Simple equation.
The young guy turns and hangs his helmet on one of the handlebars of the motorbike. When he turns back, Conway looks him in the eye and says, ‘You’re Jimmy Gilroy, aren’t you?’
Jimmy nods.
‘Yes, I am.’
How does Conway know this? Probably Phil Sweeney. Not that it matters.
‘What do you want?’
Jimmy’s a little nervous here. There’s no other way of proceeding, though. ‘I’d like to ask you a couple of questions.’
Conway doesn’t answer straightaway. But his body language is telling. Initially, it was aggressive – hands on hips, ready for a confrontation – then it changed suddenly. Now he’s the one who seems nervous.
‘Questions about what?’
‘Different things. It depends.’ Jimmy glances around. This is one of those ghost estates – half-built, then abandoned when the money ran out. Despite the late afternoon sunlight, there’s a bleak, almost menacing feel to the place. ‘Can we go somewhere?’
Conway stares at him. He shakes his head. ‘What do you want to ask me?’
Jimmy pauses. He’s reluctant to begin, standing out in the open air like this. ‘Tara Meadows?’ he says, with a sweep of his hand, indicating the entire estate. ‘Is it one of yours?’
Conway exhales, clearly fighting the urge to snap at him, or worse. ‘That’s one of your questions?’
‘No. I suppose not.’
‘I didn’t think so.’ He exhales again. He looks up at the sky. He seems to be considering something.
Jimmy remains very still.
‘Fine,’ Conway says eventually. ‘Let’s go somewhere.’ He turns around, pushes the door of his car closed and starts walking along the road, heading further into the estate.
Jimmy hesitates. He looks back at his bike. He should lock it.
‘Follow me,’ Conway says over his shoulder. ‘I want to show you something.’
Jimmy follows.
They walk along Tara Boulevard and enter a large, deserted town square. Thinking about it, Jimmy remembers an article he read a couple of years back about this development, what it was supposed to be, the great hopes for it. He can’t believe what he’s seeing now, though – a bleak, windswept square surrounded by empty apartment blocks and office buildings. On the far side of it he spots a group of youths, some on bikes, circling aimlessly, others sitting on a low wall drinking cans of beer.
‘You see this?’ Conway says, striding now towards the entrance to one of the buildings. ‘Supposed to be a hotel, the five-star… something, we didn’t have a name for it yet. But you know who’s living here now? Yeah?’ He holds open the door for Jimmy, who hesitates but then goes in past him.
‘No, who?’
‘Homeless people. Drunks. I don’t know. Squatters, junkies. Anybody who wants to. Welcome to Tara fucking Meadows.’
Jimmy walks straight in and looks around. It’s a hotel lobby all right, or would be if they finished it. He can see where the reception desk should go, and the lounge area. Over to the right, double doors, half open, lead into another room, probably a dining area or a function room.
The whole place is dark and musty.
All of a sudden Jimmy isn’t sure how comfortable he feels here. Dave Conway, if he wanted to, could stab him in the heart with a knife, repeatedly, leave him there on the floor to die. And how long would it be before anyone – apart from the local rat population – discovered his body? It could be days, weeks even. The only thing is, Conway doesn’t look like the sort of person who carries a knife around with him. Or even a gun. Standing in this bare hotel lobby now, he looks exactly like what he is, a businessman.
Besides, why would he want to kill Jimmy in the first place?
He hasn’t heard any of his questions yet.
And it’s entirely possible that he won’t have any answers when he does – that he won’t have the slightest idea of what Jimmy is talking about.
‘So,’ Conway says, ‘this is it. This is all there is. All that’s left.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah. It’s what I’m reduced to, so believe me, I’ve got enough on my plate without’ – he stops for a moment – ‘without whatever Susie Monaghan crap you’re peddling.’
Jimmy takes a notebook from his back pocket and flicks it open. ‘I’m not peddling anything, Mr Conway, and as people keep pointing out to me, this isn’t about Susie Monaghan.’
‘What is it about then, tell me.’
‘Well, I’d like to know why Gianni Bonacci wrote your name on the back of a business card belonging to Clark Rundle.’
Conway leans forward. ‘Come again?’
Jimmy doesn’t say anything. He waits.
‘A business card? So fucking what? I did business with the guy.’ Conway shakes his head. He seems flustered. ‘Who did you hear this from anyway, Larry Bolger?’
‘No,’ Jimmy says. ‘I heard it from Bonacci’s wife. His widow.’
‘His widow?’
‘Yeah, I’ve just come back from Italy. I went to her apartment and talked to her. She showed me the card.’
Conway shrugs. He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then he says, ‘Come on. What’s this about? I’m tired.’
Jimmy shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He wishes they could sit down somewhere. He wishes he knew what he was doing. He wishes he had a job. ‘Right,’ he says, glancing at his notebook. ‘Here it is. Larry Bolger more or less told me that the helicopter crash that weekend wasn’t an accident. He said that Susie was collateral damage and implied that one of the other passengers was at the heart of this. I talked to some people and went through the passenger list and, let’s put it this way, Gianni Bonacci’s name is the only one that I couldn’t eliminate. Then I went and spoke to his wife who told me that the day before the crash Gianni had told her his life was in danger, that he had come across something, stumbled on it, something significant. Now.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘Around this time you sold your company First Continental Resources to BRX, a company owned by Clark Rundle, whose name, along with yours, turns up on a business card in Gianni Bonacci’s briefcase.’ He pauses. ‘So, there it is… it’s just a lead. That’s all. I’m pursuing it. I’m here asking if there’s anything you can tell me, if you can explain any of this.’
He flicks the notebook closed, as though he was reading from it and is now finished.
Nerves.
He looks up.
Conway is staring at him. ‘This is all unsubstantiated, it’s… it’s circumstantial.’
‘Yeah, it’s circumstantial, sure, but the circumstances keep piling up. A few days after my conversation with Larry Bolger and what happens? He drops dead. Then my apartment is broken into. Nothing of any value is taken, but the hard drive on my computer is wiped. Meanwhile I have people like Phil Sweeney telling me I’m in over my head, and to find another story. Offering me money.’
Conway maintains eye contact, but there’s something different about him now, about his facial expression. It’s as though a key element that was holding it in place has dropped out. Certainty, conviction.
Self-belief.
‘Who are you working for?’ he says. ‘What paper? When is this story coming out?’
Jimmy hesitates. He’s not about to throw away his advantage here by admitting he’s not working for anyone. ‘Well, probably not this Sunday, but definitely -’
‘According to Phil Sweeney you’re unemployed.’
Jimmy looks away, then back, sighs. ‘OK, maybe, but when I get this figured out, I won’t be, all right?’ He pauses. ‘I mean, do you not remember that crash? Six people dead? This is a big fucking story.’
Conway doesn’t say anything.