by Jo Spain
There was nothing to give away the deterioration of her brain, no sign it had already embarked on its regressive journey to a child-like state. There wasn’t a single clue to indicate the heartbreak to come, the devastation of lost memories and personality, of everything that made June herself.
Tom kissed her warmly on the cheek, inhaling the scent he and Louise had gifted her last Christmas. Her favourite, he recalled, though he couldn’t even begin to remember the brand.
‘Michael’s on the phone and Willie is having a cigarette,’ he said, answering her question.
The chief’s residence was not quite as salubrious as some of his neighbours’ and was quite dated in its furnishings, but it was welcoming and pleasant. Every room was carpeted or lino-ed, no polished wooden floors here. The walls were papered, not painted. The kitchen contained an old-fashioned crockery dresser, the television in the sitting room had been manufactured when LED was still something found in pencils. It reminded the inspector of his parents’ home.
‘Sorry, dear,’ McGuinness said, patting his wife on the shoulder by way of apology for his outburst. He moved aside so everybody could enter the large hallway properly. ‘Perhaps you could make us a pot of tea, while I talk to the lads?’
June’s features softened and she smiled.
‘Oh, all right then. See that, gentlemen? He doesn’t trust me to not wander off or invite some lunatic into the house every time I open the door, but he’s quite all right with me being alone in the kitchen with boiling hot water, knives, scissors, matches, and an oven. As long as it’s housework, eh?’
McGuinness looked alarmed, even as his wife winked at him and retreated to the back of the house. Tom felt relief in the very depths of his soul. Whatever the doctors diagnosed, for all he could see, June was still the same sharp woman he’d known and loved for decades.
The chief directed them into the sitting room, pausing at the stereo to turn down Mozart’s clarinet concerto adagio. Although the inspector liked to think that he too was a classical music aficionado, he couldn’t hold a candle to his boss. In modern vernacular, Tom knew the popular pieces – McGuinness knew the B-sides.
‘What’s happened?’ McGuinness asked, reclining in a deep red fabric armchair as Tom and Ray arranged themselves on the red- and beige-striped sofa that also graced the room. The Guardian was still on the arm of the chair, folded to the crossword page.
Tom handed him the envelope.
McGuinness raised one eyebrow as he withdrew its contents, fanning them out on the glass coffee table to get a better look.
‘What are these?’
It took a moment.
‘Oh! Bugger me!’
The chief’s jaw dropped as he beheld the full complement of photos from Ryan Finnegan’s computer. Ray covered his mouth so he wouldn’t be caught smiling at McGuinness’s rather inappropriate choice of words.
‘Is that—?’
‘Yes,’ Tom replied. ‘Minister Aidan Blake, in flagrante. There are four men in total pictured. The photo we found with Ryan showed two of them but it wasn’t until we saw this complete set that we discovered Blake.’
The picture nearest to his boss showed an image of the minister reclining on black satin sheets, propped up by pillows. His head was cast back, eyes half closed in ecstasy, in what appeared to be a drug-induced high. His sandy red hair was damp with sweat, as was his exposed chest. The bedside table visible in the photo was littered with a mixture of beer bottles, glasses and ashtrays.
In one hand, Blake held what looked like a half-smoked joint. His other hand was resting on the back of the head of the young man between his legs.
McGuinness’s eyes bulged out of their sockets as he sifted through the pictures, withdrawing the ones with Blake in them. Naked, semi-dressed. Having sex, watching others screwing. Drink in hand, snorting a line of cocaine.
‘He’s younger looking,’ Tom said. ‘These shots were taken a good few years ago. He could have been in his early twenties. He probably wasn’t in parliament then. Maybe a county councillor, though.’
McGuinness sat back in the chair, hand on his chest, his face pale.
‘If I have a heart attack, make sure you remove these pictures before anyone arrives,’ he said, at last. ‘This must be how Pandora felt after opening that box.’
Tom’s face was creased with worry, a mirror of the chief’s.
‘Who’s seen these?’ McGuinness asked.
‘Two officers in the IT department. My team. And you.’
‘Good. Let’s keep it to as few as possible. So, what’s your theory? Was Finnegan blackmailing Blake?’
‘I don’t know who was doing the blackmailing, but it certainly looks like someone was, or intended to. Blake is the government’s leading light; I’m sure he wouldn’t want those pictures getting out.’
‘But why would Ryan, his PA and possibly his closest work colleague, blackmail him?’
‘That I’m not sure about. I’m toying with a theory. Linda McCarn mentioned that Blake has an important piece of legislation going through the Dáil and she was hinting at it being a bit dubious, but I’ve yet to get the full story. And Kathryn Finnegan said that her husband and Blake had diverged politically in recent years and there was some law Ryan wasn’t happy with. Maybe he came back to work, discovered what his boss was up to, and was using the pictures to try to persuade Blake to back down on this Bill. Or maybe others were using the pictures against Blake to get him to do what they wanted. Ryan could have been planning to expose them and was shot for it. Again, I don’t know. He had those images for a while, though.’
‘Does Blake have an alibi?’ McGuinness asked.
‘He says he does. He claims he was with Carl Madsen . . . yes, that Madsen, the vice-president of Udforske, until 9.30 p.m. I’ll be doing that interview when we get hold of him. Blake says he then joined his wife at 9.45 p.m. in the Dáil bar. I still have to talk to her. Our IT guys say Ryan’s USB stick was taken out of the computer in LH2000 at 9.46 p.m., so that puts Blake in the clear, if his alibi holds.’
‘How did Ryan get these pictures?’
Ray took up the explanation. ‘As the minister’s PA, Ryan had access to Blake’s email account,’ the detective explained. ‘The images were originally sent to the minister from an account outside of Leinster House. We’re tracking it now. Ryan went into Blake’s emails earlier in the year and forwarded them to his own email address. He did all this on his own computer about a month before the car accident that took him out of work.’
‘The secretary, Grace Brady, she didn’t have access to Blake’s accounts as well, did she?’ Tom asked, the thought suddenly occurring to him.
‘No, not to that account. Morrison told Ray that Grace would have mostly handled his phone, written correspondence and diary. General organisational stuff.’
McGuinness picked up one of the photos and threw it down, his features contorted with concern.
‘There’s nothing wrong with the sex,’ he said. ‘It’s 2011 – no one cares if the man is gay. It would have been just as stupid being photographed in that state with women. But the drugs! And are those men even the age of consent? They look young. We don’t know who they are, do we?’
Tom shook his head. ‘No clue. I’d guess they’re of Asian origin. And those are Chang beer bottles, that’s a Thai brand.’
‘Let’s presume his alibi holds, but if it doesn’t, is it conceivable that Blake could have killed his PA?’ McGuinness asked, his voice incredulous.
Tom shrugged.
‘We have to confront him with the images. He’s involved in this now.’
‘Tom.’ McGuinness’s voice was low, careful. ‘This is explosive. Murder in Leinster House and now this. The media are in overdrive, rightly so. You’ve got to tread carefully. I know I don’t need to say it, but Blake is tipped to be the next leader of the Reform Party. They may be riding high in the polls but O’Shea is floundering as Taoiseach. I like him personally, but anybody can see he’s not
cut out for the job. That means Blake is being lined up as the next leader of the country. If the man has done nothing wrong – apart from making some incredibly stupid decisions in his youth – I don’t want us to be responsible for his career being hung out to dry.’
The inspector sighed as he listened to his boss, the weight of responsibility resting heavily on his shoulders. McGuinness was being very fair to the minister. Tom knew there were many others who’d love to see such a powerful man exposed and deposed. He also knew that Blake faced an uphill struggle, as it would be next to impossible to keep a lid on these pictures now they were evidence in a major crime. The inspector’s team was tight . . . could they really keep this one quiet, though?
The sitting room door opened and June popped her head in.
‘Can one of you young men lend me a hand?’
Ray, nearest the door, stood up to carry in the tray she’d rested on the hall table. McGuinness and Tom hurriedly bundled up the images.
The chief reclined in his chair, rubbing his hands nervously, as his wife poured the tea.
‘You’re still milk and no sugar, Tom dear?’
‘You know me, June. Sweet enough.’
She laughed.
‘Did you notice I’m wearing the perfume you got me last Christmas?’ she asked. ‘I say “you”. I mean your lovely wife.’
‘I did, actually,’ he said, feeling comforted once more that June wasn’t as bad as he had first imagined when he’d heard about the Alzheimer’s.
‘Ha!’ she said, stirring in the milk. ‘I’m amazed. I assumed it was Mary who picked it out for me. Unless you make a habit of buying ladies’ toiletries? How is she anyway – still beavering away to get that law degree?’
‘You mean Lou . . .’ Tom started to say, then froze. His wife had finished her law studies over twenty years ago, just before Maria was born. And Mary was June and Sean’s daughter.
June looked up, confused eyes meeting his. The moment passed, realisation dawning. She cupped her mouth with her hand.
‘Oh,’ she said simply, tears glistening.
McGuinness leapt up and placed his hand tenderly on her elbow.
‘That’s all right, pet. Here, let me finish that tea. Why don’t you get us some of that delicious cake you bought yesterday? The boys will love it.’
June gazed searchingly at her husband. He smiled at her gently, reassuringly.
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Something sweet to go with the tea. Where are my manners?’
She turned to leave the room. McGuinness watched her, his face tortured. Tom felt overwhelmed. He was so used to seeing the big man in charge of difficult situations, being sarcastic, abrupt, strong. Now he was helpless and trying his best not to show it.
McGuinness cleared his throat.
‘Sorry about that,’ he said, gruffly. ‘Right. Let’s prepare a plan of action for questioning Blake.’
Tom opened and closed his mouth. Should he say anything? What use were words of compassion in this situation? What would they change?
His boss added milk to Ray’s tea without asking his preference and the inspector suddenly had a horrible glimpse of the future. A nightmarish vision of Sean McGuinness making tea for one. Alone, in this house. No June.
It was too sad to bear thinking about.
*
They drove across the city to Howth in North Dublin, stopping at a fish and chip shop in the scenic fishing village before continuing to Aidan Blake’s house. They’d dropped Michael home en route, popping in to see Anne and the baby. It was a pleasant distraction from what had happened in McGuinness’s house.
The infant Matthew was a chubby thing, quiet with a stern little face. The child wasn’t, if Tom was honest, the most attractive baby he’d ever seen. Not that his parents cared. It warmed the inspector’s heart, seeing Michael’s face melt when he picked up his son and nuzzled the fleshy rolls of his neck. The young couple had tried long enough to have him and deserved every happiness now.
‘Are you going to eat that scampi?’
Ray leaned over Tom, eyeing what was left in his boss’s cardboard takeout box. They were dining al fresco, sitting on a wall across the road from the chip shop, overlooking Howth’s picturesque harbour.
‘Not now you’ve breathed all over it,’ Tom said, handing over the remnants of his dinner. He brushed the salt and vinegar from his hands.
The inspector stood up and walked away from his colleagues, phone in hand. He had forgotten to check in with Louise. It was nearly 8 p.m. and it had been a long day.
Out on the marina, leisure yachts were sailing in, joining the fishing boats that had anchored that morning with their early haul. The wind had died down and the lights of the pubs and restaurants along the harbour front twinkled on the calm waters.
His wife answered after a couple of rings.
‘I saw the news,’ was the first thing she said. ‘You could have shaved. I like my men rugged, don’t get me wrong, but you just looked like a vagrant.’
He sighed. His long-nursed secret ambition to grow a beard would never be realised if she wouldn’t let him get beyond one day’s growth.
‘I had a lovely day,’ she said, filling the silence. ‘I spent a few hours in the spa with a hunk called Boris. Russian. He gave me a good seeing to. I mean, massage.’
Tom laughed.
‘I’ll have his papers checked. Hopefully he’s here illegally. What did you have for lunch?’
‘Aside from Boris? Porcini and truffle risotto and a half bottle of Moët. I thought it only proper to give your credit card a going over, after you abandoned me.’
‘Do you want me to send a car over to pick you up tonight, so you don’t have to drive the dodgy Citroën?’
‘I’m staying. Pam is coming.’
Louise’s friend Pam lived in Bray, a seaside town on the border of Dublin and Wicklow. Tom was happy his wife had found someone to join her at the hotel. It would be a shame to see the short holiday package wasted.
‘You two take care,’ he said. ‘That Russian might try to get you intoxicated so he can traffic you. I hear there’s a roaring trade behind the Iron Curtain in attractive middle-aged women.’
‘You cheeky git. How’s Cáit? And Maria?’
Cáit first, Maria second.
‘Your granddaughter sends her regards. Thank God I got home in time to fetch a bottle for her. I’ve told the assistant commissioner, the chief and the Taoiseach that I’ll work this case, but only if I have time off to check on my grandchild every few hours.’
‘Sorry, you’re breaking up. I just heard moan, moan, moan and something about moaning. Get me a signed photo of Aidan Blake, will you?’
Tom swallowed. If only she knew.
‘I’d better go. I love you.’
He blew her a kiss and returned the phone to his pocket.
The inspector returned to Ray and Willie, who were now engaged in a heated debate about the merits of smoked versus fresh cod.
‘You can’t taste the fish when it’s smoked,’ Ray said, shaking his head. ‘What’s the point?’
‘The point is, you can’t taste cod anyway, it’s that bloody bland. And sure it’s not even cod we’re getting. It’s John Dory or pollock, isn’t it? All the cod is gone. Nicked by the Spanish and Icelandic fishermen. Robbing bastards.’
Ray guffawed.
‘True enough. You win.’
‘If you two are finished with your racial profiling, can we get a move on?’ Tom asked. ‘This envelope is burning a hole in my coat. Ray, will you give Laura a ring and get an update from today’s interviews? And tell her to go home. Tomorrow’s another day.’
Willie gathered up the empty wrappers and strolled with Tom to the car parked on the other side of the road.
‘Nothing has happened between those two yet, huh?’ he said, throwing a glance back over his shoulder.
‘No,’ Tom replied. ‘He’s still getting over Ellie. He’d just got his head around what happened in Kilcross
, but her death knocked him for six.’
They were both silent for a moment, remembering the beautiful crime scene expert for whom Ray had fallen hard.
Tom felt a surge of affection for the younger man sitting on the wall, head bowed, his feet scuffing the ground as he conversed with Laura.
The inspector had noticed Laura had a crush on Ray last year. Then he had witnessed her quiet heartbreak as his oblivious deputy pursued another woman. He used to worry what would happen if two members of his team became involved in a relationship. He’d seen that scenario play out well in the force, and also horribly. Ray and Laura were so well suited, though, Tom reckoned he’d have happily turned a blind eye. But it wasn’t to be and he suspected she’d moved on without Ray ever knowing there’d been anything there. The man was an enigma. He could be so insightful in an investigation yet completely obtuse when it came to personal matters.
Ray stood up and hurried over to the car, unaware that his boss and driver had just been dissecting his affairs.
‘Anything to report?’ Tom asked.
‘Yep. They covered most of the interviews this afternoon. Though we’re still checking the backgrounds of all the visitors to see if anybody had any relationship or history with Finnegan. Anyway, Laura made a good catch. She printed out as many images as she could of visitors who were in Leinster House last night. Several of those in the bar were elected councillors, so it was easy to get photos of them. Same with Carl Madsen. The photos were then given to the interview teams to assist people in identifying anybody they had seen in various parts of the complex. She figured staff in particular – like the ushers – were most likely to remember seeing people that aren’t usually about the place. Guess what?’
‘What?’
‘One of the ushers saw Madsen walking through the main reception and asked him where he was going. Madsen said that McNally had left him in the Dáil bar to wait for his driver and that he was looking for the toilet.’