Winterland (24 page)

He lowers his arm and thinks for a moment.

There’s red wine in the house. Somewhere. A bottle of Barolo one of his suppliers gave him. He’s pretty sure it’s in the kitchen, in one of the cupboards.

That’ll do.

Then he raises his arm again, slowly, deliberately, and as the bottle makes contact with his lips, he closes his eyes.

‘… he was a young fella, I don’t know, late twenties, early thirties,
Jesus
–’

‘Calm down, Larry, would you?’

‘No, Paddy, I’m
very
upset. I mean, Christ, I’m under enough pressure as it is, with all this crap in the papers.’

Norton has come outside to take the call. The French doors are open behind him, and he can hear Miriam inside going on about the nation’s obsession with reality TV and how
vulgar
it all is.

‘What did he say exactly?’

‘He asked me about the accident. I don’t know. He seemed to be implying that it was
Frank
who caused it.’

It may be chilly out here in the moonlight, but it’s nothing compared to the more abstract chill that Norton feels creeping up on him.

‘I see.’ This comes out almost in a whisper. ‘What else did he say?’

‘He accused me of covering it up.’

‘What did
you
say?’

‘I said that that was outrageous. I mean, what else –’

‘How did he react?’

‘I’m not sure. It all happened very fast. Tim came in, and then he left. He just walked out. We were in the fucking
jacks
, for Christ’s sake.’

Norton stares out across the floodlit lawn. ‘What did he look like?’

‘Well not like a journalist, that’s for –’

‘Hold on, did he
say
he was a journalist?’

‘No, he actually said he wasn’t one, but sure what else could he be?’

‘Hmm.’

Norton turns, the gravel crunching under his feet. He glances in through the French doors at everyone gathered around the dining table – at the Doyles, the Shanahans, the Gallaghers.

Miriam is still holding forth.

‘I don’t know, Larry, he probably
was
a journalist. From one of the tabloids. It’s the only explanation.’ He pauses. ‘I mean, Jesus, you’re a sitting duck at the moment.’

‘Yeah, but this is below the belt.’

‘Below the belt is their m.o., it’s what they do. They’re obviously digging up any old shit they can think of.’

Norton wants this phone call to end.

‘The other stuff I can take,’ Bolger goes on, ‘it’s par for the course, but not
this
… this is painful. I haven’t thought about Frank in a long time, you know.’

‘Hmm.’

‘I mean …he was my
brother
–’

When Norton hears the emotion in Bolger’s voice he winces.

‘Of course he was, Larry, of course he was.’

‘– so I don’t know what this sick bastard was mouthing on about.’

‘Look,’ Norton says, ‘you can’t let this derail you.’

‘No.’

‘That’s what they want. They’re trying to come at you from every angle.’ Norton turns again to face the garden. ‘Anyway, you did well at the press conference this morning.’

‘Yeah? You saw it?’

‘Of course.’

Norton proceeds to butter him up over this and then gets off the phone as quickly as he can. But instead of heading straight back in to the dinner party he walks across the gravel and onto the lawn. He wanders down as far as the tennis court.

He stands at the wire fence.

They’ve had the house for ten years and he’s never once been inside the perimeter here, never once set foot on this all-weather acrylic surface.

Because what’s a fat fuck like him going to do with a tennis racquet in his hand? That’s one thing Miriam has never had her way on. Going to the races he took to like a duck to water. Wine, bridge, paintings, antique fucking furniture, whatever. But not tennis.

He takes a couple of deep breaths. The churning in his stomach hasn’t stopped and he can’t be sure he isn’t going to throw up.

He turns around, leans back against the wire fence and looks up at the moon.

It’s him, isn’t it?

It has to be.

For the first time Norton has a real sense of how out of control this situation is getting – and it
is
all the same situation, he has no doubt about that.

He holds up his phone, scrolls down to Fitz’s number and calls it.

It goes straight into message.

He rolls his eyes. After the tone, he says, ‘It’s Paddy. Call me in the morning.’

He puts the phone away and walks back up towards the house – towards the French doors, where from this angle he can see Miriam neatly framed at the head of the table.

He steps onto the gravel.

The men’s room in a city-centre hotel?

A
toilet
?

That’s not how he ever imagined it happening – not that it necessarily had to happen at all. It didn’t.

He walks in through the French doors and smiles at his guests.

Miriam nods at someone over by the entrance to the kitchen.

But if it
did
– Norton continues, a little wistfully, finishing the thought – he had always imagined it happening, somehow, to
him
.

It can’t hurt, Gina decides.

She dials Mark Griffin’s number and flops down onto the sofa. With her free hand she picks up the remote and flicks off the TV.

She needs to talk to him again. She needs to be blunt. She needs to know if he can help her out or not.

There’s always the possibility, of course, that after talking to
her
today,
he’s
the one who needs help.

She needs to know that, too.

It’s ringing.

With the TV off, the room is dark – city dark, electric dark, light shimmering in from adjoining buildings, from the street below, from traffic – a wash of sombre golds, reds and blues.

The ringing stops and there’s a click.

Damn
.

Then, ‘Sorry I’m not here at the moment, but please leave your name and number after the tone and I’ll get back to you.’

Beeeep
.

‘Er … yes, hi, this is Gina Rafferty. From this morning? I just wanted to apologise for –’

Another click.

‘
Gina
?’

‘Oh. Mark.’ She swallows. ‘You’re there. Hello.’

‘Hello.’

‘Look, I was saying, I’m … I’m sorry about earlier. I didn’t mean to upset you or anything, I –’

‘It’s OK.’

‘I felt awful, but the thing is –’

‘No, no, don’t apologise. You actually … you did me a favour.’

‘What?’

‘A favour … you did me a favour.’

Gina presses the phone against her ear. It’s hard to tell, but he sounds a little …
weird
?

‘How did I do that?’

‘You opened my eyes. You made me see.’

She says nothing to this.

‘Really, you did. But you know what? I don’t understand how I could have been so
bloody
stupid, and for so
bloody
long.’

It’s clear to her now that he has probably – and very understandably – had a few drinks. He’s not slurring his words exactly, but there’s something different-sounding about him. It’s an easy familiarity, a looseness, that wasn’t there before.

‘Mark, I don’t think –’

‘I went to see him, this afternoon.’

‘You what …
who
?’

‘Larry Bolger. I went to Leinster House. I didn’t go in, but I hung around outside, near the entrance, and after about twenty minutes he and these two other guys came out.’

‘Oh my God.’

‘And I followed them into Buswell’s.’

‘Did you
talk
to him?’

‘Yeah, I did, and I’ll tell you what, he’s a smug little bastard, because he just stood there with this
look
on his face …’

Sitting in the half-light of her apartment, staring at the blank TV screen, Gina struggles to take this in. ‘What did you say to him?’

‘I put it to him directly … what
you
said this morning.’

‘What
I
said?’

‘Yeah, I accused him –’

‘But, Mark,’ she interrupts, suddenly feeling out of her depth here, ‘
Mark
, Jesus, I didn’t say …’ She hesitates. What exactly
did
she say? ‘I didn’t … look, I didn’t tell you this morning that I had evidence, or proof, or anything
like
it.I –’

‘Gina?’

‘I didn’t claim … I mean I was just –’

‘
Gina
?’

She stops. ‘What?’

‘
I
have proof.’

She shuffles into an upright position on the sofa, unable to believe what she’s just heard. ‘
What
proof?’

He hesitates. ‘Well … not
proof
exactly …’

Gina groans.

‘…but I
believe
it, your theory. It explains a lot … about Des. You see I … I think he knew, or suspected, or …’

Gina stares across the room. Who is he talking about?
What
is he talking about?

‘… but then he didn’t, or wasn’t able to … oh
fuck
it.’

‘Mark, are you OK?’

‘No. Not really, no.’

Gina gets up off the sofa. As she walks over to the window, she whispers, ‘Do you want me to –’

‘You know what?’ he interrupts. ‘You know what I should have done? I should have gone for him while I had the chance. I should have tackled him to the floor …’

Gina squeezes her eyes shut.

‘ … and kicked his
fucking
head in.’

What has she unleashed here?

She opens her eyes again and looks down at the river.

‘It’s just –’ he hesitates, but then pushes on, clearly unable to help himself, ‘it’s just that this all makes perfect sense to me, because it
fits
… it fits with the way my uncle was for the last twenty-five years, it fits with the way my aunt is now, it fits with how that smarmy fucker today
looked
at me …I …I
know
it.’

‘OK, OK,
whoa
.’ Gina holds a hand up. It’s as though he’s there in the room, standing right in front of her. ‘Please, Mark, listen to me. Don’t do anything rash.
Please
.’

He doesn’t answer, but she can hear him breathing. She walks back to the sofa and sits down.

His uncle? Is that the Des he mentioned?

‘
Mark?
’ she says eventually. ‘Are you there?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Can we meet again some time? To
talk
about this?’

‘OK.’ He pauses. ‘Give me your number and
I’ll
call
you
. I need time to think.’

She gives him her mobile number.

‘And
call
me, OK? Don’t leave it too long.’

‘OK.’

When she puts the phone down, she rolls sideways and stretches out on the sofa.

What if he’s right?

She looks up at the ceiling.

Shit
.

Then that means
she
was right.

Norton has put his phone on vibrate, but the noise it’s now making as it rattles on the glass table in front of him is almost as much of an intrusion as any ringtone would be.

He picks it up and looks at the display.

Fitz.

‘I have to take this,’ he says and stands up. There are six people sitting around the table – three tax advisers, two lawyers and a management consultant. As Norton turns away, there is a general redeployment of energy in the room, papers get shuffled, throats cleared, water sipped.

Norton says, ‘Yeah?’

‘How’s it going?’

‘OK.’

He steps out into reception.

‘I got your message,’ Fitz says. ‘Sorry I couldn’t take the call. I was swamped.’

‘Right. Anyway, er … I need –’ Norton glances over at the receptionist. ‘I need to talk to you about something.’

‘OK. But listen, I have an update for you.’

‘Oh?’ Norton crosses reception and stands at a window looking down onto Baggot Street. It’s raining. Traffic is at a standstill. ‘What is it?’

‘The skinny fella, yeah? He went for coffee yesterday with your one, the sister.’

‘
What?
’

‘Yeah, she went to the office and then they came out. Went to a coffee shop. About twenty-five minutes in total.’

‘You’re only fucking telling me this
now
?’

‘Look, I just got the report myself.’

‘
Fuck
.’

Gina Rafferty talking to Dermot Flynn? Jesus. What is the bitch
up
to?

‘Anything else?’

‘Yeah, she met some other bloke for coffee as well, earlier, but we don’t know who he is.’

Norton swallows and runs his free hand over his head. ‘A young guy? Old? What?’

‘Thirtyish. Tall, dark. In a suit.’

Feeling as if the room is about to detach itself from under his feet and start spinning, Norton reaches out and leans against the sash of the window. ‘We can’t talk about this on the phone. Meet me down in the car park.’ He looks at his watch. ‘In an hour.’

‘But –’

‘
Don’t
fucking start with me, Fitz.’

‘Right. Right. OK.’

Norton puts his phone away and walks back towards the boardroom. Since he likes to stay as clearheaded as possible for these financial meetings he didn’t take any Narolet this morning as he normally would have. And now he needs some.

Badly.

Standing at the door, he reaches into his pocket for his pillbox. But it’s not there. Which means he must have left it at home, on the bedside table maybe, or in his bathroom.

Damn
, he thinks, totally distracted now as he re-enters the boardroom.

An hour later he’s down in the building’s small underground car park. Fitz is sitting next to him.