Beneath the Surface

by Jo Spain

  ‘Is that why you didn’t stay there for long?’

  Madsen was silent.

  Tom waited, glancing over at Ray, who had forgotten his surroundings and was now staring at Madsen, his half-empty coffee cup tilted precariously. The rain had picked up and was pummelling the glass windows in great sheets, creating the effect of a wall of water. Outside, the Atlantic crashed against the cliff, causing a vibration so strong the house thrummed. How quickly the balmy day had turned.

  ‘You seem to know a lot about my movements on Friday night, Inspector, yet I still don’t know why they are of such concern. Do I require a solicitor for this conversation? And what is this talk about a murder?’

  ‘You can hold off on the solicitor for now. You really haven’t heard what happened in Leinster House? You haven’t seen any news or read any papers since yesterday?’

  ‘No. I had several back-to-back meetings yesterday morning and then I retreated here, to the house. As you can see, I like to shut myself off from everything for my stay. I have no television. I read books, not newspapers, over the weekend. I listen to records, not the radio. It is so rare for me to have any peace and quiet that I guard it jealously. No one mentioned anything at our meetings, but then we had a heavy agenda and they would not have known that I had been in Leinster House. I had several missed calls but no intention of returning them until I resume work on Monday.’

  ‘A man was shot dead.’

  Madsen paled visibly.

  ‘Impossible.’

  ‘And yet, it happened,’ Tom said. ‘During your visit. And I have a witness who places you in the main lobby, a few hundred metres away from the dead man, minutes after he was murdered.’

  Madsen abruptly sat forward, a move Tom suspected was about as animated as the powerful man got when rattled.

  ‘Clarify something for me, please. Who was this man? Did I know him? I have had dealings with very few individuals in the Irish government. If you suspect my involvement, it must be somebody I know. And you must suspect me in some fashion, if you came all the way up here to question me.’

  ‘It was a man called Ryan Finnegan. He was Minister Blake’s political advisor. And I haven’t come here to accuse you of anything. Merely to ascertain your movements, as we must do with everybody who was in Leinster House on Friday evening.’

  Madsen sat back.

  ‘I have never met this Ryan Finnegan. The name means nothing to me, which means he meant nothing to me. I was in the main lobby because I got bored waiting in the bar. It’s not something I am used to, waiting. The coffee was foul and the company not much better. I left to use the facilities and to enquire as to whether my transport had arrived. I’m sorry you’ve made such a long trip but as I have no knowledge of the dead man . . . didn’t even know he was deceased, in fact . . . you have wasted your time.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Tom said. Was there a tiny flicker of something in Madsen’s eyes? Was the inspector imagining uneasiness there?

  ‘Let me enlighten you as to why we think Mr Finnegan was murdered.’

  Madsen shrugged and waved his hand, a gesture implying he was willing to humour Tom. It was like getting the upraised thumb from a Roman emperor.

  ‘Mr Finnegan and Minister Blake go back a long way, as friends and as work colleagues. Unfortunately, their political ideologies appear to have diverged in recent times. Luckily for the minister, Mr Finnegan was absent for most of this year due to an accident. Over the same period, the clauses protecting your company’s interests were being written into this new legislation.’

  ‘Not just my company . . .’ Madsen interjected.

  Tom continued, unperturbed.

  ‘My theory is that Mr Finnegan returned to work this week and discovered the changes. There was something found about his person that has led me to believe he may have decided to blackmail the minister to return the Bill to its original format.’

  Madsen raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I can’t imagine this Finnegan man would have had anything to blackmail the minister with. Aidan Blake is well respected in political and business circles, no? He has fostered a reputation of being a new type of politician, hasn’t he?’

  ‘So, is it pure coincidence that his revised Bill is of such benefit to your company and others?’ Tom probed.

  Madsen said nothing for a few seconds. Instead, he stared at Tom. His countenance remained relaxed and unreadable and yet the inspector suddenly felt cold. He couldn’t describe what it was that was so threatening about the other man. But, in that instant, Tom knew that he would never want to encounter Carl Madsen as a business or any other type of adversary.

  ‘I am offended by what I think you’re implying.’ The Udforske vice-president broke the silence. ‘Our dealings with the Irish government have always been rigorously transparent. I am certain that in drafting this Bill, the minister must have known the difficulties it could cause for existing industry activity off the Irish coast and the impact that would have on jobs and the economy. Hence the clause you speak of.’

  Tom held the other man’s gaze and his own resolve.

  ‘I’m sorry if I have upset you, but what you’re describing does sound like blackmail of a sort, Mr Madsen – an economic threat to a country already on its knees.’

  ‘Perhaps, but that’s a debate for another day. What you came to speak to me about has nothing to do with me or my company.’ Madsen’s voice was icy.

  Tom said nothing, allowing the muted strains of the wailing wind outside to fill the silence.

  ‘Surely somebody with your influence could have unearthed details of any sordid past Blake might have? We’re men of the world, Mr Madsen. Sometimes business needs a little nudge.’

  Madsen opened his mouth to speak, then paused. He pinched the bridge of his thin nose and studied Tom. The inspector sensed the other man was swallowing his anger and forcing himself to be diplomatic.

  ‘You are a sensible man, Inspector. Or I will treat you as such, at least. You are clearly not interested in the interaction of politics and business, other than any relevance it might have to your case. So, I will be straight with you.

  ‘Attempted blackmail of a government minister – that is news to me. Minister Blake, as I said, is seen as untouchable. I have not tried to force his hand on this licence issue. It would seem that the economic arguments that I, and others like me, have made have been sufficient to influence him. Like all industries, of course we try to exert pressure on government. We lobby. To do that, you need access.

  ‘I am speaking anecdotally now, you understand? Good. If I wanted to have the ear of the relevant decision makers, I would go to the man who pulls the strings – there is always such a man. It’s useful to have friends, Inspector. Today, my interest is resources. Tomorrow, it might be telecommunications, water services, media. Politicians change, but the men who operate in the background rarely do.’

  Tom stared at Madsen, a section of the puzzle falling into place.

  ‘I see,’ he said.

  ‘You said “partially”.’ A splash of Ray’s now cold coffee found the floor and he moved his foot to cover it, hoping it wouldn’t be noticed.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘When Inspector Reynolds asked you about your movements on Friday night, you said his account was partially correct and that you hadn’t been waiting for your driver. Was that all that was inaccurate?’

  Madsen hesitated for a moment. Ray’s suspicion was confirmed. The other man had deliberately not answered Tom’s question fully, instead diverting them with the response about the taxicab.

  Downstairs, unsettled by something, the two dogs began to bark and howl.

  The Udforske vice-president’s calculations were swift.

  ‘No. It was inaccurate to say I met the minister for a half hour.’

  ‘How long did you spend with him?’ Ray asked.

  ‘I spent a half hour with Mr McNally. I didn’t spend any time with Aidan Blake. I met McNally, alone, until just after 9.30 p.m. on F
riday evening. In fact, I’ve never met Minister Blake in Leinster House.’

  Chapter 12

  ‘We could drive home.’

  Ray peered out the car window at the gloomy low-hanging clouds and ceaseless rain. The unseasonably warm October was behind them, if it had ever reached Donegal.

  Gary Dillon had driven them to the airport, where they discovered all flights had been cancelled due to the storm.

  ‘We’re not driving,’ Tom said. ‘You heard Garda Dillon. There’s flash flooding at the bottom of the county and it’s dark now. We’d be nearly five hours driving from here on a good day. We’ll stay over tonight and get the first flight back in the morning, when the weather has settled down.’

  ‘Stay where?’ Ray asked, raging. He’d rather paddle back to Dublin than risk going up in that potential death trap again. The prospect of yelling ‘I told you so’ to his boss as it crashed held little satisfaction.

  ‘In the village,’ Tom replied. He was busy typing a text to Louise. It was the most prudent form of communication. If he rang and told her she’d have to drive the Citroën home herself from the Wicklow hotel this evening, he’d get an earful.

  He’d called Michael and told him to organise another interview with Blake for tomorrow. If they accepted Madsen’s version of events, the minister had lied about the first part of his alibi. They would give him the opportunity to correct his statement. And Tom was especially eager now to talk to McNally. He assumed that he was the man with the strings to whom Madsen had referred.

  ‘I’d offer to put you up, but I’m lodging with a relative at the moment until I find my own place,’ Gary said. ‘There’s a nice hotel down the road from the station. I’ll drop you there.’

  ‘What if it’s booked out?’ Ray asked, hopefully.

  Gary shook his head, mournfully.

  ‘The place used to be bursting at the rafters, even outside the tourist season. These days, well, it’s barely kept going. They still keep it nice, though.’

  ‘What did you think of Madsen?’ Tom asked Ray, to pass the time as they drove.

  ‘I think if we’d explored his home a little more, we’d have found the passage tunnelled into the cliff that leads to his underground nuclear missile bunker. He’s just missing a cat to stroke, while he plots world domination in his lair. God knows what those dogs get fed.’

  The inspector smiled.

  ‘Such a vivid imagination, Junior. But I reckon we’d be wrong to peg him as some type of comedy foreign villain. That man has an undercurrent I don’t like. There’s something . . . I can’t put my finger on it.’

  ‘I get what you’re saying,’ Ray agreed. ‘Is there any gossip about him in the village?’ He directed this to Gary.

  ‘He generally keeps to himself, bar when he needs people to do work up there or mind the dogs,’ the young guard replied. ‘We haven’t had any small children go missing from their beds since he moved to the peninsula, if that’s what you’re getting at. No virgins turning up bloodied and ravished.’

  ‘He’s from Denmark, not Transylvania,’ Tom remarked, as Ray and Gary snorted laughing.

  The whitewashed Moorhaven Inn was named for the village it graced. Gary left them as close as possible to the door and they dashed in, past the hanging baskets of hardy autumn flowers swinging precariously in the gale.

  Inside, by contrast, all was calm. A young woman sat behind the reception counter, the soles of her feet resting against its top, giving her momentum as she rocked back and forth on the chair’s hind legs.

  She looked up from the book she was reading, mildly amused at their dramatic entrance. A large peat fire blazed in the corner of the old-fashioned lobby and Ray hurried over to it as Tom approached the desk.

  ‘Innkeeper, we’d like your finest rooms,’ he said, slapping his hands down on the wood theatrically.

  The girl arched an elegant eyebrow.

  ‘Ach, I’m terribly sorry. We only dole them out to dry guests.’

  He smiled. ‘Whatever you have going, then. Two, please. If I have to share a room with my colleague he’ll insist on ghost stories and a midnight feast.’

  She glanced over at Ray, still sulking as he warmed his hands at the fire, unaware he was the centre of attention.

  ‘I’ll do his bedside story, if he’s desperate.’

  She gave Tom a cheeky wink and pulled the guest register out from under the counter.

  ‘Just sign here. I assume it’s for one night?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. Do you do food?’

  ‘I can organise sandwiches but there’s a pub further down the village that does hot fare. We run that too. Tell my dad you’re staying here and he’ll sort you out.’

  Tom finished filling in their details.

  She gave them adjoining rooms on the first of the hotel’s two upper floors. As promised by Gary, the lodgings were well maintained. Each room was large and comfortable with an impressive view of the bay, albeit interrupted by the very prominent construction site they’d passed earlier, lit up with industrial halogen lamps. The weather might have sent the protestors home for the night but it hadn’t halted work.

  Tom drew the heavy drapes across the window.

  Ray was still out of sorts as they made their way downstairs.

  ‘Ah, look, would you cheer up?’ Tom said. ‘We’re in the middle of a case and we’ve managed to swing a night off for a nice dinner and a pint. The flight tomorrow will take no time. I’ll hold your hand the whole way.’

  Ray rolled his eyes. In fact, the plane journey had gone clean out of his head. The reason for his dark humour lay elsewhere. He’d rung Laura after Michael to get an update on the day’s work and Eoin Coyle had answered. Ray had hung up hurriedly and didn’t answer when Laura rang back. He sent her a text instead, saying they were stuck in Donegal and the reception was bad. They’d talk in the morning.

  He was struggling to understand what was going on in his brain. How was it possible that, in the last forty-eight hours, he’d suddenly gone from seeing Laura as a companionable workmate to . . . what exactly was he seeing her as now? A possible girlfriend?

  He shook his head. Enough. This was a pathetic carry-on for a grown man.

  The girl at the desk held out two raincoats.

  ‘An umbrella would be no use to you in that,’ she told them, her tone knowing and wiser than her years.

  The pub was only a minute’s walk away, but they still needed the protection from the elements. They entered the imaginatively named Moorhaven Public House thinking the family that owned both businesses hadn’t exactly put themselves out in their choice of names.

  Inside was busy, by Irish country pub standards.

  An older man, with a shock of black hair and the same sharp eyes as the girl in the hotel, stood behind the bar polishing glasses with a tea towel. He looked up at the new arrivals, as did the ten or so customers – all men – gathered in little groups at the bar and the low tables.

  The room had an inviting interior, even with the eleven sets of eyes trained on the newcomers. Here, again, a generous fire crackled and hissed in the corner, infusing the air with the comforting aroma of burning turf. The tables were made of dark wood and each one was unique, probably carved by a local artisan. The brass-studded chairs looked newly upholstered and the wooden floor was beautifully varnished. The shelves behind the owner were cluttered with standard spirits bottles, but also featured rarer finds and a mish-mash of old curios.

  Yes, Tom could enjoy a pint in here. And he had a cigar in his pocket for later.

  ‘Good evening,’ the barman said. ‘What can I get you two gentlemen?’

  Tom and Ray approached the counter, conscious of their audience. There was no television suspended in the corner showing sporting events, no radio churning out news or music. Tonight, the two strangers would be the entertainment.

  ‘Two pints, please,’ Tom ordered. ‘Your . . . daughter? She said to tell you we’re staying in the hotel. We’re hoping to get a hot
meal, if that’s possible.’

  ‘Aye, is that right?’

  The barman leaned across the counter to shake their hands.

  ‘Moorhaven,’ he said.

  ‘Eh . . . Dublin?’ Ray answered, bemused.

  The bar erupted into laughter. Ray looked around, startled. The man on the stool beside him, who had long passed his three-score and ten, gripped the detective’s elbow with a claw-like hand.

  ‘His name is Mattie Moorhaven,’ he cackled toothlessly, pointing at the grinning barman.

  Tom smiled. ‘I thought you’d struggled to come up with names for your businesses; I didn’t realise you’d called them after yourself. Your family must be here a long time, so?’

  ‘The longest,’ the barman said. ‘Padraig Óg there, his family came along a few decades later, but my clan started up the township itself nigh on two hundred years ago.’

  ‘We had to come to stop the inbreeding, hi,’ the man called Padraig Óg remarked, approaching from the table behind Tom, empty pint glass in hand. ‘Put another one on for me there, Mattie. Aye, things were getting desperate. All the Moorhaven women were cross-eyed and bearded.’

  ‘Just as well, Padraig. Or your godawful ugly ancestors wouldn’t have got a look in.’

  The barman strode down to the end of the bar and opened a door.

  ‘Majella! Stick on two dinners. We’ve company. Use the clean plates.’

  Tom and Ray pulled out two counter stools and settled in.

  ‘You up for business or pleasure, folks?’ Mattie asked them.

  ‘It was business, now it’s pleasure,’ Tom said.

  ‘Is that right? You’re not reporters up covering the protest, are you?’ The man topped off their pints of stout with creamy heads and placed them on beer mats.

  Ray shook his head.

  ‘No. We’re Gardaí.’

  Tom groaned inwardly. He’d meant to remind Ray not to mention the day job and had hoped the weather would prevent news of their arrival spreading. Anyone in the bar could have been involved in the fraught protests down at the Udforske site, where officers were pitched against the locals.