‘Oh God.’
‘Then a few hours later the helicopter crashed along the Donegal coast and they were all killed.’
Conway is aware of what’s missing here, of what he’s not saying – of the gap, the final piece of the jigsaw, and Gilroy doesn’t ask him, doesn’t push it.
But he stands there, waiting.
‘No one said anything to me about it, Jimmy, not Ribcoff, not Rundle, no one, but after what they came out with the previous evening, I just… I mean… at first there was so much shock over the whole thing, over the crash, the country was convulsed with it, with grief, there was wall-to-wall coverage, and it was all about Susie. What had Rundle said? Don’t make it obvious? Cause a distraction? Well, they certainly did that, because I don’t think Gianni Bonacci’s name was mentioned more than a couple of times in the reports. And if it was, no one was interested.’ He exhales again. ‘I mean, sure, it occurred to me that they’d done it, somehow, rigged it, but I didn’t for the life of me know how, or how they could have done it so fast. It just seemed bizarre. But then as the days went by I discovered more and more about who Don Ribcoff was, is. I’d thought he was Rundle’s security guy, you know, a glorified bodyguard sort of thing, but then I found out he runs what effectively amounts to a privately owned army. One with unbelievable resources. And reach. So in the light of this’ – he laughs here, but it’s mirthless, more a snort of incredulity – ‘the whole thing started to seem horribly plausible.’
He laughs again in the same way, and nods, as though in agreement with what someone else has said.
Gilroy remains silent. He appears to be in shock.
‘I had no further contact with Clark Rundle,’ Conway quickly goes on. ‘It was all through his lawyers after that. They made a new bid for the mine, which was staggering, a multiple of what their original offer had been. It was the price they were prepared to pay for my silence.’ He pauses. ‘A price I was prepared to accept.’
And there it is, pretty much.
In all its glory.
‘But…’
‘Yes?’
The knot in Conway’s stomach tightens a little more.
Gilroy shuffles from one foot to the other, obviously struggling to formulate his question. ‘Are you… talking on the record here? Am I going to be able to quote you as a source? Because otherwise -’
‘How do you prove any of it?’
‘Yes.’
He’s right, of course. It’s all very well to spill this stuff out, but what happens then? Who follows it up? Who takes responsibility?
Conway feels a stinging sensation behind his eyes. ‘Now that you mention it,’ he says quietly, ‘no, I’m not talking on the record.’
‘Why not?’
‘Look…’ How does he explain this? ‘I can’t prove any of it either. Yes, I can tell you what happened, and maybe even why, but I have no real evidence.’
‘Then why bother talking to me? Why not tell me to fuck off?’
Conway closes his eyes.
Because, he thinks, you’ll find evidence. Sooner or later. I know you will. It’s there. You’ll dig it up. And you should. It’s your job. But I don’t want to be around when you do. Because I’m tired. I’ve had enough.
He thinks of Ruth and the children.
They won’t want him to be around either.
And who’d blame them?
He opens his eyes again. They’re still stinging, but he’s got them under some sort of control. He takes a step forward. ‘Look, Jimmy. You’re going to have to come at this from a slightly different angle.’
Gilroy sighs, exasperation showing. ‘Angle? What angle?’
Conway clears his throat, hard, bracing himself. ‘Listen,’ – he knows this’ll have to be quick – ‘in the week after the crash I had a couple of conversations with Larry Bolger, but we didn’t talk about what happened, not directly, we avoided it, it was a combination of embarrassment, I suppose, and fear, but early the following week he called and told me he’d received some information from a senior garda source, someone in Harcourt Street.’ He takes a deep breath here. ‘Apparently, a security guard who worked for the helicopter leasing company was making claims that he’d seen something or that something wasn’t right at their hangar facility in Kildare. Given the sensitivity of the issue this was passed up the line, and now Larry was in a state about it. I tried to reassure him, but he was frantic, he felt that if there was an investigation, if anything came out, if there was even a hint of involvement, or of collusion, or of cover-up, or whatever, he felt… well, that he’d be crucified. At first, I reckoned he was over-reacting, but then I gave it a little thought, and maybe he was right, once something like that got out, there’d be no way of containing it, it’d be guilt by association, and not just him, I was there, too. I mean, fuck, I had deals in the pipeline, relationships with people, arrangements.’
Gilroy looks at him with a mixture of horror and dread.
Where is this going?
‘So I made a phone call. I found a number for Don Ribcoff and I called him.’
That’s where.
‘And?’
‘Day or two later the security guard disappeared. Without a trace. Missing person. End of story. Then Ribcoff called me back, said something about the Wicklow hills, local methods, not to give it another thought.’
This proves too much for Gilroy, who deflates right there in front of him. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he says, ‘Jesus Christ.’
Conway nods, I know, I know. He feels almost hysterical at this point, unhinged, or drunk, like he could reach out to Gilroy and hug him.
But then he hears a gentle tinkling of bells.
A fucking ringtone.
It’s not his.
He watches as Gilroy fumbles, reaches into a pocket and extracts his phone.
Then the shift in expression, the apologetic nod.
Yeah, go on, Conway thinks, take it.
‘Hello… Maria?’
Because I’m done here.
Except.
He holds a hand up, waves it.
Gilroy is flustered. ‘Sorry… just a sec,’ he says into his phone, and holds it against his chest.
This’ll have to be whispered.
‘One quick thing,’ Conway says, ‘two… two quick things. That security guard? There was a body found in the Wicklow hills a couple of weeks ago, it was in the papers, check up on that. And…’ – this is a long shot, his fucking heart thumping now as he realises he hasn’t actually mentioned the second call to Don Ribcoff, made only last week – ‘has anyone had a look at the CCTV footage?’ His mind goes blank for a second. Gilroy is paralysed, staring at him. ‘At the hotel in London, at the what’s it, the Marlow? Look at the CCTV footage.’
He then nods at the phone and mouths, Go on, take it.
Slowly, almost mechanically, Gilroy brings the phone back up to his ear.
Conway steps forward, and around him, pointing, I’ll be over there.
‘Maria…’ Gilroy says. But it’s the only word Conway hears him say, because he’s not listening anymore. He’s moving too fast. He’s already gone.
The stairwell is in almost complete darkness, and when he’s halfway up the first flight and looks back he sees nothing, hears nothing.
He moves on, moves upwards, feeling his way with the metal rail.
Counting.
When he bursts through the door and out onto six, he is breathless, but keeps going, muffled voices coming from somewhere, like a chorus deep inside his head. He feels his way along the dark, dusty corridor, tapping the wall until he comes to an open door…