by Jo Spain
Two squad cars corralled the protestors.
From their vantage point, the inspector could see guards attempting to push the crowd back against the ditch by the hillside so the road would be passable. They were failing. Further up the road, a concrete-mixing truck destined for the site idled, waiting for the path to be cleared.
‘What are they protesting?’ Ray asked.
‘Progress,’ the older guard grumbled.
Tom said nothing. He knew why the campaigners were there. And he and Ray would shortly be visiting the man responsible for ruining the view.
They drove on to the nearest village in silence, pulling up in the car park of the small police station. In keeping with the other village houses, the walls were whitewashed and an old-fashioned lantern stood just beside the front door.
Tom and Ray waited outside Sergeant Cathal Gallagher’s office for five minutes, watching through venetian blinds as he paced the floor with files, picked up the phone and shouted something into it, then slammed a few drawers. Eventually, he opened the door.
‘Sorry about that,’ he said, in a tone that expressed no remorse. ‘We’re having trouble today down at the site.’
He invited them to sit in the two chairs facing the desk.
Gallagher was roughly the same age as Tom. The man was tall and still athletic but would never be described as handsome. His strawberry-blonde thinning hair was combed forward but still failed to hide the pink scalp peeking through. He had a weak chin and a sour downturn of the mouth. A beard would help, Tom mused.
‘We saw the protest on the way here,’ he said. ‘Still no resolution?’
The sergeant shook his head, angrily.
‘What do they want?’ Ray asked, hoping for more success this time.
‘To waste our bloody time and resources, hi,’ Gallagher snapped. ‘Half the county force are down there, day in, day out, but that doesn’t stop the locals whining if we don’t have a car immediately to go check out whatever their gripe is at any given time. Supposed to be everywhere at once, we are, hi.’
Ray threw Tom a questioning glance. Did anyone give a straight answer in this place? And why, he wondered, did the sergeant keep saying ‘hi’? Not having Tom’s experience of the county (his family had holidayed in Butlin’s every year), Ray had yet to learn that many Donegal locals stuck ‘hi’ on the end of random sentences, not as a greeting but as a turn of phrase.
‘They’re protesting the building of an onshore gas pipeline,’ Tom explained. ‘You’ve heard about it.’
Ray scanned his memories. Ah, yes. He had seen it on the news recently. A scenic area in Donegal, gas being piped in from the sea, locals opposed to a pipeline being run under their community by . . .
‘Wait, isn’t that being built by Udforske?’ Ray said, finally getting it.
The inspector nodded.
The sergeant cleared his throat, drawing their attention.
‘We saw the squad cars down there,’ Tom said. ‘I can imagine you’re pressed. It must be difficult, though, for the locals to come to terms with that sort of upheaval. And don’t they also have concerns about the pipe’s safety?’
Gallagher frowned.
‘It’s not a straightforward situation, Inspector Reynolds. There are fifty men down there working on that initial infrastructure stage. Udforske pays extremely well and there’ll be more jobs coming onstream. That’s in a county that has been neglected by Dublin longer than I care to remember. Where else are we supposed to get that sort of enterprise and investment? And those dangers associated with the pipe that the protestors’ve come up with . . .?’ The sergeant rolled his eyes. ‘Something and nothing. I’ve been shown the research. The chance of anything happening when the gas is brought onshore is virtually non-existent. You’re more likely to get hit by a falling pylon!’
‘If it was running under your house, would you be worried?’ Tom asked.
Gallagher squinted at him.
‘I’ve lived here all my life. I’ve family who live along the proposed pipe route and I’ve family who are working at the site. If I thought there was a danger from the pipe, I’d be down there with the protestors. There isn’t. All that Udforske is bringing to Donegal is energy security and a boost to the local economy. Some people build houses in the countryside and expect to have undisturbed scenery surrounding them – but how are those houses supposed to be heated? Supplied with phone lines and electricity? If the bloody house is going to interrupt the view, the infrastructure to provide for it will too.’
The sergeant sniffed indignantly before continuing.
‘And now that Bill is being brought in down in Dublin, Udforske will be paying plenty of money into the State’s purse. For the life of me, I can’t get my head around what the problem is. But, hi, half of those down there waving their placards aren’t even from around here. They’re being shipped in by radicals opposed to any kind of gas drilling, no matter how safe. We’ve had some violent altercations – guards being pelted with rocks and fencing, threatened with worse. It gets nasty at times. My men have to live in this community.’
Tom inclined his head, half in agreement. He wasn’t going to get into an argument with the sergeant. He didn’t know what was going on at the protests, bar what he’d picked up through the media. He could imagine it was no picnic for the local guards, especially in such a tight-knit community. Back in his uniformed days, he’d policed a couple of protests himself and he knew how quickly they could turn. It didn’t matter that you had a uniform and a baton when ten angry blokes were bearing down on you.
He was interested to note, though, that the sergeant knew about Blake’s Bill and that he was, as Linda predicted, presuming it to be in the national interest. The government’s propaganda was certainly working.
The inspector would have been happy to leave it at that, but the sergeant wasn’t finished making his point.
‘Er, I believe you’re actually here to interview the vice-president of Udforske,’ Gallagher continued. ‘Mind if I ask what about?’
Tom suppressed the urge to respond that the sergeant could certainly ask but he shouldn’t expect an answer. There really was no point putting Gallagher’s nose out of joint.
‘It has nothing to do with local matters. We’re here in relation to a Dublin case.’
The other man picked up a well-chewed biro and placed its lid in his mouth.
The whole force knew Tom’s team was in charge of the Leinster House murder inquiry. The inspector had no doubt Gallagher knew that Madsen must have some connection to the investigation.
‘May I ask,’ Tom continued, ‘why you are interested in our wanting to speak to him?’
The sergeant dropped the biro, the muscle in his cheek twitching. God love him, if he played poker.
‘Just idle curiosity,’ Gallagher said. ‘Mr Madsen doesn’t come to our peninsula too often, mind, but when he does, he’s a welcome visitor. He provides a lot of local employment with his company but he’s also a contributor to charities and businesses in the county. He’s a very generous man.’
‘And?’ Now Tom was tiring of the sergeant.
Gallagher looked at him blankly.
‘I just mean, he’s well liked. So, now you have my take on the man.’
The inspector regarded him coolly.
‘That’s good to know, but it’s irrelevant to our investigation,’ Tom responded in a clipped tone. He’d had enough of this stuffed shirt. ‘We’d better be off.’
Gallagher stood with them.
‘I didn’t mean to go upsetting you, now,’ he said.
Tom paused at the door.
‘Not in the slightest, Sergeant. We’re in a hurry, that’s all. There’s a young widow with a six-month-old baby in Dublin waiting for us to find the person who murdered her husband. It sort of focuses the mind, you know?’
Gallagher bowed his head, momentarily shame-faced, but when he met Tom’s eyes again, there was a new glint of defiance.
‘To be sure
. I’m just making the point that your visit to Donegal will be fleeting, but Mr Madsen will, hopefully, be around for the long haul.’
Tom bit his tongue and left.
They waited outside by the squad car they’d arrived in.
‘Well,’ Ray said, ‘perhaps we should go pick up a bouquet of flowers and some chocolates for Mr Madsen before we make our way over.’
Tom laughed, his anger dissipating.
‘I don’t know why I’m so irritated,’ he said. ‘Two Dubliners show up to interview the local bigwig, of course Gallagher’s going to want to stick his oar in. I guess I’m not feeling very indulgent.’
‘Hmm. Did you pick up on that thing he said about the gas pipeline?’
‘What thing?’
‘He said he’d seen research to show that there was no danger from the pipe running under people’s houses. Who do you think showed him the research?’
‘You’ve such a suspicious mind, Ray,’ Tom responded, drily. ‘I’m sure independent analysis has been provided by some objective body about the pipe’s safety.’
Ray grimaced. ‘Or, Udforske has organised public briefings with information provided by its experts and the good sergeant has bought into it hook, line and sinker.’
‘Good God, Detective. You’re not on the side of those reds under the bed down at the protest, are you? The great unwashed?’
Ray was still devising his stinging retort when Garda Dillon arrived.
‘On your own, son?’ Tom asked.
The young man flushed red. ‘My partner is, eh, busy.’
‘Ah, I see. Late lunch? Right, then. You know where Carl Madsen resides?’
Gary scoffed. ‘The whole county knows. Is he expecting you?’
‘Not at all, but we know he’s in situ. We’re not going back to Dublin until we speak to him. We haven’t risked our lives flying up here for nothing, huh, Ray?’
‘Get in the bloody car,’ Ray snapped.
*
It took them half an hour to find Udforske’s vice-president. They had pulled up at his not insubstantial cliffside house and discovered his car in the drive. After ten minutes of ringing the doorbell to no avail, they decided to check the private beach at the bottom of the cliff, figuring if he was out, he must be in the vicinity.
Sure enough, the man was strolling across the sand, walking two large dogs that could have had starring roles in The Hound of the Baskervilles. He called them to heel when he noticed the two detectives approaching.
The inspector called out a greeting and informed Madsen of their identities.
‘They’re some dogs you have,’ Tom observed.
‘Rhodesian ridgebacks,’ Madsen replied. ‘They were bred for hunting lions in southern Africa.’
‘And what do they hunt here?’ the inspector asked, keeping a wary eye on the animals. He had been bitten by a German shepherd when he was fifteen and still held a healthy fear of canines.
Madsen laughed.
‘Not protestors, if that is your concern, Inspector. They keep me company when I visit and a local man takes care of them for me when I’m in Denmark. They’re kittens, really. How do you say it – their bark is worse than their bite.’
Madsen’s English was almost perfect, the Danish accent barely discernible.
Despite his decree that he not be disturbed at his holiday home, the Udforske vice-president didn’t seem overly put out by their sudden arrival. He brought them up to the house and out of the fine rain that had started to sweep in from the sea.
‘In other places, they ask, “Is it raining?”’ he said, as they entered the cavernous entrance hall. ‘In Donegal, they ask, “Is it dry?”’
Tom nodded in agreement.
‘Your home is incredible.’ Ray, who’d grown up on a working-class estate, had taken in the vast entrance hall wide-eyed, admiring its high ceilings illuminated in daylight by the large glass panels over the door.
‘Thank you,’ Madsen replied graciously.
He indicated they climb the spiral staircase leading to the open-plan living and dining area.
‘I believe the architect who designed the house won awards for his public work. This was his secret project. I enjoy this upper level the most but the rooms downstairs are actually built into the side of the cliff. Very James Bond, no? Let me get you some refreshments. Tea, coffee, perhaps something stronger?’
Sipping his coffee, Tom thought he’d like nothing more than to be relaxing in this huge lounge with its floor-to-ceiling windows, taking in the glorious vista, a glass of deep red Amarone in hand. No doubt downstairs there was a wine cellar, which Tom imagined would be stocked top to bottom with the finest vintages. Madsen, with his thick mane of blonde hair, deep tan and general look of a man used to luxury, would settle for no less.
‘So, did you buy this place before your company started drilling offshore, or after?’
Tom turned to face his host, his back to the ocean view.
‘I bought this place before the company came here,’ Madsen answered, amused. ‘What do you think? That I stood where you stand, looking out at the spectacular sea and thought: “I must despoil that view”?’
‘Did you?’ Tom asked, only half-smiling.
Madsen observed the inspector.
‘I knew there was oil and gas off the Irish coast. The research had been done. Very few others were interested at the time and I thought, why not harvest the energy? I have no desire to ruin the landscape. My company is contributing to the Irish economy. Our drilling activities create jobs and make money for Ireland.’
‘And for Udforske.’
‘Certainly. We are a business.’
‘Nothing wrong with that. So long as everything is above board.’
Madsen flashed Tom a shrewd look. He sat back on one of the expensive, bespoke armchairs. Ray perched nervously on a designer sofa, holding his cup with both hands for fear it might spill. He’d never felt more like a fish out of water.
‘Are you referring to the pipeline?’ Madsen asked. ‘I must tell you, whatever you have heard, we have done our homework. There is nothing to fear from running gas to an onshore treatment facility. It is safe and the most cost-efficient way of bringing it inland. It’s unfortunate that there are elements so opposed to the latest advances in technology, but I suppose that has always been the way. We must reach out to them, but we can’t let them hinder us indefinitely.’
‘I don’t know anything about the pipeline,’ Tom confessed, ‘safe or unsafe. I’ve heard segments on the news about the protests and the company’s plans, but I’ve taken no interest.’
‘You must explain what you mean, then, by “above board”.’
‘The Resources Bill that Minister Aidan Blake is to pass through our parliament shortly. Have you had any influence over whether it will contain a provision that protects your company from future increases in royalty and licence payments?’
Madsen’s countenance remained placid and Tom strained to detect the tiniest hint of discomfort in the Udforske vice-president’s voice when he answered.
‘I do not understand. The Bill you speak of is much lauded by Irish politicians and public commentators, no? All of the players in the energy game, including those least supportive of drilling, have had their input into its planning. I imagine there are many in my industry who will be unhappy with its provisions.’
‘Yes, many future entrants into the market,’ Tom said. ‘But not existing forces.’
Madsen shrugged.
‘If the early explorers are protected a little more, so be it. We were the ones who took the risk and drilled, not knowing what we’d find. We gambled and now everyone is reaping the reward.’
‘Yet you said the research had already been undertaken confirming there were natural resources off the Irish coast before you brought your company here.’
There was a flash in Madsen’s eyes. The first sign their host was not as laid-back as he appeared. Tom had succeeded in provoking him.
�
��But that’s not why we’re here,’ the inspector continued. ‘Not directly, in any case.’
The indulgent mask settled back on the other man’s face.
‘Indeed. Why are you here?’
‘To question you as a potential witness to a murder, Mr Madsen.’
The other man flinched.
‘Excuse me?’
‘You visited Leinster House on Friday evening, am I right?’
‘Correct. I was there to discuss the very legislation you refer to. It was a final conversation before the minister concludes his . . . how do you say it . . . deliberations. I am hopeful that once the law is introduced, the protests that have hindered my company’s work to date will cease. They have been in decline all summer, since the government hinted the legislation was coming. Now that people see how the energy industry will be paying, those so passionately opposed to us will lose popular support. They will have to go home, Inspector. But what does any of that have to do with murder?’
‘You met with the minister at 9 p.m. for a half hour and then spent some time with Darragh McNally, after which you were escorted to the Dáil bar, where you were to wait for your driver. Is this correct?’
‘Partially,’ Madsen replied, his brows knitted. Something had shifted in the atmosphere. Tom sensed the other man was on high alert. ‘I wasn’t waiting for my driver, as it happens. I was waiting for a taxicab. My usual driver was unwell on Friday evening. The company sent me a new man, who made the mistake of leaving after he dropped me off at Government Buildings for my meeting. They’re supposed to stay and wait, you see. I won’t be using that firm again. McNally had to call a cab for me and assured me it would be a matter of minutes. It took rather longer.’
‘Were you unaccompanied in the bar?’
‘Yes.’
The lie detector alarm went off in Tom’s head.