by Jo Spain
Then there were those closer to home. Sean and June, so content for so long and now facing the biggest battle of their lives.
And here they were with Kathryn and Beth, a young family robbed of a man they held dear, their future torn asunder.
Tom had been complacent with Louise, not paying enough attention to his marriage and her needs. He’d had a little reminder of what was important during this case. He knew he would keep doing his job to the best of his ability. He also knew that, as soon as he was able, he would retire and spend more happy years with his wife and family.
That would be his happy ending.
*
Beth kicked against her mother’s stomach then pulled her knees up and pushed her arms out, making it impossible to hold her. The ground was probably too cold to put her down but Kathryn relinquished her anyway.
‘Just for a moment,’ she said, in her sternest voice. The baby looked up at her with big eyes and a round, open mouth. She turned to her father’s grave, picking up the white gravel stones and shoving a handful in her mouth.
‘For heaven’s sake,’ Kathryn said, and sank to her knees. She extricated the now spotless stones and gave Beth a baby biscuit from her pocket, then plonked the child back down against the corner stone of the grave’s surround.
‘Do you see what I have to put up with?’ Kathryn spoke in the direction of her husband’s headstone. ‘She’s a little despot. She’s started crawling and has everything pulled asunder in the house and me driven demented. Don’t you, you naughty girl?’
The baby placed her hands on her mother’s knees and raised her mouth for a crumby kiss.
‘Mmm, chewed-up bikkie. How nice.’
Kathryn wiped her lips as the baby fumbled at her pockets for more treats.
‘Tom drove me here,’ she said, addressing the headstone. ‘He and Ray are very good. They’ve called out to the house a few times.’
Her voice started to quiver but she steadied it as she stroked the stone plaque. Beloved son, brother, husband and father. Always missed.
Beth watched her mother and leaned over to touch the stone in imitation, leaving a sticky handprint on the smooth granite.
‘There, she’s marked you, Ryan. Like everything at home.’
Kathryn touched their daughter’s cheek, flushed red with the cold. The baby didn’t mind the temperature but they’d have to go soon.
The grief was still raw. It was so hard to believe her beautiful husband was lying beneath the frigid soil, barely six feet from her and yet an eternity away.
‘Dad. Dad-dad.’
Kathryn flinched.
Everybody had told her Beth’s first word would be ‘dad’. Not because she was calling for her father, but because it was the easiest sound for a baby to make. And she made it as often as she could. When she first said it a couple of weeks ago, Kathryn had almost had a heart attack. She didn’t mind it now. In fact, she liked to think that Beth was actually saying ‘dad’ for Ryan. That she remembered him.
‘Yes. This is where Daddy sleeps,’ she said, picking up the baby. ‘And he watches over us all the time, doesn’t he? Because he loves us soooo much.’
It was time to go.
‘Let’s go back to the nice guards, shall we?’ she said, standing up.
Kathryn heaved herself into a standing position, struggling with the weight of the growing infant in her arms. The sooner Beth started walking, the better.
She turned to face the grave one more time.
‘I’m still angry with you, Ryan,’ she said, ‘for leaving us. But I know you didn’t want to. I’d give anything to have you back. I can’t accept that you’re gone.’
She rubbed her eyes with the sleeve of the brown and yellow striped raincoat. It hadn’t improved with age. The garment was still as hideous as it was the day Ryan’s mother had given it to her. Tom had laughed with her when he saw it for the first time, then given her a big hug. Now she wore it every time she came to the grave. She didn’t know why. Perhaps she hoped one day she’d find another letter in the pocket.
She reached in, knowing she’d only find a handful of biscuits and her phone.
But there was something else in there. Pebbles.
‘Are you putting stones in Mama’s pocket, you divil?’ she said to Beth. Kathryn looked down at them, then smiled and put them back in her pocket, her heart still sore but filled with love for her baby girl.
She couldn’t come here every day, but the little white pebbles would be her reminder of Ryan.
Epilogue
He’d won them round. They’d been sceptical at first. The moustache was often his least off-putting characteristic. Being a politician was nearly worse than being a cop in these parts.
Some people were amazed that Jarlath O’Keefe wasn’t known by one and all, as if unusual facial hair and dapper dress should make him a household name.
He knew better. In Galway, he was a rising star. But most people were only ever aware of their local politicians, if that. The general public was at a remove from the whole democratic process and its players.
Sure, weren’t all politicians the same?
That’s what made party leaders stand out. They ventured beyond the boundaries of their narrow home constituencies. They made the effort to attend fundraisers and benefit nights, canvasses and candidate selection conventions in places where there were no personal votes to be garnered. Many people wanted the glory of being the leader of the country, but very few were prepared to put in the Herculean effort required to get there.
Jarlath had charmed the establishment’s owner, Mattie Moorhaven, first. The old fellow propping up the bar had been the next to warm to him. But the real coup de grâce was the younger man, Padraig Óg. He was the opinion former in the village, Jarlath could tell.
He’d used the lines that had become second nature to him over the last couple of weeks. ‘There are no votes for me here. I’ve nothing to gain from travelling to see you. In fact, I have everything to lose, considering I’m probably missing an event in my hometown as we speak, not to mention upsetting the party mandarins in Dublin. But I want to hear what you have to say.’
It worked every time.
They told him the same tale he’d been hearing the length and breadth of the west of Ireland. Local economies decimated by the centralisation of public services. Post offices closed. Rural transport cut. Garda stations unmanned. Fishing a dying art. Multinationals pillaging the coastline and giving nothing back. Politicians promising the sun, moon and stars but leaving their loyalties on the train when they arrived in Dublin. A government perceived as aloof and at a remove from its citizens.
The Taoiseach was gripped in a crisis of such magnitude it threatened to topple him. It didn’t matter that the actions of Blake and his wife had nothing to do with O’Shea. People wanted to know how the Taoiseach could have appointed such an unstable man to high office.
O’Shea was facing the storm head on, but no matter how much others in the party might support him privately, public endorsement was not an option. Not for anybody who cared a jot about the party’s survival. The full details of the Finnegan case were still undisclosed. Once the story about the Resources Bill got out, O’Shea would be done for anyway. If the Reform Party didn’t change its leader, the public would force it from government, egged on by headlines and editorials.
Why not me?
Jarlath had asked himself that question many times. He was young. He was smart. He’d topped the poll in his Galway constituency and he was willing to put in the hard yards around the country. He’d no hidden skeletons. He’d no family commitments.
One more scandal would see out O’Shea.
Jarlath selected the number on his hands-free car phone, admiring the picture postcard Donegal landscape as he drove.
A female voice, smooth and professional, filled the car.
‘Jarlath, as I live and breathe. I thought you’d be afraid to ever waste my time again. To what do I owe the displeasure?’
E
mily Heaslip had attended the University of Galway around the same time as Jarlath. He’d taken the political route, she the journalism road. Which was just as well. If she’d gone into his line of work, she’d already be Taoiseach and he wouldn’t stand a chance against her. Emily was like a dog with a bone. Once she got it in her head to do something, it would be done. It made her an excellent journalist and a real thorn in the establishment’s side. Which, in a small state like Ireland, could leave her very isolated.
‘I just wanted to hear your dulcet tones, Emily my lovely. Are you still keeping a flame burning for me?’
She snorted.
‘Yes. A flame and a canister of flammable liquid. The tip you gave me a few months ago about your pal in Leinster House and his dodgy tax affairs – do you have any idea the research hours I put into that? You said it was an exclusive and the bloody Times broke the story a week before I was ready to move. Thanks a bunch, chara.’
‘I swear, that had nothing to do with me. I never spoke to the Times; I was just happy to give them a quote when they rang. What else could I do, Emily, pet? They asked me my position on a colleague failing to meet his revenue requirements. I could hardly say “no comment”. I tried to tell you all this at the time. I offered to, over a bottle of Bordeaux, remember? Someone else must have known what he was up to and given them the scoop. You know I only have eyes for your work.’
‘You’re taking up more minutes of my life, Jarlath. What do you want?’
‘I have a peace offering.’
‘I’m not having dinner with you.’
‘Control yourself, temptress. You playing hard to get like this is really doing it for me.’
‘Ugh. I just got sick in my mouth.’
Jarlath laughed.
‘Do you want this or not?’
‘It really depends on what this is.’ Her voice had softened. Just a little.
‘Oh, it’s big, baby. Very big.’
‘Now I know you’re talking about a story. You couldn’t possibly be describing anything else, you sexist twat.’
‘Hush, now. I want to meet. I’ve something to show you.’ His tone grew serious. He was enjoying the banter, but this was no laughing matter.
‘Okay. More innuendo but let’s assume you’re not BS-ing me. What have you got?’
Jarlath glanced at the photocopied pages on the passenger seat beside him. The draft legislation lay open at the appendix where he had highlighted the one short, innocuous-looking paragraph.
The opposition would have seized on it anyway, he’d reasoned, before deciding to call Emily. But then they would have got all the coverage for exposing the Resources Bill’s fatal flaw and he, Jarlath, would have been rolled out along with his colleagues to defend the damned thing. And what was the point in having sources if you didn’t put the information they gave you to use?
Leaking it would put him ahead of the curve. Emily would run the article and he’d be the heroic whistleblower, horrified at the discovery of further duplicity by Aidan Blake and Darragh McNally. Other cabinet members would be implicated including, importantly, the Taoiseach. Jarlath was sure of it. He would be the one doing the implicating.
And when the dust settled, people would remember that he had stood up for Reform Party principles and done what was right, not what he was told to do. It was a risk, but a calculated one. The previous government still had too much work to do before they would be forgiven for their multitude of sins. People wanted to believe in the Reform Party. They just needed to see some of that accountability they’d been promised.
His plan was a thing of beauty. And it had the added benefit of delivering one in the eye to Carl Madsen and all those cunning bastards in the exploration and drilling game who thought they were getting another free pass from the Irish State.
‘You know that piece of legislation Aidan Blake was working on – the one on natural resources?’ Jarlath said.
He could sense the crackle of static energy on the phone line. The mere mention of Blake’s name was enough to send journalists into a tizzy these days. Other party members were engaged in damage limitation and rising above speculation about the former minister, using the ‘legal due process’ line. Jarlath was about to give Emily the Holy Grail.
‘I know of it,’ she said, unable to keep the excitement from her voice. ‘I’ve even heard a rumour or two about it, but I’ve yet to see a hard copy of anything. Why?’
‘I think you’d better pucker up those juicy lips of yours and get ready to give me a big kiss, because I’m about to give you an early birthday present. I have the Bill and I’m en route to Dublin to give it to you.’
There was silence, then Emily whooped.
‘You know what?’ she said, when she had calmed down. ‘That little double entendre is about the nicest thing I’ve ever heard. Name the time and the place.’
He did and ended the call.
Jarlath smiled.
He’d remember Emily when he was Taoiseach. She’d earned her stripes. He’d get her a nice little number in the government press office, if she’d take it. Nothing like a poacher turned gamekeeper on your side.
And Tom Reynolds. That was the inspector’s name.
Someone that clever couldn’t stay a detective inspector forever. He’d pull a few strings and make sure Reynolds was promoted.
The man would love him for it.
He’d also call in to see Kathryn Finnegan when he got to Dublin. He’d met her at Ryan’s funeral and called out to the house to offer condolences a few weeks after. There was something about her. She was clearly devastated by the death of her husband but she had an inner strength – you could see it in her eyes. She would survive. He felt humble when he was around her, like he should be a better person. If she would let him, he’d like to be a friend to her small family.
Jarlath stroked his moustache with his free hand.
He’d buy a razor in Dublin. If he wanted people to start taking him seriously, the facial hair would have to go.
Acknowledgements
I have four little people who make everything in my life, even being an author, feel that bit more special. Thank you, my beautiful children.
My extremely patient husband – I might want to kill you when you’re helping me edit these books, but I think our marriage is stronger for it. I think! I love you, Martin Spain.
To all my early draft readers – I feel so sorry you never get the polished version, always the rough, unwieldy Word documents to fight your way through. But you know you make it better, Fern, Pearse and Roisín.
Aengus, you opened up a whole world of history and architecture for me for this book. Go raibh maith agat, a chara.
To my wonderful editor Stefanie Bierwerth; to Kathryn and Hannah and all the fantastic teams at Quercus and Hachette, thank you. Sometimes it’s the little words of encouragement, sometimes it’s the gigantic flashing arrow pointing me in the right direction – all of it is gratefully received.
And to all the family and friends who offer me love, support, encouragement and lashings of praise – oh, where would I be without the praise! I’d be lost without you.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
About the Author
Dedication
Glossary
Author’s Note
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
/> Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
Acknowledgements