But Mark isn’t going to let it go. He leans forward, and says, ‘
What kind of talk?
’
The builder hesitates, alarmed suddenly at the urgency in Mark’s voice. ‘Look, to be honest,’ he says, ‘I don’t really know. It was just talk, and anyway –’
‘Didn’t Bolger contest the seat,’ the accountant cuts in, ‘after his brother died?’
‘Yeah, he did,’ the builder says. ‘Yeah.’
‘So what happened? How did the brother die?’
‘Well, that’s just it … he died in a car crash.’
Mark feels flushed all of a sudden. He thought he could handle this, but now he isn’t sure.
The builder exhales loudly. ‘It was
horrendous
… three or four people were killed.’ He shakes his head. ‘It was
awful
.’
The accountant nods along. ‘And?’
‘There were questions about how it happened, apparently. At the time. Anomalies. But with old man Bolger around, and the likes of Romy Mulcahy, that all got hushed up pretty quickly. Or maybe there was nothing
to
hush up, I don’t know. I was talking to Paddy Norton about it once and he said it was all nonsense.’
Anomalies?
That’s the only word Mark hears and it cuts into him like a knife. ‘What anomalies?’ he whispers.
The builder turns to him but again seems reluctant to continue.
Mark leans forward even more. ‘I
asked
you … what anomalies?’
‘Look, you know what,’ the builder says, ‘forget about it. There are strict libel laws in this country and I’m not –’
Mark bangs his fist on the table. ‘
What anomalies?
’
The builder is stunned.
‘Ah, now hold on here,’ the accountant says. ‘Take it easy.’
There is a long silence as Mark and the builder stare at each other.
What Mark really wants to do is reach across the table and grab this burly Corkman by the throat.
What he does instead is get up from the table and walk out of the restaurant.
By the following morning, the story has gone nuclear. It’s on all the front pages, broadsheet and tabloid, and on all the radio breakfast shows. Given the essential ingredients – gambling, sex and, according to one editorial, ‘a little bit of politics thrown in to spice things up’ – interest in the story is overwhelming. Opinion is divided, though. Some people think Larry Bolger is just what the country needs, a colourful character, a man with flaws like the rest of us; others think he is a degenerate and should be hounded from office. Pundits and punters alike have their say, and the issue is debated endlessly in op-ed columns, on panel discussions and on radio phone-ins.
In the main, Bolger’s government colleagues are supportive. An emerging line of defence seems to be that the minister did nothing illegal, and there is much semantic hand-wringing over the difference between an ‘unpaid’ debt and an ‘outstanding’ debt. We are also declared to have matured as a nation and talk of the extramarital affair is dismissed as unseemly and prurient.
But with Bolger still in the US and pressure growing for some kind of official statement, cracks begin to appear. When asked about the matter during an interview on
Morning
Ireland
the Minister for Health displays a studied ambivalence. On
Today with Pat Kenny
a backbencher makes the first public reference to Bolger’s leadership ambitions, and a collective swish is almost immediately heard from Leinster House as knives are drawn and then sharpened. On the
News at One
opposition leaders call for the minister’s resignation, and by
Liveline
, members of the public, supporters and detractors, are shouting at each other live on air.
This is at two o’clock in the afternoon.
But in Boston – where Bolger is attending a breakfast of business leaders in the Signature Room of the John Hancock Conference Center – it is nine o’clock in the morning, and news of these developments is only just beginning to filter through.
So far, Bolger has frozen journalists out and apart from an initial and hastily formulated non-denial denial has refused to answer any questions. Being three thousand miles away, it is difficult to appreciate the level of engagement this whole thing is causing at home, but as Bolger addresses the business leaders over ham and eggs, Paula is outside in the lobby with her laptop listening to
Liveline
on the Web – and growing paler with each new contribution.
After the breakfast, she fills Bolger in and recommends that they either issue a new statement or do some interviews. They trawl though the Irish papers online looking for an angle. They discuss the possibility of Bolger’s cutting short his trip and flying home.
A little later, in one of the hotel restrooms, Bolger locks himself into a cubicle and buries his head in his hands. He can’t believe this is happening. The allegations are true of course, but they refer to a period in his life he’s always felt he’d successfully compartmentalised and moved on from. He certainly never imagined he’d be revisiting it like this.
Bolger knows that the timing of the story is no accident. And there is little doubt in his mind as to who leaked it – someone inside his own party. But the real question is, can he brazen it out? Can he contain the damage? Can he ring-fence it, or even turn it to his advantage?
As he raises his head wearily and stares at the shiny, lacquered cubicle door, his mobile phone rings. He takes it out of his jacket pocket and looks at the display.
He groans.
It’s Paddy Norton.
He lets it ring out and go into message.
‘… so, er, I’ll be in and out of the office for the next few hours. Or you can just get me on the mobile. Right? OK … Jesus, this is a
disaster
. I’ll talk to you later.’
Norton presses End and throws his mobile onto the desk.
He sits back in his chair and glances at his watch. He hasn’t heard from Ray Sullivan yet, but he
will
– that’s for sure. Amcan’s occupancy of more than forty floors of the building is not contingent upon Larry Bolger becoming Taoiseach, but it’d help. It’s definitely there in the background, part of the mood music – so there’s going to be a lot of explaining to do if Bolger’s prospects go belly-up.
Norton seems to spend most of his time these days putting out fires, and he’s getting sick of it.
Which reminds him.
He reaches forward and picks up his mobile again. He selects a number and waits.
‘Yeah?’
‘Fitz, Paddy.’
‘How’s it going?’
‘All right. Any developments?’
‘Er … let me put you on hold there for a second, Paddy, will you, and I’ll just check my notes, see what I’ve got for you.’
‘Right.’
Norton clicks his tongue.
Notes
.
These days Fitz may be calling himself a private security consultant, but coming as he does from a heavy-duty paramilitary background, it’s far from fucking
notes
that he was raised.
Norton glances out of the window. From the sixth floor of this building there’s a view of Richmond Plaza – but there isn’t one from here, from the third floor. Which is annoying. He’s been trying to get the people on six, a firm of solicitors, to move out. But so far without success.
He hasn’t been trying hard enough.
‘Paddy?’
In a few months, though, he’ll be moving
into
Richmond Plaza, so it doesn’t really matter.
‘Yeah.’
‘OK. She met Terry Stack yesterday evening for about twenty minutes. Other than that she’s either been at work, which is an office in Harcourt Street, or at her gaff, which is an apartment building on the quays. But that’s it. Back and forth. No visitors. She doesn’t have a car. She buys her food in Marks & Spencer. She reads … I think it’s
What Hi-Fi?
magazine, or
What Camera?
, or what fucking
something
, computers, juicers, I don’t know.’ He coughs. ‘I’m working on getting access to her email and stuff, but that takes time.’
‘How about her mobile?’
‘Give me a day or two. I’m waiting on a delivery. It’s a new scanner that should do the job.’
‘Right.’ Norton pauses. ‘What does she work at, by the way?’
‘Software. It’s a small company, a start-up. From what I can gather they’re not in great shape, though.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They’re struggling. Financially. Victims of the downturn, whatever. So I’m told anyway.’
‘Right. And Terry Stack?’
‘I wouldn’t worry about him, he’s a fucking muppet.’
Norton doesn’t say anything to this.
‘Look, he
is
, believe me.’
‘Fine, fine. OK.’ He pauses again. ‘And how about our other friend?’
Fitz has been keeping an eye on Dermot Flynn as well.
‘He’s behaving himself. Nothing to worry about there.’
‘Right. OK.’
Norton stares at the floor. Does he find any of this convincing? Reassuring? Yes? No? Maybe? He can’t tell. He’s still in shock about the Larry Bolger situation.
He gets off the phone and tosses it back onto his desk.
Ten
bloody
grand. Why didn’t he just ask for it?
Jesus
.
It wouldn’t have been the first time. The man is a liability and has been since the day he got elected. But you can only work with what you’ve got, and back then Larry was all
he’d
got.
Frank, as it turned out, was no use to anyone – so Larry was it.
Norton buzzes out to his secretary and tells her to bring him in a double espresso. In a few minutes he has a meeting with the directors of a UK investment company who are developing a chain of health centres in a joint venture with Winterland, and Norton needs to go over some figures with them.
But he needs some caffeine first.
Because he hasn’t been sleeping too well of late.
The Bolger story calms down considerably on Friday and Saturday, but no one involved takes any consolation from this, or – depending on where they’re coming from – is disappointed. Everyone knows it’s how the Sunday papers play it that will determine if the story has legs or not.
As it turns out, none of the papers on Sunday comes up with a killer blow – it’s more like a thousand little ones, with each paper taking a different angle, each headline a different tone, sanctimonious, analytical, trashy. The effect of this is not to confuse people, however, or to turn them off, but to pique their interest.
Gina, for example, who would normally buy just one paper, ends up buying three. She’s not sure how much of this stuff she’ll actually read, but having a thick bundle of newspapers under her arm as she walks along the quays gives her a vague sense of security, of comfort even.
She’s out early.
It’s a bright morning, cold and windy, and the gusts coming in from the bay are bracing, but that’s exactly what Gina wants. She doesn’t want mild and dull and overcast, she wants fresh, clear,
invigorating
. She still feels raw from the last two weeks, and her grief, ever present, is like a thumping sensation in her chest.
It’s relentless – like an echo of her heartbeat.
But she’s determined not to let it overwhelm her.
She wanders past her apartment building and walks on for another hundred yards or so. She stops and looks downriver, at Richmond Plaza.
Paddy Norton was adamant that Noel’s death was an accident – caused by stress and too much alcohol. It’s the official view and it’s a fairly convincing one. It’s supported by logic, by common sense and, crucially, by evidence. It’s a view that Gina was on the point of accepting herself.
Until she spoke with Terry Stack on Wednesday evening.
She turns around and heads back to her apartment building.
Since that conversation she has been haunted by the image, conjured up so casually by Stack, of someone forcing whiskey down Noel’s throat.
It’s a horrible idea, but it’s also the only way of explaining the level of alcohol in his bloodstream. Because the simple fact is, Noel wasn’t a heavy drinker. He liked a pint now and again, he drank wine at dinner, but that was as far as it went.
Back up in her apartment, Gina throws the papers onto the sofa and goes over to the kitchen to put on some coffee.
She sorts through her laundry and fills the washing machine.
When she eventually sits down to tackle the papers, she finds herself skipping the Larry Bolger stuff at first. She’s really tired and not in the right frame of mind. Instead, she reads a few book reviews, flicks through a colour supplement, reads a recipe for moussaka, scans the international pages.
But then she gives in.
The first piece she reads calls Bolger gaffe-prone and goes through a series of incidents where he displayed, to say the least, questionable judgement – such as the classic time when as junior minister at the Department of Transport in charge of road-safety initiatives he was conducting a live radio interview on his mobile phone and it became apparent
on air
that he was driving his car at the same time.
She reads a detailed account of how at the taxpayers’ expense some woman called Avril Byrne accompanied Bolger on various foreign junkets – or ‘fact-finding missions’ – and how the pair routinely stayed in lavish hotel suites. On one occasion Bolger used a departmental credit card to charge € 2,400 for a meal at an exclusive restaurant in Singapore. It is also alleged that when Ms Byrne needed a pricey dental procedure Bolger diverted party funds to pay for it.
Simultaneously, it seems, the minister was running up a huge tab – as yet unsettled – at a bookmaker’s owned by Ms Byrne’s estranged husband.
In another paper Gina reads an analysis of Bolger’s career in politics: his voting record, the various issues he has supported, the crucial role he played in an earlier leadership heave. It also explains how he came to win his Dáil seat in the first place. Gina didn’t know this, but Bolger only decided – or was persuaded – to enter politics after his older brother Frank, the sitting TD, was killed in a car crash.