She nods again.
‘Clark Rundle, Don Ribcoff and… some old guy.’
11
AT AROUND NINE O’CLOCK ON SATURDAY MORNING Rundle and Eve are having coffee in the kitchen of their fifty-seventh-floor apartment in the Celestial Building. They’re talking about Daisy, about Oxford, about England, and when Rundle’s phone rings he resents the intrusion.
It’s Don Ribcoff. He’s downstairs in his car and needs ten minutes.
Rundle could ask him to come up, but he’s not going to.
‘I’ll be right down,’ he says into the phone, and makes an apologetic face at Eve.
She’s used to it. Twenty years of marriage to Clark Rundle and what’s she going to do, start getting snippy now?
She reaches for her own phone as he gets up to leave.
Descending in the elevator, Rundle feels relatively relaxed – happy to be back from his trip and looking forward to dinner with Jimmy Vaughan tomorrow night.
Outside, he strolls across the wide plaza towards the kerb, keenly aware of the monolithic slab of bronze-tinted glass shimmering in the sunlight behind him. As he gets near the parked limousine, a door opens, and Ribcoff emerges.
The two men stand on the sidewalk, traffic whipping past.
‘Some weird news,’ Ribcoff says. ‘From Dublin. Dave Conway killed himself on Thursday night. Jumped off a sixth-floor balcony.’
Rundle is surprised, and shows it. ‘That is weird. Any fallout we need to be concerned about?’
‘Maybe. Our asset there is working on it. It turns out someone was with Conway before he did it. The two of them were seen talking, and then this guy was seen leaving. In a hurry. By some local kids.’ He pauses, reluctant to go on. ‘It might’ve been that journalist.’
‘Might have been? I thought you had him under surveillance?’
‘We did. But not round the clock. I mean, we checked him out, went to his apartment, trawled through his shit, but there was nothing much there. He wasn’t deemed a risk.’
‘And now?’
‘We’re looking into it.’
Rundle glances around. ‘What’s the take on Conway? What are people saying?’
‘Debts, bankruptcy. He was in for a couple of hundred million. Victim of the recession. It seems to be straight up.’
Rundle nods. ‘Fine, but this journalist prick talks to Bolger, then he talks to Conway… we have to assume he knows something. Or thinks he knows something. We have to assume he’s a risk.’
‘Yeah. But from what our asset could find out the guy is more or less unemployed. Until recently he was working on a book about that actress who was killed in the helicopter crash. That’s how he got caught up in this.’
‘And that doesn’t make him a risk? Jesus, Don.’
Ribcoff looks around, nodding. ‘OK. I’ll get our asset to take another look at him.’
‘Not just another look, Don. Sit on the bastard. We don’t want any surprises here.’
‘Right.’
Rundle is anxious to get away. ‘That it?’
Ribcoff nods.
‘Keep me posted.’
‘OK.’
As Rundle is turning to go, Ribcoff says, ‘By the way, have you seen Mr Vaughan yet? Since we got back?’
‘No,’ Rundle says, feeling a slight impatience at the question. ‘I’m seeing him tomorrow night.’
Back in the elevator, he takes out his phone and calls Regal.
Unfortunately, Nora is not available today. They’re about to suggest someone else, another escort, but Rundle hangs up.
As he walks along George’s Street on his way to the Long Hall, Jimmy keeps turning and looking behind him. He can’t shake the uneasy feeling that he’s being followed. No one in his line of vision offers themselves up as a likely candidate, but then…
He wouldn’t expect them to.
Stepping into the pub, Jimmy glances around and spots Phil Sweeney sitting alone at the bar.
He looks tired. There is a glass of whiskey in front of him.
‘Jimmy. What’ll you have?’
‘Pint of Guinness, thanks.’
Jimmy sits on a stool, facing straight ahead, and puts his hands on the bar. ‘I’m sorry about Conway,’ he says.
‘Yeah.’ There is a long silence. ‘So, what happened?’
Jimmy gets straight into it. Since talking to Maria yesterday he has refined the narrative somewhat. He tells it quickly and leaves no room for interruption.
Sweeney visibly wilts as Jimmy is speaking. At the end he takes a couple of sips from his glass.
Jimmy’s pint arrives, but he doesn’t touch it. The two men sit for a while without speaking.
Eventually, Sweeney turns to Jimmy. ‘I had no idea. I knew some stuff, but…’ He shakes his head. ‘I thought he’d had a fling with Susie, that it was all about covering that up. Keeping the papers out of it. Saving the marriage. I knew there was a business angle as well, but… you know, it was business. You learn not to ask awkward questions.’
Jimmy doesn’t say anything. He keeps staring at his pint.
‘Look, Jimmy, I know you have nothing but contempt for me and for what I do, for the company, and for… whatever, I don’t want to bring your old man into it, but believe me, what I do, what we did, it’s not this, not what you’re telling me.’ He reaches for his glass. ‘What you’re telling me? Way out of my fucking league.’
‘OK,’ Jimmy says.
‘I mean, Conway and Bolger? Whatever bullshit they got involved in that weekend, they kept it a secret all this time. I certainly knew nothing about it.’ He drains his glass and makes a sign at the barman. ‘But I have to tell you, Jimmy, I’ve heard some ugly shit in my day, but nothing like this. And I don’t like it. One fucking bit.’
Jimmy is beginning to wonder how much drink might be in the equation here.
‘Look Phil,’ he says, fully expecting to be pounced on, ‘let me be straight with you. This is a big news story and I intend to pursue it. My only problem is that the two main sources for it are now dead.’
Sweeney looks at him and nods. ‘Yeah, I can see that’d be a problem all right.’
‘So,’ Jimmy goes on, ‘I’ve decided, I’m going to New York. On Monday. See if I can get anything out of BRX.’ He pauses. ‘See if I can get near Clark Rundle. I’ve booked the flight. Did it yesterday.’
Sweeney’s eyes widen. ‘Wow. I don’t know if you’re insane, Jimmy, or just stupid, but…’ He stops for a moment. ‘You won’t get anywhere near Clark Rundle. Guys like him operate in a parallel universe. It’s like they live in a bubble.’
‘I know. But I have to try. It’s a start.’
‘He mightn’t even be in New York.’
‘I know.’
Sweeney stops again. He seems to be considering something. ‘OK, but you know what… you’re going to need contacts over there, assistance, help.’
‘I don’t have any contacts.’
‘I do.’
The barman arrives with the fresh drink. He places it in front of Sweeney, who picks it up and swirls it around gently.
Jimmy isn’t sure what’s being said here. ‘You’ll help me?’
‘Yeah.’ Sweeney puts the drink down. ‘There’s something I haven’t told you yet. I got a text the other night. From Dave. It must have been just before he did it.’
Jimmy turns and looks at him.
‘It was fairly cryptic. I didn’t know what to make of it. I mean, it’s bloody obvious now, I suppose, but at the time I thought maybe he was drunk or something. We hadn’t been on the best of terms lately, so I didn’t reply and I wasn’t in the mood to call him.’ Sweeney takes a sip from his drink. Then he takes a deep breath. ‘He said Help Jimmy Gilroy any way you can.’