But when it came to putting a case for the defence, Bolger was indefatigable. He was also passionate – and never more so than one Monday evening on RTÉ’s Questions and Answers programme. A speaker on the panel was making some laboured, predictable point about tall buildings and phallic symbolism when Bolger cut in saying that Richmond Plaza wasn’t even going to be particularly tall, not by global standards. OK, it was probably going to be one of the tallest buildings in Europe, but so what? With the growth of the new service-based economies, Europe was going to have to get its act together anyway and reform its planning regulations, because ten years down the line, cities like Frankfurt and Brussels, The Hague and Berlin, these would all be just like American and Asian cities, just like Houston and Kuala Lumpur… a process that we in this country – he said, banging his fist on the table – that we in this city, had the unique chance to kick-start, right here, right now…
It was one of his more full-on performances.
But he also did a lot behind the scenes. He persuaded, cajoled, used his charm, and took a lot of flak – so all in all it’s not as if he hasn’t played his part. And what? The thanks he gets for his loyalty is to be talked to like he’s one of the fucking hired help?
Bolger spots his press secretary, Paula, and one of his advisers standing by a pillar in the reception area. They’re both on their mobiles. Paula holds up a hand to indicate that she’ll be with him in a second.
He waits.
Bolger has known Paddy Norton for many, many years and is beholden to him in ways he’d rather not think about. In fact, he can’t really imagine his career without him – but still, there are times, like today, when he wishes to God he’d never met the man.
7
It is just as Mark Griffin is approaching the roundabout that he hears it, and his grip on the steering wheel tightens. ‘… joining me now from our Dáil studio… Larry Bolger…’
At that point, Mark would normally be reaching for the dial to switch the radio off, but with an articulated truck on his tail and the meat grinder of the Cherryvale roundabout directly ahead of him, it is several seconds before this can happen.
‘… no, indeed, Sean, it certainly doesn’t, and days like today make my job -’
Then, silence.
When Mark replaces his hand on the steering wheel, it tightens again, automatically.
That velvety, media-trained voice, both obsequious and arrogant, never fails to unnerve him.
He comes off the roundabout.
It’s also becoming a lot harder to avoid. Bolger seems to be everywhere these days – in the papers, on radio, on TV.
He looks in the rearview mirror, indicates and gets into the left lane.
Though in one way or another this is something Mark has been dealing with for years. When he was a business student (and way before Bolger had anything like the high profile he has today), hearing that voice on the radio, or even the name, would have been enough to floor him. It would have triggered all manner of weird behaviour – depressive, destructive behaviour like not getting out of bed for days, not taking a shower, drinking himself stupid, arguing incessantly, and with everyone, his girlfriend, his lecturers, his uncle Des.
Mark takes the next exit. He has that meeting in town, in the Westbury, with the building contractor.
But these days, it must be said, things are different. He showers regularly, doesn’t drink anymore and is a lot less combative. If he comes across Larry Bolger’s name, he’ll still react, but more or less the way he’s reacting now – in a measured way, nothing extreme. Besides, these days, he has responsibilities. He has clients and contracts, and employs three people full-time at the showrooms in Ranelagh.
It’s all very grown-up.
So much so, in fact, that on occasion Mark has a hard time believing the whole thing is for real. It’s as if he expects an official with a clipboard to tap him on the shoulder one day and announce, politely, that it’s all been a mistake, that his company is to be dissolved, that his house and his car are to be repossessed.
Stopping at traffic lights, Mark closes his eyes for a moment. Then he opens them again and bangs on the steering wheel.
Shit.
Now he’s all anxious.
Shit, shit, shit.
Twenty minutes later, on his way into the Westbury, he gets a call on his mobile. It’s from the contractor saying he’ll be a few minutes late.
As he waits on his own in the lounge, Mark toys with the idea of ordering a gin and tonic.
Just one, he thinks, a quickie.
The waiter approaches. Mark clears his throat. He asks for a black coffee.
Then he turns back and glances at the table in front of him. There is a newspaper on it. After a moment, he lifts the paper up, leans over and tosses it onto the next table along.
Three
1
The removal to the church of young Noel’s remains takes place at 5.30 the following afternoon. The Gardaí have released his name by that stage, and the story is all over the front page of the Evening Herald – SHOCK DOUBLE TRAGEDY FOR FAMILY. Inside, on page 4, a piece is headed THE TWO NOELS. It’s obvious when you read it that they’re straining to make a connection, to join up the dots, but they can’t, and the two stories remain stubbornly separate. Something else they can’t do is print what’s already been widely rumoured around town – that the older Noel had been drinking heavily before his car ran off the road.
Over a two-page spread, the paper’s crime correspondent concentrates on the nephew. Known locally as ‘Grassy’ Noel – on account of his preference for marijuana over hash – the twenty-six-year-old belonged to a Dublin gang with strong links to drug suppliers operating out of the Netherlands. The gang’s other activities include prostitution, mainly involving foreign nationals, and an elaborate piracy operation – involving anything from DVDs and computer software to Gucci handbags and Manchester United jerseys.
The gang leader is forty-two-year-old Terry ‘the Electrician’ Stack, and it is believed that Noel Rafferty was one of his trusted lieutenants.
The article goes on to say that usually within hours of a gangland killing, detectives know why the victim was killed and who pulled the trigger, but that apparently in this case everyone is baffled. However, one thing various sources say you can be sure of is that sooner or later, knowing Terry Stack, an act of reprisal will take place.
The Electrician, it seems, is not happy and won’t be sleeping until someone pays a price for this.
The Herald’s coverage is exhaustive. Another article reports how the beer garden of the pub was cordoned off so that members of the Garda technical bureau could carry out a complete forensic examination of the crime scene. According to Superintendent Frankie Deeghan, who is leading the inquiry, the State Pathologist then arrived to carry out a preliminary examination of the body, after which the remains were transferred to the city morgue for a full post-mortem.
Yet another report describes the kind of gun used in the shooting, and gives details about ballistics and fragmentation. It mentions wound cavities, torn muscle tissue and severed blood vessels.