by Jo Spain
‘That Blake – and the Reform Party – will miss Ryan, especially with them being in government.’
‘She thought Ryan was good for her husband.’
‘Yes,’ Tom agreed. ‘She’s the head of a children’s charity and passionate about it. Maybe she was closer to Ryan’s alleged idealistic view of the world than her husband’s. Aidan Blake talked about the nuances of governing. I imagine when you’re dealing with kids who’ve been neglected or hurt, you have fixed opinions about what’s right and wrong.’
Ray hesitated.
‘You don’t think she and Ryan were . . .’
‘What?’ Tom responded. ‘Having an affair?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t see it. He’s been away for the last six months and has a new baby at home. It seems like all was good with his wife. What are you thinking, that he was going to out Blake to Sara, or blackmail Blake into leaving her?’
Ray shrugged.
‘Something like that. Or Blake was going to tell Kathryn Finnegan and Ryan tried to stop him by saying he’d reveal his dirty secret?’
The inspector rubbed the back of his neck. He was exhausted. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the headrest.
‘Madsen,’ he said, remembering.
‘What?’
‘I don’t believe in coincidences. Madsen was in Leinster House last night to consult on this new law of Blake’s. That Bill is a recurring theme. Would somebody as busy and high-flying as Madsen really take time to meet with a minister about a piece of legislation that doesn’t have any noticeable impact on his business? According to Darragh McNally, anyway. That’s not really how companies work, is it? They usually meet governments in order to lobby.’
‘What’s your point?’
Tom massaged his jaw as various theories floated around his head. He landed on the one that made the most sense.
‘Say Ryan Finnegan comes back to work, falls out with the minister for some reason and decides to blackmail him. Maybe Madsen’s company stands to lose out in some way . . . What is Madsen capable of?’
‘How would he even know who Ryan was, though?’ Ray mused. ‘He deals with ministers and governments, not lowly PAs.’
Tom sighed. ‘I don’t know. But he has been put in the frame, from what we know already – wandering around Leinster House on his own at the right time, in Government Buildings with access to Ryan’s office. He needs to be questioned, so let’s organise it. Blake is claiming him as an alibi witness during a crucial time period and it all seems a little off to me.’
‘Isn’t he in Donegal?’
‘If Mohammad won’t come to the mountain . . . And let’s talk to Linda McCarn before we see him, find out a little more about the minister and his political work. Here is okay, Willie. If you pull up outside the house the baby will hear me coming. She has an in-built granddad alarm.’
Willie brought the car to a halt across the road from the inspector’s house on Blackhorse Avenue, alongside the old stone wall that surrounded the Phoenix Park.
‘Tomorrow,’ Tom said, before getting out of the car, ‘I want to speak to McNally again. How long exactly did he spend with Madsen before he deposited him in the Dáil bar? It couldn’t have been long if Madsen was in the reception area by 9.55. Get hold of him and see what time we can meet. McGuinness will let us know when we’re scheduled to interview the Taoiseach.’
Ray nodded and jumped out of the back to take up residence in the vacated front seat. The inspector gave the roof of the car a tap and Willie pulled away.
Tom entered his house to what sounded like shrieks of laughter from the sitting room. Coat still on, he flung open the door, ready to confront whoever was determined to wake up Cáit. It was close to 10.30 p.m.
Maria’s friends from college were there. The three young women and his daughter were gathered around what looked like a giant ladybird on the rug in the centre of the room.
‘Oh, Dad, look. Isn’t Cáit gorgeous? The girls brought it over. It’s her first Hallowe’en costume.’
Tom could just about make out his granddaughter’s tiny face under the black hood and pair of antennae.
She looked adorable.
‘Shouldn’t she be in bed?’ he asked, annoyed at how annoyed he sounded. He was turning into his father. Grumpy McGrumpy, Louise called the old man.
‘I’m leaving her up,’ Maria said, her voice full of authority. ‘This business of Mam insisting I put her down at 8 is ridiculous. She’s waking four times a night. If I leave her up, she might actually sleep. Look at her, she’s perfectly happy.’
Cáit gurgled cooperatively, earning a fresh round of oohs and aahs from her adoring fans.
‘I’ll leave you to it, so.’
Tom backed out of the oestrogen-filled room. His granddaughter appeared to be in capable hands.
He was pleased at how Maria seemed to be coping on her own. She still looked exhausted – dark circles ringed her eyes, the same deep brown colour as her mother’s. Her long auburn hair, a previous pride and joy, was now in a permanent ponytail, out of the way. She’d put on weight with the pregnancy and kept some of the chubbiness, but it suited her, Tom thought. She’d been too skinny before, a teenage girl obsessed with weight and appearance.
He couldn’t help but wonder, though, what Louise’s reaction would be to the change in routine when she got home. She’d read a book when Maria was pregnant about the importance of an evening routine for babies – bath, massage, story, bed – and she’d been overseeing it rigorously since Cáit was born.
It was all new to Tom, who seemed to remember them taking turns to let Maria fall asleep on them when she was a baby, then carrying her upstairs like she was the Hope Diamond, slipping under the bedcovers without breathing and trying not to move all night for fear of disturbing her.
He had come to doubt the merits of the sleep routine himself since Cáit rarely ended up staying in her own cot. Things could be about to heat up at home, though, if Maria was going to start challenging Granny’s dominion at bedtime.
Tom fetched himself a tall glass and a bottle of pale ale from the kitchen, along with a Padron cigar he’d been saving for something special. He was meant to be on his holidays, after all.
He made a beeline for the special sitting room, the one that they never seemed to use for anything, and closed the door tightly. Once he’d opened both windows and moved the armchair as close to the sill as possible, he felt safe to light up. Maria had inspired him by breaking the rules with Cáit and now here he was, sparking up indoors, albeit practically sitting in the garden. If Louise took a fit and decided to come home tonight, there’d be no telling how she’d react. It was anarchy.
He took a long draw on the cigar, savouring the peppery spice on his tongue. He was exhaling, wafting the smoke outside with his hands, when the phone rang. His instinctive reaction was panic. Louise had either fitted the house with a baby-cam in every room and was monitoring them remotely, or her inner smoke detector had gone off. Luckily, he stopped short of throwing the evidence out the window. It was just Ray.
‘Bad news and bad news,’ Ray said.
‘Start with the bad news.’
‘We can’t see McNally tomorrow, unless you really fancy crisscrossing the country.’
‘Why not?’
‘He’s gone to Clare.’
‘What?’ Tom cursed through clenched teeth. ‘This is a bloody murder investigation; what is he playing at?’
‘He told us, remember, that he had to leave the city?’
‘I didn’t realise he was heading off for a long weekend. He’ll just have to come back up.’
‘No, boss, listen. He’s with his mother and she’s not just ill. She’s dying. The priest is on the way to give her the Last Rites.’
‘Oh,’ Tom replied, chastened. ‘Well, I suppose there’s not much we can do about that. We’ll have to wait until he returns to Dublin.’
The inspector did the calculation in his head. It would have been crude to say it
aloud. If McNally’s mother died tonight, she would be waked either tomorrow or Monday and buried by Tuesday. A typical grieving relative might take at least a week off work, but Tom was sure, after just a couple of encounters with the party chair, that McNally would be back in the office by Wednesday, if not before.
The situation did explain, though, why the man had been so distracted.
‘And the other bad news?’ he asked Ray.
‘We got hold of Carl Madsen’s private secretary. She says he’s incommunicado when he’s at his holiday home in Donegal. If we’d rung this morning, she could have reached him because he was working, but once he goes back to the house he doesn’t take calls or check emails. He’s due to fly back to Denmark from Belfast International on Monday morning. We won’t get him on the phone, but we could send a local patrol car out to tell him to come to Dublin.’
Tom paused and considered.
‘No,’ he said. ‘There’s a regional flight from Dublin to Donegal tomorrow at noon. Book us two seats on that. I want to see Madsen face to face and I don’t want him to hop on a plane back to Denmark after a visit from a squad car. These top business guys have an awful habit of considering themselves too important for us lowly police folk.’
‘Do you just keep airline timetables lying around or are you some kind of flight schedule Rain Man?’
‘You should never underestimate me, Junior,’ Tom huffed, not disclosing he’d looked up the plane times that morning. He’d had an inkling Madsen would be hard to get hold of. ‘Ring Laura and let her know she’s in charge tomorrow. They can finish any outstanding interviews and keep going with the background checks. And tell her to make sure she gets hold of the minister’s secretary, Grace Brady. When you said you’d bad news, for a minute there I thought you were going to tell me she’d been found dead. Laura texted that she reckoned she might be away for the weekend, but it’s still bugging me that we can’t find her.’
‘Will do. I’ve been worrying about her myself. G’night, then.’
Tom hung up and turned off his phone. He looked at the blank, lifeless screen. Good. That felt liberating.
He took a long pull on the cigar, bringing it back to life, and poured his ale. He closed his eyes. Relaxed.
Two minutes later Tom sat up and turned the phone back on. Louise might ring. Or Ray. Or McGuinness.
It was more stressful worrying about who he might miss than having to take the calls.
*
Across the city, Ray decided to walk around his apartment complex a few times to stretch his legs before turning in for the night. The worst thing about being involved in a case like this was the lack of time to work out. He needed exercise to stay sane. Being stuck in the car or doing interviews all day drove him nuts.
He’d ring Laura. Hopefully she wasn’t in bed yet. It was cheeky, this late on a Saturday night, but Tom had asked him to pass on a message. And they all knew what it was like when a serious investigation was underway. They could chat while he walked.
When Laura picked up, he could hear noise in the background. It sounded like a pub.
‘Hello? Can you hear me?’ he repeated a couple of times.
‘Ray,’ she shouted. ‘Hold on, I’ll go outside.’
He waited impatiently for her to find somewhere quiet.
‘Sorry, are you out?’ he said. He was surprised at his own curtness. Now he thought of it, why wouldn’t she be out? It was the weekend. She was probably with that Eoin guy.
‘Yes. I almost couldn’t be bothered, to be honest. I’m so tired.’
‘Oh. Right. I was just ringing to pass on a message from Tom. He said you’re in charge tomorrow. We’re going to Donegal to see this Madsen guy.’
‘Donegal? That’s quite a trip.’
‘We’re flying. It’s quicker.’ Ray’s stomach did a little flip. He’d just realised a domestic flight would probably mean a small plane, and he hated being in the air. ‘He also wondered if there was any update on Grace Brady?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Okay. Well, keep working on it.’
There was silence for a few seconds before Laura spoke again.
‘Is there anything else? It’s just, I’d better get back in.’
Ray tried to think of something to say.
‘No, that’s everything. Enjoy your night.’
He hung up so abruptly he shocked himself. What was the matter with him? He tried to analyse his behaviour. He was tired, sure. But it was more than that. He was lonely.
Ray had spent the last year going over and over the Kilcross case and the tragic event that followed it. How had he missed so much? To try to put the whole sorry saga behind him, he’d buried himself in work and the gym, keeping himself busy.
The only people he’d really spent time with had been Laura’s family.
After they had discovered that Laura’s aunt had died in the Kilcross Magdalene Laundry, Ray had tried to help her mother find her sister’s unmarked grave. He’d seen quite a bit of Laura over the summer and started to realise she was really good company. She was smart and she was funny. He’d even begun to notice how attractive she was.
But she was a teammate. They had to work together morning, noon and night. He shouldn’t be looking at Laura in that way. So why was he so tetchy with her? It couldn’t be because she was seeing somebody, surely?
Unconsciously, Ray had veered in the direction of the main Drumcondra Road. He was going for a pint. Thinking had worn out his brain.
Chapter 10
Saturday Night, County Clare
‘She’s not in pain, is she?’
Darragh McNally reached for his mother’s hand and stroked the frail, liver-spotted skin, noticing how cold it was. She’d always had warm hands. Strong hands, always busy – whether it was milking the cows at 5.30 in the morning or, as the day wore on, kneading lumps of dough for fresh bread in their small country kitchen.
Those were the hands that pulled him close to make him feel better when other, taller boys bullied him in school for being so different. The hands that stroked his cheek lovingly when he’d wet the bed and couldn’t find sleep. The hands that held his when they visited his father’s grave each Sunday, a man he loved by reputation but had never met.
Darragh felt the sting of tears in the back of his eyes, knowing this was the last time he would clasp her fingers in his. She was so thin, almost insubstantial in the hospital bed. Even the hacking cough that had racked her body for months had ceased. The cancer had ravaged her for too long, bout after bout. No matter what treatment she endured, it came back, more aggressive and vicious each time. It was an evil, insidious disease.
The nurse leaned across and softly brushed the few remaining snow-white strands of hair from his mother’s forehead. Her lashless eyelids were closed, most of the hair lost after recurrent bouts of chemo. The tubes in her nose had been removed but the white plaster remained. Her lips were so parched; it made no difference how much they dabbed at them with wet sponges.
‘She can’t feel a thing, pet,’ the nurse said to Darragh. ‘It will be soon. Just think of the relief she will feel, not suffering any more. She’s going to a better place. She’d be so happy, knowing you are here.’
Darragh flinched. He should have come earlier. But how could he have got away from Leinster House with everything going on? Silently, he cursed Ryan Finnegan and the trouble he’d caused. Ryan, the saint. Ryan, who put his own superior opinions above everybody and everything, including his own safety.
The gobsmacking idiocy of the man.
Not that McNally could talk. Wasn’t he the biggest fool of all, letting himself be so corrupted? And what had he been thinking last night? Why had he lied and got himself so embroiled in everything? He’d entered politics to make his mother proud and look how he’d ended up.
The guards wanted to talk to him again. He had no doubt that he’d be hung out to dry. Nobody would step in to protect Darragh McNally. He’d made too many enemies over the years. He co
nsidered himself a straight talker, somebody who got things done. That, ironically, was what made him such a threat. When somebody needed Darragh in their corner, they’d promise anything to get him onside. Once he’d expended his usefulness, that same person would invariably try to marginalise him, knowing just how much influence the party chair was capable of wielding if left unchecked.
He had thought his plan was foolproof. He had moulded a leader, a man capable of achieving the highest position in politics but who would ultimately always defer to Darragh. He would have power through Aidan Blake, without having to seek it out himself.
Now, it was all over.
A movement from the nurse on the other side of the bed drew his attention.
Her name was Rose and she had been his mother’s regular carer these last few years. She was a typical country lass, bouncy strawberry blonde curls and flushed red cheeks, wide hips and big, fleshy arms. She was always going to end up as a nurse, you could see it in her eyes – no nonsense, but caring. If only Darragh had been blessed with a different body, a better face, a less ambitious disposition. He might have ended up marrying a girl like Rose and staying at home in Clare.
The nurse’s eyes were brimming with tears. She’d loved the woman in the bed. Rose had spent more time with her these last few years than her own son had. The desperately weak rise and fall of his mother’s chest had ceased, a final expiration of breath the only sound. She was gone. The one person in the world who had ever cared for Darragh, his sole remaining family. He would never have a Rose. He would never have children. He’d sacrificed everything for a career that was built on sand.
And now he had nothing left to lose.
Sunday, Dublin
‘It’s a Bloody Mary. Hair of the dog. I lost the run of myself last night, darling. Go on, have one. It’s pathetically sad, drinking alone.’
‘No, Linda. We’ve a flight to catch in a couple of hours and this unfortunately isn’t a social call.’
Tom was in fantastic humour, but not quite merry enough to be knocking back vodka and tomato juice at 9 a.m. in Linda’s kitchen. Maria had pulled it off. She’d kept Cáit up until 11.30 p.m. the night before and the baby had slept through until 7 a.m. The inspector had awoken to the smell of bacon on the grill and percolating coffee. He’d taken his time showering and shaving and felt like a new man by the time he was done.