Apparently it can’t be traced.
The light changes. Norton flips the glove compartment closed.
He crosses the river and turns right onto Custom House Quay.
Gina Rafferty has an apartment down around here somewhere – that’s what she told him the day they met – and he’s guessing it’s in one of these new complexes.
Fitz would have been able to give him the exact address.
But even
with
the address – and assuming she’s still alive – how likely is it that he’ll just see her here, spot her walking along the pavement or coming out of her building?
Not very.
In any case, the traffic is moving at quite a clip, and in seconds he has already gone too far. He cruises past Richmond Plaza. At the end he takes a right and goes over the toll bridge. He’ll loop around through Ringsend, make his way back to the other end of the quays and start again.
At this point, he doesn’t know what else to do.
As Larry Bolger steps into the shower, he wonders if this delay isn’t going to scupper everything. If the moment isn’t going to pass.
Bracing himself, he turns on the water and lets it run cold for a while.
The plan was hatched late last night in a fug of nervous exhaustion – with Bolger himself and a few others working the phones to drum up support. But then, at the last minute, there was a complication.
Isn’t there always?
Just after 2 a.m. news broke of a horrific gangland massacre in the west of the city, three dead apparently – so they decided at once to abort. There was no point in going head to head with a story like
that
. It would dominate the news cycle and upstage any other story, especially a political one, for at least twenty-four hours.
He adjusts the temperature of the water and reaches for the soap.
But in a way he’s relieved – because although he’s been working up to this for years, now that it’s within his grasp he feels deeply uneasy about it. Over these last two days he hasn’t had a chance to make any enquiries into the circumstances surrounding his brother’s death, but he’s determined to rectify that. What he’d really like to do, in fact, is to visit the old man out in the nursing home in Wicklow – and today, if possible. When else is he going to be able to do it? This may be the last chance he gets for a while.
He’ll have a look at his schedule.
As he scrubs away the anxiety and tension of a long night, it occurs to Bolger that there’s something else he should be relieved about, too – the ease with which he appears to have seen off this recent so-called scandal. The affair part of it was a non-starter – in post-Catholic Ireland no one had the stomach to get into
that
. And as for the gambling debts, well, they were eventually seen as just a personal-finance issue, nothing that could be spun as improper ‘contributions’ or that involved any obvious conflict of interest. So although the media gorged themselves on the story and wanted more, the opposition parties folded quickly.
He puts the soap back in the dish, turns, closes his eyes and lets the jet of hot water massage the back of his neck.
Besides, as often happens in politics, the story moved on all by itself, in this case mutating over the space of forty-eight hours into a full-blown backbench revolt. The thing is, while the Taoiseach’s spineless performance in the Dáil on Tuesday may not have been enough to trigger the long-anticipated leadership crisis, an imminent leak to the media revealing the source of the
original
Bolger story almost certainly will be.
He turns off the water, steps out of the shower and puts on his towelling robe.
An official in the Taoiseach’s own department? The irony is too rich.
Bolger looks at himself in the mirror.
So, a plan was hatched.
The idea was that once this new angle on the story got fed to the media – and preferably this morning – senior figures in the party would persuade the Taoiseach to stand down and cede power. To none other than the Minister himself. There’d be no need for a divisive leadership contest.
It was perfect – a bloodless coup.
But then someone decided to turn on the radio.
Bolger picks out a shirt, and as he’s putting it on, his phone rings. He looks at the display. Paula. He puts the phone on his shoulder, cocks his head to one side and starts buttoning up his shirt. ‘Paula, yeah, what is it? I’m tired.’
In the brief moment before she answers, Bolger can picture Paula rolling her eyes and thinking, Jesus, Larry, we’re
all
tired.
‘Have you heard any of the details of this
thing
?’
‘What, the shooting?’
‘Shoot-
out
more like. Bloody OK Corral stuff. And fifty euro says at least
one
subeditor sticks that in a headline somewhere.’
‘Do they know who’s involved?’ All Bolger heard on the early bulletin was the body count. No names had been released at that stage.
‘Yeah, the main players seem to be Terry Stack and someone else called … er … Martin Fitzgerald.’
Bolger stops, hands poised to do up the top button of his shirt. He looks at himself in the mirror again. These two names … there’s a resonance here, an echo …
‘Larry?’
‘Is that the Martin Fitzgerald who owns High King Security?’
‘I think so,’ Paula says. ‘But they’re playing up a paramilitary angle. I don’t know, ex-INLA, some crap like that. Two scumbag smack dealers blowing each other away obviously isn’t sexy enough for them.’
Bolger doesn’t quite know what to make of this.
‘But I’ll tell you
one
thing,’ Paula goes on, ‘we were right to hold off, because it’s going to be wall to wall today, the law-and-order agenda for breakfast, dinner and
bloody
tea.’
‘Yeah, I know,’ Bolger says, doing up the button. ‘But anyway, listen.’ He slips the phone from his shoulder into his hand. ‘This little delay actually suits me. Because there’s something I need to do this afternoon.’
‘Oh.’ Suspicious. ‘What’s that?’
He tells her about how he intends going out to the nursing home in Wicklow to see his father. But as he speaks – still staring at himself in the mirror – his unease deepens.
What’s he expecting to find when he gets out there?
He doesn’t know. Maybe nothing. Clarification. If he’s lucky.
Answers.
Though how much he thinks the old man will be able to tell him – in fact how much he thinks the old man will be able to
remember
, and about anything – well, that’s another matter altogether.
When Gina wakes up, it takes her a moment to remember where she is. Leaning on one elbow, she raises herself up a little in the bed and looks around.
She’s in the spare room of Sophie’s new apartment.
But …
Oh
God
. Of course.
She throws the duvet back and swings her legs out.
After what happened last night, she can’t believe she actually
slept
.
Sitting on the edge of the bed now, she runs her hands through her hair and tries to pull everything into focus. But there’s really only one point to consider here, one central fact: no Mark Griffin. The warehouse, Fitz, Terry Stack, those other guys who came, the awful carnage that ensued …
But where the hell was
Mark
through all of it?
Where is he now? She’s got to –
Then a stab of panic hits her as she registers the morning sunlight and realises that hours must have passed – six, seven,
eight
hours – since she left the warehouse.
She looks at her watch.
A quarter past nine.
Jesus, how did she sleep so –
What did Sophie
give
her?
She stands up but feels weak, her movements sluggish, her limbs heavy.
She sits back on the bed and closes her eyes.
Once beyond the roundabout last night she hailed a cab and came directly out here – because there was no way she could face going back to her own place. But she needed somewhere to regroup, to
think
, to work out a strategy. Once inside the door, though, she made it plain that she didn’t want to answer any questions, and Soph went along with that. She offered Gina a drink, which Gina didn’t want, and then offered her a Valium.
Gina opens her eyes.
Maybe that explains why she’s still so groggy, why she was able to
sleep
. She just took what Sophie gave her and didn’t check its strength. But it’s obvious now that it wasn’t a tranquilliser; it was a bloody sleeping pill.
She looks down. She’s still in her clothes, black jeans and a sweater. Her leather jacket is on the end of the bed, folded neatly.
She looks around.
Where are her shoes?
She has to get out of here. She has to find out where Mark is and what happened to him.
She stands up and walks over to the door in her bare feet. The door opens directly onto the living room, and there, sitting on a leather couch, dressed for work, looking up at her a little nervously, is Sophie.
‘Hi.’
‘Hi,’ Gina says back, and shrugs. ‘What the hell was that you gave me, Soph? It knocked me out.’
‘You
asked
for something. Do you know how upset you were when you got here last night? You were …’
Gina shakes her head. ‘I don’t really remember, not in any detail, but look, I … I have to get out of here. I’ve got –’
‘You were bordering on hysterical,’ Sophie says, leaning forward on the couch. ‘But you wouldn’t
talk
to me, you –’
‘I’m sorry, Soph, I didn’t mean to put you through that. You were the only pers–’
‘I didn’t
mind
, you idiot. But I was worried. I figured that maybe you’d …’ She stops here and stands up. ‘Look Gina,’ she says, as though about to make a formal announcement. ‘There was something on the news this morning.’
Gina looks at her. Oh God. Of course there was. Media coverage. It had never occurred to her.
But then something
else
occurs to her, and she looks over at the main door of the apartment. What kind of a trail did she leave behind her last night?
She swallows.
Should she even be here? Is it safe for Sophie? Is it safe –
‘
Gina
.’
She looks back. ‘What?’
‘On the news. There’s been this, I don’t know, gangland
thing
. In a warehouse somewhere. Three people are dead, including that guy who was at your nephew’s funeral.’
Gina stares at her, nods. ‘Three? You sure?’
‘Yeah.’
The hoodie must have made it.
‘Anything else?’
‘Anything
else
? Christ, Gina, didn’t you hear what I just said?’
‘Yeah, Soph, I heard. Now what else was there?’
‘OK,
OK
. Let me think.’ She shifts her weight from one foot to the other. ‘They also said there are two guys in intensive care.’
Gina looks at her.
‘
Two?
’
‘Yeah, one of them was stabbed and the other one was shot. I can’t believe I’m even saying this. The one who was shot they found in an alleyway or something. Nearby.’
Mark
.
It has to be
.
Gina feels simultaneously sick and relieved.
Then Sophie takes a step towards her and says, ‘You were there, weren’t you, last night?’
Gina doesn’t answer.
‘I mean, come on,’ Sophie continues. ‘The time you got here, the state you were in.’ She pauses. ‘The blood on your shoes.’
Gina’s eyes widen.
Sophie points. ‘They’re over there on the kitchen floor. I cleaned them.’
Gina nods, and then sits on the edge of the sofa. After a long silence, she says, ‘Shouldn’t you be at work?’
‘Don’t worry. I called in sick.’
Sophie takes off her jacket and places it over the back of a chair. She turns the chair to face the sofa and sits in it. ‘I didn’t like leaving, and then when I stuck my head in the door to check up on you before heading out, I noticed your shoes.’ She shrugs. ‘And
well
, on top of what I’d just heard on the radio …’
Gina nods again. Then she does her best to explain. She goes through it in detail, and in sequence – from her earliest suspicions on that awful Tuesday morning to everything she endured, and witnessed, last night.
Sophie is pale by the end of it.
‘Holy God, Gina. Jesus Christ. You’ve got to go to the Guards.’
‘I can’t. I –’
‘But you’re still –’
‘Look, I brought Terry Stack
in
on it, I called him, I encouraged him to …to
interrogate
that guy. I mean,
listen
to me.’
Sophie leans forward. ‘But Gina, you’re still … it sounds to me like you’re still in danger.’
‘Yeah. I suppose I am.’ She shrugs. ‘Yeah. But listen … do you have any coffee?’
Sophie nods. She gets up at once, heads over to the kitchen and with all the focus of a staff nurse preparing to dress a wound or give an insulin injection, she gets busy filling the kettle and then her cafetière.
Gina stands up and walks back over to the spare room. She sits on the end of the bed and picks up her jacket. She goes through the pockets and extracts whatever doesn’t belong to her. Mark Griffin’s mobile. Fitz’s mobile. Fitz’s
gun
. The three photographs.
She spreads all of these items out on the bed.
She glides a hand over the photos.
I finally saw them today. For the first time. Saw what they
looked like. My family. I’m looking at them now. Lucy was so
small, she –
Gina turns away, and stares at the floor.
Jesus. Poor Mark. Seeing these … these faces, after so many years, and then …
Then whatever happened to him. Getting shot …
Though she wonders now when exactly
that
happened, and where. Because something occurs to her. Mark sounded very weird on the phone. Out of it. Delirious almost. So could he actually have been shot
before
they spoke?