Conna in Crisis & The Marriage of Ulick (6 page)

*

A
fter a long session with Ulick, Battler presented himself at the Agency; shown into Crat’s presence he handed over the completed form in triplicate. The Director examined it carefully, made some entries in his computer, extracted a voucher from a drawer and handed it to him with another form.

‘Complete this form in triplicate and present yourself here in one week’s time.’

Battler looked at the voucher: it was for 227 euro.

He stood up. ‘What the hell’s going on here? I’m entitled to 500 euro a week.’

‘You are not—you are entitled to be brought up to 500 euro a week. You spent only 273 euro.’

He pointed to a heavy manual on his desk—it was all of fifteen inches thick.

‘Do you want to see the Directive?’ he asked sarcastically. ‘Or you can check it on the Internet, if you know what that is.’

Battler reported back to Ulick.

‘What are we going to do?’

‘For a start you’ll have to prove—on paper—that you spend 500 euro a week.’

‘Why don’t we just run this bastard out of town; we can’t take this kind of rubbish lying down.’

Ulick shook his head. ‘That’s not the answer. They would just send someone else.’

‘We have to do something.’

‘Yes,’ he agreed, ‘We have to do something but it has to be legal, and it has to rid us of this bullshit for good.’

*

P
aulo drove out to Jody Fahy’s boat yard at Maam Bridge. A very affable little man, dressed in an old grey sports coat and black trousers decorated with wood chippings, Jody was a keen fisherman himself and the winner of many international competitions in his day. Like many a one before and since, he emigrated as a young man and spent years working as a carpenter on building sites in London, before returning to Hockey’s boat builders in Galway.

Two years later, he took over Ernie Devane’s business in Maam. He kept on the boat hire—mostly for fishermen and tourists who stayed in nearby hotels and guest houses—and built a fine new workshop to manufacture new and more modern boats. Well on in years now, his two sons did most of the work.

As Paulo expected, the yard wasn’t busy; ten boats were tied up at the little pier. A frequent customer in Paulo’s, Jody greeted him affably and they adjourned to the local for a drink. With the news of the day out of the way, Paulo outlined his problem.

‘Lough Ness has its monster, so they say; why don’t we have one here?’

‘A real one?’

‘You surely don’t think the Loch Ness one is real? What we need is something mocked up to look like a real one. It would do great things for the tourist season.’

Jody thought about it for a few moments.

‘I’m for anything that will bring this place to life.’ He paused thoughtfully. ‘I suppose it could be done. We’d need a small craft, a canoe that could be sealed and weighted to stay about a foot under the surface.’

‘Can you do it?’

‘I can do that part: the problem is, we’d have to install a motor.’

‘Like they use for model aircraft?’

‘Yes, but a bit more powerful. There’s a fellow I know in Oranmore, Iggy O’Haire, who does this type of thing; used to work on engines in Hockey’s. I’ll talk to him and have a mould made in PVC. The tricky part will be balancing the weights so we can keep the hull a steady eighteen inches under the surface.’

‘When can you start, Jody?’

‘Right now. I have shag all else to do.’ He paused. ‘The fewer who know about this the better.’

*

I
t had taken Jose De Laka, the new USE chief accountant, nearly a month to get an appointment with the Director General, Derek Walden-Smyth; he finally met him in the Paris office after a meeting of the Commissioners. Jose, a native of Madrid, had worked in the executive accounts department for ten years; now as chief, ensconced in palatial offices overlooking the Seine, he lorded it over his former colleagues.

A very private, dapper, extremely well dressed little man of forty five, he lived alone in an upmarket apartment in Massy. He was the obvious choice to succeed old Petroni—when he finally retired and went to live near Pisa—but there were many who thought otherwise.

The DG, an Oxford Don, had been boss for four years; his contract would be up for renewal in another year. A handsome fit man in his forties, he looked the part, with clean cut features, clear blue eyes and dark—dyed—hair. Always photographed relaxed and smiling, he lived with his wife and two daughters in a fine old mansion in Sunningdale.

He greeted Jose De Laka affably, showed him to a comfortable armchair. Then he ordered coffee. Jose tried to appear relaxed; he hadn’t met the DG before today.

‘It’s very good of you to come to see me, Jose,’ he began, ignoring the fact that his subordinate had been chasing him for the past month.

‘It’s very good of you to see me at such short notice, sir.’ Might as well play the game.

The coffee was served.

Then the DG sat back and smiled. ‘Settling in well into your new position, Jose?’

‘Yes sir.’

He didn’t waste any time. ‘How may I help you?’

Jose opened his briefcase and extracted a file.

‘I’m sorry to trouble you, sir, but as part of my responsibilities I’ve inherited a number of outstanding contracts.’

The DG nodded and waited for him to continue.

‘Well, sir,’ he sounded apologetic and he was. ‘We’ve made large payments for a new motorway in southern Italy. It looks perfectly legal and above board: the problem is this motorway hasn’t been built, it hasn’t even been started.’ He paused. ‘And I can’t find the contractors concerned.’

The DG’s smiled faded.

‘Let me see the file.’

Jose handed it over; the DG perused it carefully, becoming more and more concerned.

‘Who handled this contract for us?’

‘Senor Petroni should have signed off on it, but the file doesn’t say so.’

‘Have you asked him?’

‘I tried, sir. He was drowned in a boating accident in the Bay of Naples a month ago.’

‘Who authorised the payments?’

‘I haven’t been able to find out, sir.’

‘Have you traced the payments through the bank?’

‘I tried, sir, but the money was moved out the same day; the bank can’t trace it.’

‘What financial year is concerned?’

‘The payments were made over two years; last year and the year before.’

‘So, technically this relates to closed years.’

‘That’s correct sir, but if this becomes public?’

The DG sat back; he could do without this.

‘So what do we do now, Jose?’

‘I don’t know sir; that’s why I came to see you.’

The DG frowned. ‘This mustn’t get into the public arena; it would be very embarrassing. I assume it’s Mafia connected. Leave me the file; I’ll appoint someone to investigate fully and report back to me.’

Jose rose, looking relieved; whatever happened now he was in the clear.

‘I think that’s the best course of action, sir.’

*

M
adame marched into Matt Reilly’s—not unobserved—and made her way to the fruit counter. She looked around in some confusion. Matt approached quietly.

‘I wish to purchase an apple,’ she demanded.

Matt smiled. ‘I’m sorry, Madame, we have no apples for sale.’

‘You cannot do this; you must supply your customers.’

‘Not if it’s going to cost me 1,000 euro a day.’

‘We’ll see about that.’

She stalked out of the premises and marched down to Shona Murray’s: no apples there either. Returning to the office she pulled out the manual and studied the regulations relating to retail business. If she couldn’t find what she wanted she would simply contact Brussels and arrange for the issue of a new Directive.

*

T
he following morning, Martin Sandys drove into Conna and parked his Rolls Royce outside the Agency. Ned, the efficient traffic warden, made a point of being absent. Entering, Martin was shown into Crat’s office, where he took a seat before the august Director.

‘My mother died this morning,’ he began.

Crat didn’t look up.

Martin continued. ‘I was told in the clinic that this form requires your signature.’

He put the form on the desk before Crat who looked at it briefly.

‘That’s correct. What was your mother’s full name and address?

‘Bridgie Sandys, River House, Maam Valley.’

He input some data on his computer: then pushed the unsigned form back to Martin.

‘We have no record of this person.’

Exhausted and upset after the long final vigil at his mother’s bedside, he was rapidly losing patience.

‘What does that mean?’ he demanded.

Crat put two more forms before him.

‘First of all, you have to register this person. If she is deceased, you will require an Affidavit from a Notary Public or a death certificate signed by an approved doctor. When that is completed to my satisfaction, I will register the person and, on receipt of the required documents, deregister her and sign the burial permission form.’

Martin couldn’t believe this.

‘How long is all this going to take?’

‘A week, maybe two; depends on how quickly you get the forms completed.’

With great difficulty, Martin restrained himself. Leaving, he drove out to Ulick’s house.

Ulick, knowing immediately the expected had happened, took Martin by the hand and put his arm around him.

‘I’m so sorry, lad. Bridgie was one of the finest mothers in Connemara.’

He led him to an armchair in the living room—Ella had already left for work—and put him sitting down.

‘I’ll get you a brandy.’

‘No, Ulick, I have to stay clear headed today.’

He told him about his visit to Crat. Ulick took the form and examined it.

‘I’ll ring Judge John Ivers.’

*

F
or no good reason that he could understand Crat was beginning to feel unloved, even disliked by his subjects. Didn’t they understand he was bringing security—and happiness—to this desolate area? No longer required to earn a living, they could spend more time on the finer things in life.

There was only one person he could rely on: Madame Anna. She was one hundred per cent behind him; applied make-up skillfully; dressed attractively and was interested in him as a man. She was kind enough to suggest that he handle the prosecution in the forthcoming court action in Galway.

Madame’s attention to her appearance had nothing to do with her boss. Having failed to find Ozzy in the computer, she wandered into Paulo’s—during a lull in the afternoon activity—and inquired about the said gentleman. No, Paulo was sorry, he had never seen the man called Ozzy before; he had some idea he came from outside the area. Madame kept a friendly eye on people in the Main Street; a believer in fate, she was sure Ozzy would show up again. In the meantime, she graciously accepted an invitation to dine with her boss.

*

D
erek Walker-Smyth, rang his deputy Georgio Caplio, in Rome and asked him to come to London as soon as possible. This suggested there was a problem, but he didn’t offer to discuss it on the phone. Tearing himself away from his latest mistress, Georgio Caplio took an evening flight to Heathrow; walked quickly through Arrivals and, avoiding the media people, took a taxi to the DG’s home in Sunningdale. Normally he would be collected by one of the DG’s Mercedes, but that would attract media attention.

A native of Florence, educated in Rome and Oxford, he served as a minister in the Italian government for a number of years before being appointed deputy DG in the USE. 42, dapper and completely bald with large luminous brown eyes, he wore only designer clothes—usually light grey suits and white shirts. His undoubted ability and sense of humour was well known; married three times he was currently heading for another divorce. That didn’t upset him; he always said it was better to love and leave. He was devoted to his four children although rarely saw them. Life was good: he was at the pinnacle of his career, played golf regularly, visited the tables in Monte Carlo and was usually surrounded by beautiful women.

Arriving in Sunningdale, he was shown—by the butler—into the DG’s study, a big luxurious room with wall lined book shelves, deep beige carpets and tall windows looking out on the vast estate. The DG greeted him affably and waved him to a comfortable armchair. They were old friends; had worked closely together in various capacities for the past eight years. The butler served brandies and left them.

The DG told him about De Laka’s visit. He frowned.

‘Why is he raising this now? Those things happened in closed accounts years. Everyone knows the USE is taken for billions every year. What’s the fuss?’

‘I agree, but if this gets out, it could be embarrassing for us.’

He nodded sagely. ‘I suppose you’re right; can we trace any of this money?’

‘No, there’s no paper trail.’

‘Well then, is nothing; have you the file?’

‘Yes, I have, but I’m worried about De Laka; we daren’t sack or even move him.’

He smiled now. ‘Relax, my friend, no worries. I appointed him; I would never appoint anyone to such a senior position unless I had the goods on them. De Laka will not rock, as they say, the boat.’

The DG rose, happier now.

‘Let’s go into dinner, Georgio.’

‘Is your good lady joining us?’

He had never met the beautiful Diana Walden-Smith.

‘No, Georgio, she’s gone to one of her charity dinners.’

‘What a pity.’

He didn’t agree.

*

T
he cortege made its way in the Galway road and slowed down at the entrance to the town. A large crowd lined both sides of the street; as the funeral passed the men took off their hats and everyone blessed themselves in the best traditions of the Church. Martin—with his young son, John, in his arms—walked behind the hearse with his beautiful wife, Anne and his brothers and sisters. His father, John, wasn’t well enough to attend.

When the cortege approached the centre of the town, Crat walked out into the centre of the road and held up his right hand imperiously.

‘Stop, stop at once.’ He cried out. ‘This is an unauthorised funeral. You must return to the clinic at once.’