by Jo Spain
Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Copyright Page
About the Author
Dedication
Glossary
Author’s Note
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
First published in Great Britain in 2016 by Quercus
This edition first published in 2016 by
Quercus Editions Ltd
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ
Copyright © 2016 by Joanne Spain
The moral right of Joanne Spain to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Ebook ISBN 978 1 78429 318 5
Print ISBN 978 1 78429 927 9
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
You can find this and many other great books at:
www.quercusbooks.co.uk
Jo Spain has worked as a journalist and a party advisor on the economy in the Irish parliament. Her first novel, With Our Blessing, was shortlisted for the Richard and Judy ‘Search for a Bestseller’ competition and became a top-ten bestseller in Ireland. Jo lives in Dublin with her husband and their four young children.
For Isobel, Liam, Sophia and Dominic
Glossary
Glossary of Irish language (Gaeilge) terms
Dáil Éireann – The lower (main) house of the Irish parliament
Seanad Éireann – The Irish parliament’s upper house
Oireachtas – The combined houses of the Irish parliament
An Taoiseach – The Prime Minister
Teachta(í) Dála – Member(s) of Parliament
A Chara – Dear Friend
Author’s Note
This book is fictional. The story is an invention of my imagination and not intended to resemble any real-life people or places.
Prologue
The Death
I am going to die.
I know this as surely as I know I don’t want to.
I can’t bear it. I cannot stand the thought of leaving my girls, of not seeing them again.
Kathryn will never recover. We have defied the odds of so many married couples and are as much in love as the day we met. Sweet, beautiful, funny Kathryn.
And Beth. Oh, my little baby girl. The newness and perfection of her skin. The smell of her soft hair. Her little pudgy hand clasping my finger like she’ll never let go. She’s part of me, but she’ll never know me. People will tell her I loved her but she will never understand how much. She won’t know the almost physical pain I felt when she was born, so overwhelming was my love for her. I couldn’t speak when I held Beth for the first time, the lump in my throat was so large. Kathryn laughed. She’d never seen me cry before and it was because I was so happy.
I’m crying now.
Did I know it would come to this? Why didn’t I realise that I was playing Russian roulette not just with my own future, but with my family’s too?
I fall forward into the cold arms of the angel. The images fall from my hands, scattering across the floor.
My leverage and my downfall.
How little they mean now.
I would give anything to turn back time and be with my girls, to take them in my arms and squeeze them tight, my heart exploding with love.
Because too late, I know that’s all that matters.
My body writhes in agony as I try to turn my head.
I want to look my executioner in the eye. Who is this person who will steal everything from me?
My punishment is cruel. My threat was to a career, not a life. This is not fair.
I will beg. I will wail and I will plead and maybe God will intervene. He will forgive my naivety, my arrogance. This angel will carry me not to Heaven but to help, and I will fight to live. I will fight for them, Kathryn and Beth.
But all hope of salvation evaporates as I behold my attacker.
My mouth struggles to form the word.
It’s not ‘Please’. It’s not ‘Stop’.
It’s . . . ‘Why?’
And then I see it, but I don’t see it. The end.
There’s no shot at redemption.
I am going to die.
The gun is in my eyeline as the second bullet is fired.
That’s the one that kills me.
The Deal
‘Is it done?’
‘We’ve been over this. I will deliver my end of the deal.’
A magnificent old grandfather clock chimes imperiously from the corner of the room, marking the late evening hour. All else is quiet. Other parts of the sprawling building are still busy, people going about their business, unaware of the presence of the two men and the nature of their conversation.
The atmosphere between them is tense, oppressive even.
The businessman stands and pours himself a second brandy from a crystal decanter. The drink has little effect on him. He is used to consuming everything to excess.
He wasn’t always this way. As a child he was neither the eldest – chastised and disciplined as the first always is – nor the youngest – coddled and worshipped, forever basking in the love of multiple older family members. The businessman had been a quiet middle child, generally ignored. Some would say he went on to achieve so much because he craved attention. They would be wrong. He discovered early that he enjoyed the rewards of success, not its spotlight.
He holds the decanter’s stopper up to the low-hanging chandelier. The light casts brilliant illuminations through the prism of the perfectly cut glass, multicoloured diamonds that dance over bookshelves heaving with a gloriously eclectic mix of modern and dated texts. He drops the stopper carelessly on the mahogany drinks cabinet and brings the brandy glass to his lips, inhaling as the spirit wets his mouth and hits the back of his throat. A Hennessy Cognac Paradis. Excellent, but far from the best. Presumably the taxpayers’ euro can stretch to mid-range luxury, but not premium.
‘I asked you, is it done?’ The businessman’s tone is crisp, sharp, insistent.
The seated man smiles coolly and tries to appear at ease, though the slight trembling of his right hand says otherwise.
‘Look. Have I given you any cause for concern so far? Everything is in hand. I foresee no issues, but don’t underestimate what I am trying to do here. Do you know what would happen if this was leaked and
spun in a certain way? If people knew what you and I were doing and I lost control of the story? We’re not just talking about the fall of a ministry. This could bring down the government.’
The businessman doesn’t respond immediately. He tilts the liquid in the glass, observing its colour with interest. A mellow, honey-golden hue.
‘Don’t be so dramatic,’ he says dismissively. ‘Governments come and go. Business carries on regardless.’
‘I don’t think it is being dramatic to point out that you stand to lose millions if this doesn’t go to plan. Another government might not be so . . . sympathetic.’
‘I’ve yet to see the proof of your sympathies. Your administration has been in office for nine months, but still my company is the subject of negative publicity. I was promised that our operations would be allowed to run smoothly. Why is it taking so long?’
The man he addresses tries to suppress an eye tic that is threatening to manifest itself. A symptom of fatigue, it will betray weakness. No doubt the tremor in his hand has already been noted with concern.
The shaking isn’t, in fact, related to any stress.
He had let the businessman pour him a glass of the brandy. Five years, three months and twelve days dry. This is a test. He won’t drink the alcohol, but oh, the temptation! It’s always there, tap, tap, tapping – a neverending battle of will versus desire. And at times like this, when he’s at his lowest, the struggle is tremendous.
‘In a week or so, the new law will be brought before the House and passed quickly,’ he says. ‘Everything is going to plan and if any unexpected minor issues arise, they will be dealt with. Immediately.’
In that moment, the urge to down the whole decanter of brandy almost conquers the seated man.
Because there is a complication – one so unexpected, he was taken completely unawares when it was dumped in his lap just days ago.
He could do without the crisis, this meeting. His personal life is imploding. He could be about to lose the one person who means everything in the world to him and the businessman and his demands just don’t seem as important as they once did.
The man buries a sigh. He is being forced to neglect his own affairs for the moment. This new obstacle to the businessman’s plans will be overcome. No matter what it takes. He hasn’t worked so hard for so long and neglected all else for nothing.
Of that much, he is sure.
The other man is studying him with frightening intensity. It makes the seated man feel naked. No, worse. Transparent.
‘I hope so,’ the businessman says at last. ‘Because if you can’t ensure I get what I want, I will use somebody who can. Am I making myself clear?’
The seated man looks into his glass of golden liquor, its heady, sweet scent filling his nostrils, enticing him. He picks it up. His hand is sweating and his palm almost slips on the ornate indentations.
‘Crystal,’ he replies.
The clock continues to tick, counting down the seconds to murder.
The Hunt
60, 59, 58, 57 . . .
The man marks the passing minute, his fingers drumming the desk, body tense, breathing fast. The printer whirrs behind him, disgorging the images he needs at a snail’s pace. When it pauses to calibrate, his heart almost stops too, with the sudden realisation that a ridiculous, unplanned technical glitch could put everything on hold.
50, 49, 48, 47 . . .
He’s almost there. An empty cardboard folder lies open, waiting for its bounty. The last image of the collection is still on the computer screen and it catches the man’s eye. He feels ashamed, embarrassed, his stomach knotting with revulsion at his plan.
He starts downloading the images onto the USB stick in the side of the machine.
35, 34, 33, 32 . . .
The penultimate page slides onto the printer tray. Just a few seconds more and he’ll have the complete set.
That’s when he hears it. The unmistakable hum of the elevator at the end of the hall. He freezes as the drone ceases. The lift has reached its destination and the door is opening. On this floor.
There’s no time to lose. He doesn’t want to be discovered and he senses danger. He rushes to stand, knocking a precariously balanced pile of papers to the floor.
‘Shit!’
The word escapes him involuntarily and – thankfully – quietly. The man grabs the material from the printer and shoves it into the folder. Every inch of his body is taut with stress.
There it is – the soft click of a door being opened in the distance. A few moments pass, then the sound of another door opening, a little closer. He doesn’t know how it came to pass, but he knows in his gut that this person is looking for him.
Each office along the hallway is being checked systematically. That gives him a chance to think.
He tries to plan his escape. This is the second-to-last room. The double doors at his end of the corridor are locked; he can’t use the stairs that way. He has to exit the way he came in and that is towards whoever is in the hallway now.
The solution is so simple and yet it almost doesn’t occur to him. This office has a connecting door to the neighbouring office, which, presumably, the searcher will reach first. As the person moves towards this office, the man can slip into the adjacent room and, from there, out to the hall. If he is indeed being pursued, he can make a run for it. Hopefully his weak leg won’t betray him. He hasn’t done any serious exercise since the accident, but adrenaline will surely carry him for the next few minutes. He can already feel it pumping through his veins.
He clutches the folder to his chest as the door to the neighbouring office is opened. He waits a few seconds until he gauges the other person is satisfied the room next door is empty, then launches his evasive manoeuvre.
He misjudges it by a hair’s breadth. The hunter is moving faster than he had estimated. The door to the man’s office opens just as he is moving into the adjoining room.
A blurred figure rushes at him, bearing nothing but ill will and threat. Panicking, the man slams the shared office door into his pursuer and flees. He barrels out into the carpeted hall, hurtling down its length as fast as his weakened body will allow, grasping the folder so tightly his fingers have turned white.
He reaches the lifts. One is out of order; he’d seen that when he came up. The second must have waited momentarily before returning to its station on the ground floor. It will take too long to summon back.
The man makes a snap decision. He crashes through the fire doors to the stairwell and descends, two steps at a time.
That haste on the stairs is his second mistake. A couple of flights down, his bad leg buckles and he tumbles six steps. He lies on the landing between floors, winded but intact. He’s cut his hand on a splinter from the banister, but he can barely feel the sting. He is there just long enough to hear the fire doors open again two floors above.
He has to move.
He pulls himself up painfully and continues running. He doesn’t look back, doesn’t want to see what is behind him.
The man emerges into the building’s open-plan coffee dock. Nearly there. He has his swipe card for the underground tunnel at the ready. Once through those doors, he only has to run a couple of hundred metres and he will be back in the populated part of the building. Or should he go up – to the main level? He doesn’t have to return the way he came. Are the doors upstairs locked yet? Might there be an usher present?
He can’t think straight.
In fact, what had he been thinking? Why had he taken the risk?
Because he hadn’t understood the danger.
Now, the consequences of his actions are terrifyingly clear.
The tunnel doors are open, held in place by two fire extinguishers that weren’t there earlier. He doesn’t stop to think what that means but keeps running as fast as his feeble, treacherous body will allow.
The statue looms large in front of him – the beautiful stone angel that always seems curiously out of place in this lonely, functiona
l corridor.
The man knows his hunter has gained on him. The hairs on the back of his neck are standing on end.
If asked earlier, he would have brazenly declared that the folder of pictures would only be relinquished if it were prised from his cold, dead hands. He would carry his plan through, no matter what. Now, he wants to fling the images away, screaming: ‘Here, take them, leave me in peace!’
The man is in front of the statue when he hears a muted popping sound and feels a searing white heat. The pain tears through his body, paralyzing his legs, his back, his arms.
But not his mind. He is aware of everything. In this instant, the man knows exactly how much he has left to chance and what he is about to lose.
He is pitched forward into the outstretched arms of the seated angel. The folder falls from his splayed fingers, its incriminating contents spilling onto the floor.
In his agony, the man twists his body to see his assailant.
His eyes widen, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly as he tries to speak.
‘Why?’
This is the sole word he manages to utter before his killer raises the weapon and fires the second bullet, this time aimed at the head.
Blood explodes across the green stone angel and the red wall behind it. The man’s body slumps. He is dead in that instant.
The hunter lowers the gun. There is a moment’s reflection. Then, stepping around the blood seeping onto the granite-coloured tiles, the murderer approaches the body, leans down and gathers up the fallen pages.
Job done, the killer turns and runs back to the lift, returning to the office and the computer with the abandoned USB stick.
The only sound in the hall is the slow, steady drip-drip of blood forming a pool on the floor, reflected in the dead man’s remaining eye.
Trapped between his body and the sculpture is one of the pictures that set the events of the last few minutes in motion.
An image that landed beneath the victim as he fell.
A page the killer has missed.
Chapter 1
The Investigation
Friday, 11.30 p.m., Dublin
Well, that had been a total and utter disaster.