by Jo Spain
McNally pointed through double glass doors. They’d arrived at the main landing of an ornate staircase that continued up on either side to two balconies, lined with formal portraits of former prime ministers, the Taoisigh. Tom peered through the glass doors into the debating chamber, its rows of seats descending like a Roman amphitheatre.
‘We’re leaving the main Leinster House building now and entering Government Buildings,’ their guide continued. ‘There’s a suspended bridge that connects the two buildings.’
‘So there’s an uninterrupted flow within the complex,’ Ray observed. ‘You don’t need to leave any building by the main entrance to go to the next one?’
‘Not if you’ve the right security pass.’ McNally pointed to the one that hung around his neck.
Tom was still thinking about the piece of legislation McNally had mentioned. He had a vague recollection of hearing something about it but sadly, like his wife and most others, when certain political items hit the headlines he had a remarkable ability to filter them out.
‘Sorry, just go back a minute. You say there’s a Bill coming to revolutionise Ireland’s tax treatment of our natural resources, by which you mean oil and gas, right? So why exactly was the vice-president of a Danish oil and gas drilling company, which just happens to be operating off the northwest coast of Ireland’ – this much he did know – ‘meeting the minister in charge of drafting the Bill?’
McNally smiled thinly. ‘Don’t worry, Inspector. There wasn’t anything untoward about the meeting. This government was elected on a promise of transparency and accountability. Mr Madsen’s appointment last night was recorded in the visitors’ logbook. He was here to consult on the legislation. We’re meeting all the industry leaders, as well as public groups, on the issue. And Carl Madsen is not some murky, greedy business figure. He’s a long-time philanthropist and friend to this country.’
Ray shot Tom a look over McNally’s head, eyebrows raised.
McNally caught it.
‘You’re sceptical, Detective. That’s understandable, considering how corrupt the last government was. But the Reform Party made a promise in opposition. We need the jobs their industry brings, but we also need more revenue from their discoveries. This legislation significantly increases our share of royalties and charges for the issuance of new drilling licences.
‘Udforske already holds a drilling licence for areas off the western coast and the legislation is not retrospective, so it doesn’t affect the company in that regard. Future finds will mean more royalties for Ireland, but the likes of Udforske have such large profits that the increased tax is of little concern to them. What we all want is for Ireland to benefit from whatever is extracted while maintaining good working relationships with the companies willing to front the exploration costs. The minister is just concluding his consultations now. It’s all above board, I assure you.’
Tom wasn’t convinced, but said nothing. He didn’t know enough about drilling licences or the pending legislation to comment. What he did know was that the presence of the vice-president of a billion-euro company in Government Buildings, last night of all nights, would probably send Sean McGuinness’s blood pressure off the scale.
They crossed the bridge and passed through a set of double doors to another, far plusher, hallway.
A thick red carpet ran down the centre of a chequered marble floor. Delicate chandeliers hung from the high ceilings and gold-framed artwork adorned the walls.
They’d entered Government Buildings.
‘Austerity, eh?’ Ray quipped, letting out a low whistle. ‘Not for everyone.’
McNally flashed him a sharp look.
‘Considering how little selling off the carpet would contribute to reducing the State’s deficit, Detective, I’m not sure it would be worth it.’
Ray didn’t respond, but in his head he retorted that the nation’s least well off might disagree.
They came to an abrupt halt outside one of the hallway’s cream-panelled doors.
Tom stared down the corridor. He’d seen movement – a figure had been approaching but had abruptly ducked out of sight.
McNally rapped on the door and opened it.
‘Sorry, I thought he’d be here by now. I’ll just run downstairs and check if his car has arrived. Would you like to wait inside?’
‘Sure,’ Tom replied. ‘One thing before you go, Mr McNally. I need you to give one of my officers a formal statement about your own movements last night. We have guards here all day – any of them can take it. What were you doing yourself for most of the evening?’
‘I met with Madsen after the minister,’ McNally replied. ‘Then I returned to my office to work until I was summoned by Shane Morrison. I will give a statement, of course; it’s just – I’m in a rush to get somewhere today. My mother . . . she’s very ill. I was meant to leave for Clare last night.’
‘There’s no panic, but please stay in touch.’
The party chair nodded and scurried away, shoulders hunched forward, head low.
His mother’s condition might explain why McNally seemed so on edge, the inspector mused.
Ray made to walk into the Minister’s office but Tom stayed where he was. He was sure he’d seen something further down the hall. McNally had just disappeared from view when, suddenly, Linda McCarn materialised from behind a large potted plant.
‘Have I started hallucinating or is that who I think it is?’ the inspector muttered.
‘Tom, darling!’ The criminal psychologist’s husky drawl was unmistakeable. ‘Fancy seeing you here!’
A vision in multiple shades of green approached them.
Linda’s unmistakable shock of brown corkscrew curls shot out at various angles, but today they looked almost tame compared to her garish head-to-toe dress. She looked more like a psychic than a psychologist. Her tall, thin frame covered the short length of the hall in a few strides and then she was upon them, planting sloppy wet kisses on Ray’s cheeks, while air-kissing either side of Tom’s.
‘How come he gets proper kisses and I get pretend ones?’ the inspector asked, not in the least offended, but slightly curious.
‘Oh, Tom,’ she purred, her voice dripping with mock disdain. ‘He’s fifteen years younger than you and has the body of a Calvin Klein model. Do you have to ask? Hmm, though you do seem to be thinning out a little, sweetie.’ Linda poked at Ray’s ribs while he flushed bright red.
Tom tutted in disapproval.
‘I take it McGuinness was on to you. I was going to ring you myself this morning. What on earth were you doing behind that plant?’
‘Must I state the blindingly obvious? I was hiding. I saw you with that hobgoblin McNally and was waiting until he’d departed. Have you seen his tiny little feet? Proof that the Devil walks among us. He’d have launched into an interrogation about my presence. That man could give you a few tips on interview technique. You and the KGB.’
‘McNally? What’s your beef with him? No, hold on.’ Tom took a breath. ‘Tell me first, how did you get into Government Buildings without coming in with us?’
‘Oh, is that where I am? I hadn’t noticed.’ Linda planted her hands on her hips. ‘Honestly, this isn’t my first time, Tom. Don’t make me say it. You surely know who my father was?’
The realisation hit the inspector like a smack to the forehead. Fionn McCarn, Linda’s father, a previous minister for justice.
‘There it is,’ Linda said, observing his evolving expression. ‘History for slow learners. I’ve kept in with most of the ushers over the years. The family members of former ministers get to keep a few privileges and, anyway, they know I’m one of your sort. Right, let’s pop in here and wait for our man. So, spill the goss – did Blake do it?’
Ray’s jaw dropped. Tom just raised an eyebrow and held the office door open for the psychologist.
He never felt entirely comfortable around Linda. She was absolutely brilliant, of that he was certain. But her eccentric manner, her bizarre dress sense, th
e upper-class dismissiveness of her tone, was all extremely off-putting.
‘Are you sure we’re allowed in here?’ Linda wondered aloud, as she strode in. ‘If not, this is the first time I’ve engaged in a spot of breaking and entering with the police.’
The minister’s desk dominated one end of the office – an expensive-looking oak affair, flanked by comfortable leather-upholstered chairs, studded with gold. There was a meeting table just inside the door, varnished until it shone. The inspector pulled out a chair for Linda and sat down himself.
A door to the left of the desk looked like it led into an adjoining office.
Ray followed his eyeline.
‘Finnegan’s office. I’ll fill you in on last night’s finds afterwards,’ he said. ‘Actually, if you have Linda here, I might pop in and give it another once-over.’
‘Go on, then,’ Tom said. They didn’t need a panel interviewing Minister Blake.
‘The usher who found Finnegan last night – Jim,’ Linda said, as Ray left. ‘I’ve known him for donkey’s years. He was one of the staff who gave families of the newly elected TDs their introductory tour of the House. Always keep in with the little people, Tom. They’re a mine of information. The poor man was horrified by what he found. Naturally. Some of them in here would leap over the corpse in their rush to get to a television camera.’
It never ceased to amaze Tom how much Linda could talk. He couldn’t begin to imagine how fast her brain worked. Twice the speed of his, at any rate. She would lend great insight into some of those they would be investigating in this case, but he was nervous about letting her loose on ordinary folk.
‘Linda, let’s backtrack. Why don’t you like McNally? And why hide, rather than greet him with your usual acerbic wit?’
Linda mock-shivered.
‘Darragh McNally makes my skin crawl. He’s an inoffensive-looking evil little mastermind. I can’t handle his type of cut-throat, Tom, so I just steer clear. The sensible option. I bet he’s already told you all about the wonderful new legislation that’s coming. His brainchild, the law that will save Ireland’s economic future and provide us with limitless jobs and energy into the future. Even in the middle of a murder investigation, he’ll have found time to tell you. Never stops spinning, that one.’
‘He mentioned that Bill on the way over,’ Tom said. ‘Not quite in those terms and not that it was his idea. He said the initiative comes from Minister Blake’s department.’
‘Pfft. He has his grubby little hands all over it. Anyway, no harm your being aware of it. It’s already causing tensions in the Reform Party and your victim was working for the minister directly responsible.’
‘How do you know so much about it?’ Tom asked, running a hand over the bristles on his chin. He’d forgotten to shave.
‘You know my father was in cabinet with Paddy Shelton? One of our pal Aidan’s forerunners? No? He was the Minister for State Resources in the early ’70s. Now you’re getting it. Anyway, Shelton was a great man. He and my father were brilliant ministers. Not like this shower of . . .’
‘Jesus wept! The point, Linda.’ Tom was mildy interested in the Bill because they’d discovered that Carl Madsen was in the building last night, but he couldn’t quite see the relevance of some tax law to their murder investigation. The photo found with Ryan was far and away the most interesting piece of evidence in their case.
‘I’m getting there. Stop interrupting. Shelton knew there were potentially vast supplies of oil and gas reserves off the west coast of Ireland. He knew it and most of Europe knew it too. So he wrote laws to ensure that whenever anyone tapped into our natural resources, we’d get the lion’s share of the profits. Are you still with me?’
‘I don’t know if anyone is ever fully with you, but I’m vaguely familiar with what you’re talking about.’
‘Good boy. So, the government that followed Shelton’s crowd, it championed businessmen. It abolished the notion of reserving oil and gas for the Irish people. Then it got rid of royalties on finds. Now the companies are taxed virtually nothing.’
‘Okay, that’s the history, Linda, but this government is remedying that now. Isn’t it?’
‘No, no, no. Tom, you must understand – the only reason the government is doing anything is because of the huge pressure its representatives are under in the west of the country. The Reform Party is not strong in the capital – it only has a few TDs here. Its real strength lies in the rural counties, especially along the western seaboard. The people in those counties are up in arms about the activities of oil and gas companies and they are the Taoiseach’s and half the cabinet’s voters. But this Bill, what they’ve done . . .’
Linda stopped short. The door had opened and the owner of the office filled its frame.
‘Linda McCarn. I didn’t realise you’d be here. Sorry – Aidan Blake, Inspector. I apologise for delaying you. Now, what’s this about a Bill?’
*
Tom stood to shake the minister’s hand.
It was a cliché, but the inspector couldn’t help but think how the man had always appeared taller on television, whereas in real life the top of his head hovered at Tom’s chest level.
Blake was just as handsome in the flesh, though, even if he did look haggard this morning. There was certainly something charismatic about the man – magnetic, even. Thick and floppy red-gold hair bounced above vivid blue eyes and the minister wore an expertly tailored designer suit that looked like it cost a few months’ worth of Tom’s pay packet.
Just to rub it in, Aidan Blake also seemed to be a pleasant fellow. He appeared sombre now, but normally his smile was genuine and warm. Blake, in fact, was everything the leader of the country wasn’t. Taoiseach Cormac O’Shea, the head of the Reform Party, was an aging, balding, ruddy-faced, stout countryman, who had all the facial markings – the broken-veined cheeks and bulbous nose – of a man who enjoyed his liquor. Aidan Blake, just turned forty, was the fresh-faced poster boy for Irish politics and for the country.
Tom glanced from Linda to Blake, wondering what she had been about to tell them and what the minister would make of it. The psychologist looked uncertain about continuing with her exposition, even a little on edge. A rarity for her.
‘I just mentioned to Tom how busy you must be with the Bill you’re writing,’ Linda said, and averted her eyes as the colour rose in her cheeks. She was a master of analysing when somebody else was lying, but terrible at it herself.
‘I see,’ Blake said, and gave her an odd look. He turned to the inspector. ‘I apologise, again, for your having to wait. I had to have a cigarette before I came up. My nerves are frayed.’
‘Understandably. So, you know each other?’ Tom asked, surprised. He hadn’t missed the coolness in the minister’s tone and body language towards the psychologist.
‘Yes,’ Linda replied. ‘I’m a patron of Silent Voices. I was meant to attend the ball last night but got stuck at something else. How is Sara coping with the news?’ She directed this to Blake.
He shrugged and slumped down in a chair in front of Tom, rubbing tired eyes with manicured hands.
‘Neither of us can believe what’s happened. It’s surreal. A nightmare. Ryan, dead. I’d told him to go home early yesterday. I don’t even know why he was still here. Are you absolutely certain he was murdered? Could it have been an accident? And poor Kathryn. How is she?’
‘As can be expected, Minister,’ Tom replied.
‘Call me Aidan, please.’
‘Aidan, then. Look, Ryan’s death was no accident. He was shot twice, once in the head.’
Blake recoiled, his hands falling away from his face, along with any remaining colour.
‘Are you serious? In the head? I was just told he’d been shot . . . I didn’t . . . I guess I thought he’d been shot in the chest or something. Are there any witnesses?’
‘That’s what we’re trying to establish. How long did you know Ryan?’
‘Years. He’s worked with me for years.’
>
‘And you got on well?’
‘Of course. I mean . . . he was a friend and a work colleague. A decent chap. Why would somebody kill him?’
Tom sat back in his chair. Why, indeed?
‘We’ve established that Ryan was attacked in the tunnel connecting the LH2000 annex to the main House some time after 9 p.m., when the building was last checked, and before 10:45 p.m., when his body was found. Aidan, I have to ask everybody who was in the complex during that period what they were doing here and if they saw Ryan. You were clearly with him at some point; can you tell me what time? You may have been one of the last people to see him.’
Blake ran his hands through the hair at his temples, his forehead creased in concentration.
‘It must have been about 8. I was just leaving to go to Sara’s ball. I told him again to go home. It was Friday night and he’d only started back in work this week. He had been on sick leave. Ryan was determined, though, to pick up where he left off. I popped back over just after 9 p.m. for a meeting. I didn’t see him then, but I didn’t check his office. I was back at the ball by 10:30.’
‘You came back over for your appointment with Carl Madsen?’
‘Yes, how . . .? Oh, McNally told you. Well, it’s not a secret. It was an unusual time for a meeting, but he had flown in late that afternoon. He was en route to the opening of a new Udforske facility in the west. I agreed to meet with all the stakeholder drilling companies out of courtesy before I sign off on a new Bill my department is drafting. Mr Madsen is as busy as I am. He diverted his flight to Dublin to accommodate our brief session. It was pointless in the end. He didn’t have anything new to suggest, but still, better he come here than I go to his holiday home. Aesthetics.’
‘Madsen has a holiday home in Ireland?’ Linda asked.
‘Yes. In Donegal. I say holiday home but it’s more like a palatial retreat. Built into a cliff, like something from a spy movie.’
‘So you met Madsen at what time, exactly?’ Tom continued.