More than. It’s not like he’s ever told Phil Sweeney to drop by the house if he happened to be passing. Their relationship is a business one, conducted mainly over the phone or by e-mail. Down through the years, there have been sensitive issues, of course, and conversations that have occasionally crossed a shadowy line between the professional and the personal, but they’ve maintained their distance.
That’s not what this is.
‘Can I come in? Have a question I need to ask.’
Conway stands back, gets the tell-tale whiff from Sweeney’s breath as he passes.
They go into the main reception room. Conway automatically heads for where the booze is kept.
‘Drink?’
‘Yeah, whiskey.’ Some throat clearing. ‘Please.’
As Conway fixes the drinks, thinking maybe this isn’t such a good idea, Sweeney – standing right behind him – starts talking.
‘I can’t do anything about Jimmy Gilroy, Dave, I tried, he’s got his teeth into this thing, and… you said so yourself, he’s young, he thinks he’s Bob fucking Woodward, thinks he’s – I don’t know – on to something. But the thing is, and here’s my question, how could he be? On to something, I mean?’ Conway listening, not moving, bottle suspended over a glass. ‘I flagged this Susie Monaghan thing for you because my understanding is that you don’t want anything out there drawing attention to the First Continental deal. Which means the conference. Which means that weekend. And which also means, for whatever reason – I never asked, but you were very clear about it at the time – her.’
Conway pours a measure into the glass, turns around and hands it to Sweeney.
He doesn’t say anything.
‘I assumed you’d had a thing with her, didn’t want connections being made.’
What is this?
‘And?’
‘Now Larry Bolger is…’
‘Larry? Jesus, Phil, have you gone soft in the head? The man is demented. He’s delusional.’
‘Isn’t that supposed to be my line, Dave?’
‘Yeah, well, why aren’t you sticking to it?’
‘Because… I don’t know…’
‘What?’
‘I don’t know what’s real here and what isn’t, what’s spin and what’s truth.’
‘I thought that was the whole point, Phil. Of Marino Communications. Of you. Of why we all pay you so much.’
‘For the little stuff, maybe, expense sheets and zipper trouble, for papering over the cracks, but this…’ He shrugs, shakes his head, searching for the words.
‘This, Phil?’
‘Something about this stinks to high heaven.’
Conway’s had enough, and snaps. He swipes the glass out of Sweeney’s hand. ‘Get out of my house, Phil. And you know what? I don’t think I’ll need your services anymore. Consider yourself fired.’ He puts the glass down. ‘Go on, get out.’
Sweeney stares at him. ‘So Jimmy’s on the right track, is that what you’re telling me?’
‘I’m not telling you anything, Phil. You can choose to believe whatever shit you like. That’s what you do best, isn’t it?’
Sweeney flinches. ‘Fuck you, Dave.’ He turns and walks out of the room.
A few seconds later, Conway hears the hall door slamming shut. He reaches around for the drink he took from Sweeney. He knocks it back in one go. He pours another one and knocks that back. Then he notices the one he poured for himself and knocks that back, too.
7
JIMMY DOESN’T E-MAIL FRANCESCA BONACCI AGAIN until he arrives in Treviso on Monday morning. This is deliberate. He wants to exert a little pressure – both on her and on himself. He tells her he’s getting a train to Verona and will be there by early afternoon. Can they meet? Can he call by? Talk to her mother?
He sends this while he’s still in the airport terminal.
Then, in the taxi and on the train, he keeps checking for a reply, until he remembers that she’s seventeen and is probably still at school.
He has the phone number, but decides to wait a while before using it, at least until he’s settled somewhere, in a hotel or a pensione.
At this point he allows himself to take it easy for a bit. He sits back, looks out of the window and registers, almost for the first time, that he’s in Italy.
The views flitting past are a curious mix – lush countryside and dense pockets of industrial activity, rolling green hills and boxy grey factory units. As the train snakes into the city, this gives way to another curious mix – dusty, high-rise apartment blocks and elegant two-storey villas with pink slate roofing and green shutters.
He gets a taxi from the station into the city centre. It takes no more than five minutes. He could have easily walked it, but he didn’t know. This is because he omitted to do any travel research before leaving Dublin, a situation he now rectifies by stopping at a newsstand and buying a guidebook.
It’s a beautiful day, sunny and warm, and as he sits on a bench in Piazza Bra, beneath the cedar trees, looking through the gushing fountain to the Arena, Jimmy wonders what he’s doing here. He has a very limited budget and his grand plan doesn’t seem to extend a whole lot beyond doorstepping Gianni Bonacci’s widow.
But what choice does he have? What other course of action was open to him? None that he can think of. Because talking on the phone and exchanging e-mails wasn’t ever going to be enough. To get at the truth, you need eye contact, body language. Especially with a story like this. In any case, he’ll give it a couple of days, and see. Maybe something will come of it. Maybe nothing will.
Isn’t that how it works?
He flicks through the guidebook and marks down three possible places to stay.
He walks along Via Mazzini, a narrow pedestrianised street of luxury boutiques and jewellery shops. This leads onto another piazza, one dominated by an enormous medieval tower.
He keeps wandering, and consulting the map in his guidebook, until he eventually finds the first of the three hotels. It’s fine – cheap and clean – and when he’s checked in he falls on the bed and dozes for a while. Then he takes a shower.
At about five o’clock, an e-mail arrives from Francesca.
She seems slightly alarmed that he’s here and says she’ll have to talk with her mother first, before anything can happen.
Jimmy replies, giving her his mobile number. Then he flops onto the bed again, and waits. He turns on the TV and flicks around for a while, but there’s no CNN or Sky, just what seem like local channels, with endless ads, cartoons and chat shows. None of which he can follow. After about twenty minutes, his mobile rings.
He reaches over and grabs it. ‘Hello?’
‘Mr Gilroy?’
‘Yes. Hi. Francesca.’
‘Hi. Mr Gilroy. How are you?’
‘I’m fine, thanks.’ He shunts over and sits up on the edge of the bed. ‘But please, call me Jimmy.’
‘OK. Jimmy.’
‘And how are you?’
‘I am well. Thank you. Jimmy.’
‘Good, good.’ This is awkward. He stands up. ‘So?’
‘Er, allora, I spoke with my mother, and -’
‘Yes?’
Jimmy braces himself.
‘She would like to invite you to dinner. At our house. For this evening. If you are free.’
Sitting in the back of a black taxi, as it inches its way along Whitehall towards Trafalgar Square, Bolger sends Mary a quick text. He tells her he’s arrived and is on his way to the hotel. Over the weekend, they’d talked about her coming with him, for moral support, but they eventually decided against it. Bolger’s exclusive focus, they agreed, should be on the interview. All going to plan, however, there’s no reason they couldn’t both come over in the near future, and do some shopping, or maybe even, if appropriate, a spot of house hunting.