by Jo Spain
Laura nodded and Masterson poured the hot liquid into the dainty china cups.
‘It was a great night,’ he continued, helping himself to three lumps of sugar. ‘Sara is a fantastic organiser. We’ve worked together for years and she’s never lost her passion for what she does. This sort of job usually has an attrition rate – people can’t handle the horror we see routinely. But she sucks it up. It’s never about her; it’s always about the kids.’
He smiled fondly. Laura glanced discreetly at the man’s wedding band finger. Empty. Well, if Blake ended up going to prison for murder, it looked like Sara wouldn’t be stuck for suitors.
‘The minister – did he seem . . . relaxed? Nervous? Did you notice anything out of the ordinary?’
Laura peered at the picture again. Aidan Blake was in the front row. He was grinning but – and she wasn’t sure if she was just imagining this – the smile didn’t seem to have reached his eyes. He looked a little distressed.
Masterson stroked his beard.
‘He seemed frazzled, if I’m honest. Especially when they returned from Leinster House. At one point I saw him snap at Sara. He grabbed her arm too. She was upset with him but she just got on with doing her job. I put it down to Blake having no interest in being there. As I said, he never shows her much support but expects her to be there for him at every political event he attends. He could have brought those ministers over with him in the first place, but he just rocked up at 8 in a mood.’
‘Did anybody else seem out of sorts?’ Michael asked. ‘Any of the ministers who came over later?’
The other man shook his head.
‘No. People were enjoying themselves. Of course, nobody knew then what had happened in Leinster House,’ he said, his voice grave. ‘To be honest, though, most of them probably wouldn’t have given a damn, bar revelling in the drama of it. They don’t even care about the charity. They’re happy to be seen donating to a worthy cause but when you think of the power they have to make the country a better place to begin with . . . I’m sad to say we had a fairly superficial bunch here on Friday night. It’s such a shame about Ryan because Sara had mentioned him as somebody who could help us with lobbying. She liked him.’
Laura noted a change in Masterson’s voice on the last sentence. Had he been jealous of Ryan?
‘Carl Madsen, the vice-president of Udforske, was due to meet Aidan Blake in Leinster House on Friday evening,’ she said. ‘I believe he’s a philanthropist of sorts. Did you consider inviting him to the ball?’
‘Well, funny you should mention that because Sara raised that very thing with Aidan a few days before the ball. She told me when we were setting up the room that Mr Madsen was meant to be in Dublin and she’d asked her husband to extend an invite. It would have been great for the charity.’
‘And?’
‘And Aidan said no because Madsen had other business to attend to. I imagine it was more to do with his ego. Like I said, Aidan likes to shine. It’s hard to be the most important person in the room when the likes of Carl Madsen are there with you.’
Laura nodded and thanked Hugh. His description of Blake’s behaviour on the night raised a few questions. Chief among them was why the minister had refused to ask Madsen to attend his wife’s ball. The detective couldn’t imagine it was only because Blake didn’t want Madsen stealing his thunder.
Was it because he knew if the Udforske president were there at his invitation, he’d be stuck entertaining him? And how could Blake do that if he had planned to kill Ryan Finnegan on the same night?
Even more importantly, if Masterson was to be believed, there’d been discord between Aidan and his wife at the ball.
They knew already Sara had had a good relationship with Ryan Finnegan. If her husband had murdered his PA and Sara knew . . .
Laura had no doubt that the minister’s wife could end up being his Achilles heel.
Chapter 19
Tom and Ray left Kathryn Finnegan’s house, both privately relieved to be temporarily escaping the young widow’s desolation. The wind was biting, but at least it was dry. The inspector could smell burning in the air – the whiff of residents incinerating fallen leaves in their back gardens.
Ray was quiet, staring off into the distance.
‘You seem preoccupied,’ Tom remarked, buttoning up his overcoat as they walked back to the car. They’d parked up the road from Kathryn’s. Half her family seemed to be visiting today – their cars were lined up the length of the street. No wonder she felt she had to get out of her own house. ‘Do you need to be somewhere?’
His deputy looked down at his phone.
‘Not right now. What’s the plan?’
‘Why do you keep looking at that thing? And while I’m thinking of it – who spoke to McNally today?’
‘I sent Bridget and Brian out to his house. He didn’t turn up to work but he answered the door when they knocked. Brian said he looked the worse for wear.’
The inspector cursed.
‘I’m not feeling as sympathetic as I was yesterday. I know the man has suffered a loss, but his mother was elderly and dying. Kathryn Finnegan just lost a husband in the prime of his life. We’re interviewing McNally again tomorrow if we have to turn up on his doorstep with a vat of coffee and stick him in a cold shower. And if we get anything on potential bribes, I’m bringing him in to the station. We’ve been lenient enough. Let’s go back to HQ and pull together a quick team meeting for updates. I want to get home early tonight – I’m shattered.’
‘Don’t do that!’
Tom ground to a halt on the pavement, astonished at being shouted at.
‘Don’t do what?’
‘Eh, go home,’ Ray said. ‘I assumed we were working late.’
‘Working all hours won’t change anything, Junior, I’ve told you that before. Sometimes you need to take a step back. A quick trip to headquarters and I’m done for the day.’
‘But we’ve made no progress,’ Ray argued. ‘The man was murdered last Friday. It’s Wednesday already.’
‘It’s like the world has turned on its axis. Isn’t that my line? Okay then, let’s go sit on Emmet McDonagh and see if forensics have turned up anything. If they could provide an exact time of death, it might make things easier. I refuse to believe they can’t narrow it down to less than a fifteen-minute window in this day and age.’
‘No. Not that.’
Now Ray was starting to sweat. Tom raised his eyebrows.
‘What’s going on?’
‘What? Nothing.’
His deputy was frantically avoiding eye contact, desperately searching his brain for a plan.
‘Actually, I’m starving. Let’s go for dinner. My treat. Maybe on the way we can check out that ‘Club’ place that keeps cropping up.’ Ray began walking again, mentally reprimanding the inspector’s wife for putting him in charge of keeping Tom out for the day. She understood better than any of them how contrary her husband could be. Most days he worked well into the night but of course he would pick today to want to knock off early. It was like he knew something was going on.
Ray had thought he had the day’s events well organised. They’d been due to meet the rest of the ministers who’d been present on Friday night, but the Taoiseach had called a special cabinet meeting and the interviews had been postponed. Whatever happened, he couldn’t let his boss return to headquarters. There was no way the inspector wouldn’t notice his entire team had upped sticks so they could rendezvous with Louise Reynolds.
‘Look, Ray, I’m sorry we’ve breached your arbitrary five-day rule for solving a murder but that’s out of my control. I want it cracked yesterday, if for no other reason than to give Kathryn Finnegan some peace. I’ll look up an address for this Club, we’ll call in there, and then grab a quick dinner on the way back to the office. Then I’m calling it a day.’
‘Okay. Actually, I just need to phone somebody. You go ahead, get the car warmed up.’
Ray tossed him the keys, his phone already
to his ear. Tom caught them, sighing to himself. What was he letting himself in for?
*
‘Is this it?’
Ray pulled the car into the fortuitously vacant spot facing one of the old Georgian buildings on Fitzwilliam Square on the south side of the city.
‘It’s the right number,’ the inspector said, looking from the image of the three-storey house on his iPhone Google map to the building in front of him.
‘I’m going to pay for parking,’ his deputy said, hopping out of the car.
Tom opened the passenger door and hurriedly shut it again as a passing cyclist narrowly avoided clipping it.
‘Idiot!’ the un-helmeted green warrior yelled.
‘Stay on the cycle path!’ Tom roared back, getting out of the car. ‘Kamikazes,’ he grumbled when Ray returned with the meter ticket.
‘What?’
‘Cyclists in Dublin city centre. All the rights, none of the responsibilities.’
‘Jesus. You are getting old. Come on.’
A plaque was affixed to the small railings at the front of the building they’d parked beside. Ray had to lift the ivy from its gold-plated front to see the inscription.
Founded in 1879 –The Club
‘You must remember this being established, huh?’ he jibed to his boss.
Tom ignored him and approached the black-painted door between two white stone pillars, sitting under an elegant fanlight window. He looked for a bell, but seeing none, lifted the ornate brass knocker and dropped it twice.
‘What’s that?’ Ray asked, pointing at an iron piece set into the ground.
‘A boot-scraper,’ Tom answered, as the door opened. ‘So the wealthy resident of yesteryear could remove the horse manure his shoes had picked up walking through the streets.’
‘You know your Georgian architecture.’ The man standing in the open doorway was tall and thin. He was in his late fifties and dressed head to toe in black. His polo neck and creased trousers were sharp and his leather shoes polished until they shone. His face was a mass of lines and crevices – a lived-in face, as some would say. He furrowed bushy eyebrows as he beheld the two visitors on the doorstep.
‘Oh, hello,’ Tom said. ‘Are you the owner of this building?’
‘I’m the proprietor. We’re actually closed at the moment, gentlemen. May I ask who you are and what your business is?’
‘Absolutely.’ Tom introduced them both and extended his hand. ‘We would like to discuss the Club with you. And you are?’
The website for ‘The Club’ had provided a picture of the house and address against a dark background. Nothing else. No number, no names, no description of what activities went on there.
The other man took the inspector’s hand in a limp handshake.
‘My name is Isaac Arnold.’
He hesitated for a moment before inviting them across the threshold. It was too cold to leave the door open – perhaps if it had been milder, he’d have left them standing there, trying to make themselves heard over the din of the passing road traffic.
The entrance hall was high ceilinged; a decorative ceiling rose surrounded the impressive chandelier that hung above their heads. To their right was a set of oak stairs, a red-plush carpet runner pinned to the middle of each step with brass studs, the bannisters wrought iron. There were doors along the length of the hallway. The space was dull once the front door was shut behind them, the light from the window above the front door insufficient to dispel the shadows.
The man seemed to be uncertain as to where to bring them, eventually determining on a room further down the hall, past the stairs.
It was a windowless sitting room, opulently decorated with assorted chairs and chaises longues. The cushions and pillows were a mixed variety of reds and golds, some with tassels, some embroidered with silk threads and diamante sparkles.
In fact, Tom thought, the penny dropping, it was more of a boudoir than a living room.
Arnold indicated they should take a seat.
The inspector chose one of the hard-backed black velvet upholstered chairs.
Ray gave his boss a conspiratorial glance before taking his own seat.
From the outside, you’d never guess, but once inside . . .
‘So,’ Tom began. ‘What we really want to know is, what kind of club is this? Your website is a little . . . vague.’
Their host raised his eyebrows, his expression sardonic.
‘We don’t actively seek out clients. Our membership is a very elite group. Generally, people only hear about us through word of mouth. Actually, how –?’
‘How did we hear about you? Through word of mouth, like you say. Can we speed things up a little, Mr Arnold? I’m presuming this building isn’t for Bridge soirées. Are you running some kind of private gentleman’s club?’
Arnold tugged at his bottom lip with his finger and thumb.
‘Yes,’ he replied.
‘And what do the gentlemen come here for?’
‘I can’t speak to that.’
Tom sighed. He looked around the room again. A Napoleon mantel clock ticked peacefully over the unlit fireplace. Parisian bistro tables were dotted amongst the seating arrangements, places where drinks could be placed when men’s hands were busy elsewhere.
His gaze returned to Arnold, who was sitting calmly, fingers laced across his stomach.
‘If I were to mention the name Aidan Blake to you, what would you say?’
Arnold inclined his head.
‘You’ve said the name and I say nothing in return. The reputation of this institution is built on absolute discretion and privacy. Always has been. I can’t disclose the members’ list.’
‘You do realise it’s 2011?’ Tom remarked, his tone dismissive. ‘This is not a Freemasons venue. You’re running a high-class brothel, am I right?’
Arnold blanched. Previously soft-spoken; his voice, when he replied, was coarse with anger.
‘I am beyond insulted. How dare you. To come in here and make an accusation like that – you’ve no idea the type of men who frequent this place, men who could –’
Tom held up his hand.
‘What? Men who could get me fired? Come on.’ The inspector laughed. ‘I’ll repeat what I said already. You may have been founded in 1879 but times have changed. Aren’t you at all curious how we found out about this place? Which of your illustrious guests led us to you?’
Arnold said nothing, but considered the inspector. Tom could tell it was this question that was troubling him far more than his having figured out what The Club was for.
He threw their host a lifeline.
‘Look, Mr Arnold. Let’s start again. I’m willing to ignore the threat I suspect you were carelessly about to make. I’m even happy to turn a blind eye to what goes on here, the fact the place exists. I need some information purely because it may help with a murder investigation I’m conducting. It may shine some light on the character of one of those involved in my case. That’s all. Tell me what I want to know and I will leave here and you are unlikely to hear from or see me again. I’ll leave it in your hands to source your leak – I’ll even give you a clue as to where it might have originated.’
Arnold rubbed his hands together. Tom allowed him a few moments to ponder his options.
‘If it were to be discovered that you had been here asking about members and activities, the damage to my business would be considerable, Inspector. But, then, I suspect if I don’t give you what you want, I may lose my club anyway. You have the power to cause me a lot of discomfort.’
‘You’re a smart man,’ Tom replied.
Arnold smiled, red lips pulled back to reveal a dreadfully crooked set of teeth.
‘So, I find myself between a rock and a hard place. This is very vexing indeed.’
‘Indeed.’ The inspector waited. The clock ticked some more. Ray cleared his throat. And wondered how much it cost to be a member of a place like this.
‘We cater for a very niche market, Insp
ector,’ Arnold began. ‘Powerful men who have discerning desires but ultimately require total confidentiality. These aren’t men who could risk driving through some of the more colourful Dublin streets after hours or sourcing companionship from one of the more popular sites on the internet.’
‘I understand,’ Tom said, though in reality, he didn’t. Never once in his life had he entertained or even considered paying for sex. He couldn’t understand the desperation that had to accompany such an act and he’d worked too long in law enforcement to be blind to the sheer misery of the young men and women involved in the flesh trade.
‘So, your clientele hear about this place through the grapevine?’ Ray asked.
‘Yes. They’re men who move in certain circles and there is an element of trust built in. Nobody would recommend this place unless they’d been here themselves.’
Tom wondered. He just could not imagine Cormac O’Shea needing to visit such a place. That man had been pretty upfront about his affair with the government press secretary. McNally said he always knew what Blake was up to – but was that because Blake told him, or had he had him followed? And who, then, had told O’Shea? One of the members must have broken the code of silence.
‘What circles do they move in?’ Ray asked.
‘Politics. Finance. Big business. The professional classes. No celebrities. They attract too much attention.’
‘And what sort of services do they seek out here?’ Tom took up the questioning.
Arnold shifted nervously.
‘They make the acquaintance of men and women and . . . have relations.’
Tom nodded. It didn’t sound quite as reputable or upmarket when The Club’s owner had to say it aloud.
‘And so, Mr Arnold. We’re back to my original question. Aidan Blake.’
The other man lowered his eyes. His nod was almost imperceptible.
‘He is a member, then,’ Tom said.
‘Yes.’
‘Does he attend regularly?’
‘Yes.’
‘To spend time with both men and women?’
Another slight nod.
‘And your . . . employees? Are they young, old? Irish, non-national?’