. Just for the pleasure of it. Maxine Doran too. The whore who thought she was a cut above.
By the time Jason arrived at the transport depot he was in better humour. The anticipation of vengeance delivered had lightened his mood. He passed the offices. They were still in darkness. He headed towards warehouse number six at the rear of the lot. Gussie, he knew, would be in his little office at the back, already sitting on his high stool, watching everything through his half-closed eyes. A genuine smile lit Jason’s face. Gussie was a real friend, maybe the only one he had. He had stayed fai
thful since the early days, never demanding, always happy to take what he was given, always ready to obey orders without question.
The smile faded as Jason walked past the stacked crates and boxes in number six warehouse. Gussie’s office was in darkness. He looked at his watch and checked the time. Ten past seven. It was unheard of for Gussie to be late. Jason tried the door. It was open. He went in and flicked on the lights. His mind registered the fact that there was something wrong but it was some seconds before he realised that the office had been cleared out. The vacant stool was there, like a throne without a regent, but everything else was gone. No posters, the girlie ones Gussie liked, on the walls, no overalls hanging up, no ledgers. Not even a pen.
Dashing across the little office Jason caught the grey steel locker and heaved it out from the wall. The door of the safe hidden behind it swung open. Jason shoved first his hand and then his head into the safe. It too was empty. Except for a large envelope. Shaking now with an anger deeper than he had ever before experienced, Jason tore the envelope open and pulled out a bunch of photographs together with a single sheet of A4 paper. The top photo showed Sharon and Frau Henner – O’Shaughnessy’s work in Salzburg.
He had to read the letter in Gussie’s distinctive handwriting twice before he could begin to make sense of the contents. Even when he understood the words he could not comprehend their horrendous treachery. He put the letter on the stool where he could read it without having it shake in his hand. He went through it for a third time.
Dear Jason,
I’m sorry to have to do this to you but for my own safety I have no alternative. As you know by now I have left. I’ve gone abroad and there is no point in trying to find me.
Because we are such old friends I am going to warn you even though I’ve been told by some powerful people to keep my mouth shut. The authorities are onto you. Revenue and police are watching your operations. You’ve been splashing too much money around. If only you had kept a low profile you could have had it all.
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