by Jo Spain
Eoin had never been more appealing, and he wasn’t even aware there was competition.
Ray sat red-faced and annoyed with himself beside her. What a great job he was doing. It transpired that this thing that was wakening in him, this sudden awareness that he might fancy Laura, ran concurrent with him carrying on like he’d had a lobotomy. He was normally relaxed around women, especially the ones he liked. Confident, but not arrogant. Yet, here he was, acting like a first class shit.
‘Sorry about your door,’ he muttered.
Laura kept her eyes focused on the road.
‘That’s okay. I was thinking about getting a new one. Liven the car up a bit.’
Ray smiled. If he just stopped behaving like an idiot, he could enjoy this journey. Under the pretext of checking for oncoming traffic as they waited to turn out of the apartment complex, he studied Laura’s profile. She had her hair tied up in a ponytail today, long chestnut curls tumbling down her back. Her face was flushed, natural. She rarely wore make-up, he realised. She didn’t need it. She was wearing a black skirt suit over a fitted blue pinstripe blouse. His eyes strayed down to her legs, watching her skirt ride up as she moved her feet on the pedals.
Laura had lovely legs.
I’m screwed, Ray thought.
‘Are you sure you’re not properly sick?’ she asked him. ‘You look a bit feverish.’
She passed him some mints from the compartment under the car radio and his fingers brushed against hers as he took them.
‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I’m pretty sure I am coming down with something.’
They filled each other in on their respective weekends as she drove.
Grace Brady’s sister lived in a detached cottage in a pretty part of the County Meath countryside. A background check showed that Maire Doran was married with no children.
Laura slowed to a halt alongside the squad car parked beside an immaculately pruned hedgerow across from Maire’s home. Ray wound down his window.
‘Is Grace Brady in there?’ he asked.
The lone officer in the car shook his head.
‘Maire is in, for certain. I didn’t see the sister. Didn’t want to ask in case we spooked her.’
‘Good thinking. You can go now, thanks.’
Laura did a three-point turn and parked outside the cottage gate. They got out of the car and made their way up the winding stone path. They were halfway there when the front door opened. A middle-aged woman stood looking at them expectantly.
‘I saw you parking. I guess you’re after my sister, Grace?’
She posed it as a question, but one she knew the answer to.
Laura nodded. This was Maire, then. Grace’s employment photo ID showed a woman with shoulder-length, mousy brown hair, a pale complexion and a thin, downturned mouth. She had a stocky, almost manly, build. This woman’s hair was streaked with red, she was tanned and had pleasant dimples in her cheeks. And she was quite petite. There was a tiny familial resemblance around the eyes, but Maire had definitely been blessed with all the looks.
‘Is she here?’
‘She’ll be back shortly. She’s out on a run. You’d better come in.’
She ushered the detectives down the hall to a rustic-styled kitchen at the side of the house, offering them tea.
‘I need to explain a few things before you see Grace,’ Maire said.
‘Is she all right?’ Laura asked, taking one of the wooden-backed chairs at the pine-coloured table. She didn’t know if she was relieved or angry to have found Grace. Ray was hastily typing a text to Tom to tell him they’d located the missing girl.
‘When did she arrive?’ he added. ‘We’ve been trying to contact her all weekend.’
‘She turned up on Saturday,’ Maire answered, filling the kettle with water at the white Belfast-style sink.
‘We sent a guard here yesterday, but there was no answer,’ Laura said.
‘Oh. I’m sorry. It must have been when I popped out to the shops. Grace was probably out jogging or she might have just been in one of her humours and refused to open the door.’
Maire carried a jug of milk and three cups over, then the fresh pot of tea and some small plates. She prised open the lid of a cake tin and offered them fruit scones.
‘I made them this morning,’ she said.
‘Why did your sister come here?’ Ray asked. ‘You must have seen the news; her office colleague was murdered on Friday night. We were quite worried about Grace.’
‘I didn’t see the news until late last night,’ Maire replied. ‘I had a migraine on Saturday and was in bed when she turned up. Impeccable timing, as usual. My husband’s on a stag weekend; he’s not home until tonight. So, here I was on my own, happy to take my pain medication and lie in a dark room, when Grace hammers down the flipping door. Always with the drama. Not that it would ever occur to her that she was putting me out.’ Maire shook her head with all the pent-up frustration of a long-suffering sibling.
‘Anyway, as I said, there’s something you need to know about Grace. Our parents died years ago and she’s always running to me. Never bothers our brother, of course. So I’ve had the full force of her growing up – or not growing up, as it happens. God, I can’t believe I’m saying this out loud. I’m so used to dealing with her, sometimes I think she’s normal, do you know what I mean? But this is serious. Obviously. I’ve two bloody detectives sitting at my kitchen table. I’m absolutely mortified that you’ve had to come out here at all. The stupid girl. Causing all this fuss. Oh, sugar! I didn’t get sugar.’
‘Maire,’ Laura interrupted. ‘We don’t need sugar. Why is Grace here? What has she done?’
Maire had pushed out her chair but paused mid-stand.
‘Well, according to her, she’s responsible for a man’s death. But then, that’s Grace. She never likes to undersell a story.’
Chapter 15
Government Buildings, Dublin
Tom and DS Michael Geoghegan sat waiting in an antechamber to the Taoiseach’s office. Michael drummed his fingers on the carved oak arms of his chair. He felt awkward and uncomfortable in his most presentable sweater and pair of trousers. Like a child stuffed into a pageboy suit. The inspector had made him get changed before letting him accompany him to Government Buildings.
‘Do you think O’Shea is leaving us out here to show us who’s boss?’ he asked.
‘He doesn’t need to show us,’ Tom replied. ‘He is the boss. Besides, he’s not even in there.’
‘What do you mean?’
Tom pointed at the TV monitor suspended on the wall behind Michael’s head. It displayed the live feed from the national broadcaster’s twenty-four-hour news channel. The Taoiseach’s car had just pulled up at Government Buildings and was making its way through the crowd of reporters that had somehow discovered the hour of his arrival.
A few minutes later, the door to the main office opened and Cormac O’Shea filled its frame.
‘Gentlemen, my apologies for the delay. It probably would have been easier for you to come to the house, but God knows how they’d have spun that one. Come in.’
O’Shea reminded Tom of McGuinness in a way, even though he was shorter and more rotund. They both came from families that worked the land and both men were blunt and forceful in their personalities. But the similarities were superficial. The chief was a handsome man, notwithstanding the permanent irascible expression on his face designed to deter timewasters.
The Taoiseach was not remotely attractive. He was far too red-faced, his nose too big, various orifices overrun by wiry dark hairs. His eyes were small and cunning – intelligent, but in a calculating and devious way. That didn’t come across on television, but Tom could see it now, face to face.
He pondered who’d be brave enough in the Reform Party to try to oust this man.
O’Shea didn’t take the seat behind his desk, instead leading them over to armchairs by the window.
‘The carrion birds are circling,’ he said, nodding towards th
e press visible through the window. He sat, shirt buttons straining, a sliver of white vest showing at the belly. ‘At least vultures wait for their prey to die before attacking. That lot would have me hanged, drawn and quartered just to fill column inches. It would be really helpful if you could make an arrest. The media seems to hold me personally culpable in the absence of a suspect. The lot of a Taoiseach. Responsible for trying to lead us out of the worst recession in history as well as ensuring nothing untoward, like murder, occurs in Leinster House.’
The inspector nodded politely, thinking this version of O’Shea was a far cry from the man who’d basked in a veritable press lovebombing in the run-up to the last election. But what did he expect from journalists reporting on a murder case?
‘Ignore me,’ the Taoiseach sighed. ‘My gripes aren’t important in the scale of things. I keep thinking of that young lad’s wife. Kathryn, I’m told her name is. And a wee babby, too. What must she be going through? Her husband goes to work and winds up shot dead. It’s not like he was a member of the armed forces. He worked in politics. The biggest risk is a heart attack.’
Or cirrhosis, Tom thought, surveying the other man’s bloodshot eyes, the network of tiny, visible capillaries that flushed his cheeks, and the sheen of sweat over his lip.
‘What can I do to help you, Inspector? I would have spoken with you in any case, but of course, I was here on Friday night. I suppose I’m on your list of suspects? Something for the Wikipedia entry, eh?’
Tom smiled thinly.
‘A career first, no doubt, Taoiseach. I’m afraid I do need you to confirm your whereabouts for the period between 9.30 p.m. and 10 p.m. I know Aidan Blake went looking for you, but he’s been coy about where he eventually found you.’
‘Ha! Good old Blake. And he’s the stalking horse they want to use to topple me. You’d think that would spur him on to drop me in it. You want to know what Aidan was keeping schtum about?’
Tom nodded, wondering if he’d be asked to sign some kind of disclosure form before he left the office.
‘I was in the company of a lady who works for the party. There are . . . rumours about our relationship. You know what it’s like for politicians. We’re supposed to be whiter than white.’
‘When you say in the company of a lady . . .?’ Tom asked, astonished.
‘Jaysus, man, there’s no need to blush. I wasn’t mounting her on her desk!’ O’Shea slapped his knee and roared laughing. ‘I often call down to her office to have a drink or a chat.’
He guffawed again.
‘So, she works in this building, then?’ Tom asked.
‘She does. She’s one of our press advisors, as it happens. She’ll verify my movements on Friday. I came into the complex through the Leinster House entrance just after 9 and chatted with a few people in the lobby. I made it to Government Buildings some time around 9.30. There were people with me the whole time. Aha!’
‘What?’ Tom asked.
‘I just realised what that clever bastard Blake was up to. There was no need for him not to be straight with you. He could have just told you I was in the press office, you wouldn’t have thought anything of it. He was pretending to be a good guy, knowing full well you’d find out without him having to be the gossip.’
O’Shea shook his head in wonder.
‘You don’t have a good relationship with the minister?’ Tom asked.
‘Of course I do. I have a good relationship with all my cabinet. Even the ones after my job. Keep your enemies close, Inspector.’
‘Hmm. That’s interesting. I might be going off-track here a little, Taoiseach, but do you have an opinion on the Resources Bill Minister Blake is bringing forward? Specifically those changes he’s recently made concerning existing forces in the energy market?’
‘It’s my government bringing the Bill forward, Inspector. Blake is just the spokesperson. We’ve been advised the changes are necessary. Sometimes, you have to be pragmatic in politics. Use the stepping stones. We make this first move, then we can improve the State’s terms down the line. Surely that has nothing to do with your case.’
The Taoiseach didn’t blink. He maintained his genial body language and smiled as he delivered the last sentence but Tom knew he’d been given a little slap. The inspector couldn’t resist a jab in return.
‘It might have,’ he said, ‘if someone had been blackmailing the minister to write something in or out of the Bill.’
O’Shea shifted in his seat and tutted impatiently.
‘I think you’ll find that people with more brainpower and political savvy than Blake are drafting that particular piece of legislation. I wouldn’t leave something so important in his hands – I’m not sure he’s up to it. He’s just our mouthpiece.’
‘Is Darragh McNally up to it?’ Tom prompted.
‘You have been doing your homework.’ The Taoiseach leaned forward, as if he was about to entrust a confidence. ‘McNally is a genius, he really is, Inspector. I respect him, but I also fear him. Don’t get me wrong, he puts the Reform Party first, but ultimately, the man has his own agenda and he’s never felt he has enough control over me. Blake’s his stooge. The vain idiot. You know, the only person McNally has ever placed above his own ambitions was his poor, dead mother, God rest her soul. He will be completely lost without her.’
He blessed himself.
‘McNally is a powerful nemesis. He has stamina. Blake is wrapped around his ugly little finger and I think he’s only starting to realise now what a puppet he is. What none of them get is that I ain’t going to roll over easy. You don’t get to this position in life without having a few tricks up your sleeve.’
‘Such as?’
‘That would be telling. Suffice to say, McNally might be a crafty old fox but he’s met his match. With me, what you see is what you get. I’m not hiding any secrets. McNally likes the world to think he’s in control of everything. But he has his weaknesses. As does Blake. Ask the minister about the club, Inspector.’
‘The club?’
O’Shea smiled enigmatically and tipped the side of his nose.
Tom examined the Taoiseach’s face. Yes, there was no doubt. If McNally was behind a planned coup against O’Shea, he was going to have his work cut out.
The inspector had been given some food for thought. The party chair’s name had been mentioned a number of times and not in a flattering way. And following the visit with Blake they now knew that McNally didn’t have an alibi for the time when Ryan Finnegan was killed.
And what was this obscure reference to a ‘club’? Some political thing? Perhaps a group plotting O’Shea’s overthrow – or was it something more sinister?
‘The victim – did you know him?’ the inspector continued.
‘Not well, I’m afraid. He was Blake’s PA and seemed competent. He was a party member and I saw him at political events and so on. But I never had a drink with the man, never got to know him.’
‘Taoiseach, one last thing. What time did Aidan and his wife actually find you?’
‘What time does Blake say?’
‘Taoiseach.’
‘Ha! Alright then. I think it was just before 10.30 p.m. In fact, I know it was. I looked up at the clock on the wall moments before and thought I’d better get over to that Silent Voices ball or I’d miss the group photos. Sure, then there’d be no point in being there. Is that any use to you?’
‘Yes,’ Tom said. ‘Plenty.’
He considered what he’d just discovered. Aidan Blake claimed he had made it back to the ball at 10.30 p.m. He’d been adamant. But once again, his timing didn’t add up.
Why did the minister keep lying?
Meath
‘I decided to visit my sister for the weekend. I can’t see that it’s a big deal. I didn’t see your calls. I was trying to relax and I was out running a good bit. I like to exercise. It’s good for my mental health and it keeps me trim.’
Grace Brady looked Laura up and down as she said this, with an expression tha
t implied the detective could benefit from a workout herself.
Laura bit her tongue. Grace had a clipped, rude manner of speaking and apparently no grasp of social etiquette. She’d already told Laura the homemade scone she was enjoying would make her fat – adding a quiet ‘er’ at the end of the word – because her sister Maire couldn’t control herself when it came to butter in her recipes.
The woman had returned from her jog and made Laura and Ray wait in the kitchen until she’d showered, Maire apologising profusely on her sister’s behalf.
What an absolute delight to have around the house, the detective mused. She noted that Grace had yet to insult Ray and actually appeared to be flirting with him, albeit ineptly.
Grace was not a good-looking woman. Her mouth soured at the edges and she had a permanent indignant look that screamed ‘the world owes me a favour’. Yet, she seemed to think herself attractive. There was an air of arrogance to her jutting chin as she fired questions at them.
‘It is a very big deal that we couldn’t get hold of you.’ Ray spoke sharply and Grace recoiled.
Good on you, Ray, Laura thought.
Undiagnosed on the autism spectrum – that’s how Maire had described her sister.
‘At least, I hope that’s what’s wrong with her,’ she had said. ‘Otherwise, she’s just a bitch.’
The two detectives had been amused by this depiction, but after spending a few minutes with Grace, Laura’s tolerance levels were already waning.
How the hell did she hold down a job? Maire had said her sister was smart but had got into trouble a few times in work. This, despite Grace’s claims that Shane Morrison and Aidan Blake held her in high regard.
‘Job for life, that civil service,’ Maire said. ‘She’d never survive in the private sector. I’d say Blake is just too polite to ask for her to be moved and she does tend to tone it down a little for men, or tone it up, whichever way you look at it. I can’t imagine what it was like for Ryan Finnegan sharing an office with her, though. She told me a couple of times that she reckoned he fancied her and was on for leaving his wife. ‘Course, she said the same about Blake. That’s something else you should be aware of. She has these delusions and mixes them up with real life. I don’t know about Ryan, but everybody knows Minister Blake and his wife are loved-up. They’re always in the magazines.’