At one point Stack looks over in Gina’s direction, and their eyes meet. That’s when she knows he’ll be coming up to her, sooner or later, to introduce himself.
It happens about ten minutes later. Having shared a few words with a neighbour of Catherine’s, Gina turns around and there he is.
‘Howa’ya,’ he says, holding out his hand. ‘I’m Terry Stack. Gina, right?’
He’s already done his homework.
‘Yes.’
They shake.
‘I’m sorry for your troubles.’
‘Thanks.’
Stack is flanked by two younger guys. He’s wearing a suit. They’re in jeans and hoodies. He looks like he could be a businessman, or a teacher, or even a priest in civvies. They look like drug dealers.
‘Noel was a sound bloke,’ Stack says, ‘and a good earner. He didn’t deserve this.’
‘No.’
Gina isn’t being tight-lipped here. She wants to say something, but just isn’t sure what, exactly.
‘Listen, love, I’d like you and your sisters to know something. I’m not going to let this rest.’
‘No?’
‘No.’ Stack shakes his head. ‘Whoever done this is going to fucking pay, believe me.’ His face contorts with the emphasis he places on the word pay. Normally, Gina would be freaked out by this – boys in hoodies, threats, lingo – but what’s normal here?
‘Excuse my French,’ Stack then adds, a gentlemanly afterthought.
Gina notices one of the hoodies eyeing her up. He has a tattoo on his neck. She is freaked out.
‘Look, Mr Stack,’ she says, ‘I suppose -’
‘Call me Terry.’
‘OK. Terry. I suppose you know that my brother died on Monday night as well?’
‘Yeah, terrible,’ he says, nodding.
‘Well, what I want to know is… could there be any connection between the two deaths? It seems weird that -’
‘I doubt that very much, love. Your brother had a car accident. It’s terrible, it’s awful, but… it’s a coincidence.’
Gina exhales. ‘I don’t believe in coincidence.’
She turns directly to the hoodie who’s been eyeing her up and holds his gaze until he looks away.
She then turns back to Stack and waits for a response.
‘I don’t either,’ he says eventually, and a little uncomfortably, ‘but I don’t see what connection there could be, because I mean -’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Gina goes on, ‘but am I right in thinking that you don’t have any idea why my nephew was killed?’
‘No.’ He shakes his head.
‘Or who did it?’
He pauses. ‘No.’
‘Or who was behind it even?’
‘No.’ He swallows, and pauses again, clearly uneasy at the way this is going. ‘No, not yet, but -’
‘So it’s wide open. Anything is possible.’
Now it’s Stack’s turn to exhale.
‘I… suppose.’
Gina can see him thinking, What’s this mad bitch on about? But she doesn’t care. She mightn’t get the chance again.
‘OK, so Terry, let me ask you another question. Do you people have any links maybe with the building trade? With suppliers? Unions? Could there -’
‘Ah, hold on here, love. For Jaysus’ sake. You’re losing the run of yourself.’ Half turning back to one of his hoodies, he says, with a smirk, ‘You people. I like that.’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t -’
‘Don’t worry about it.’ Stack looks at his watch. ‘Anyway, listen,’ he says, ‘are you coming down to Kennedy’s? We can continue this little chat over a drink.’
Gina hesitates, and closes her eyes. What is she doing? What does she expect here? Some kind of revelation? Hardly. In the following few seconds it all breaks up anyway. When she opens her eyes, someone has approached Stack and is asking him a question. The tattooed hoodie is gazing down at her legs again. The other hoodie is texting.
She stands there for a moment, but then just walks off. She goes over to Sophie and throws her eyes up.
‘Who was that?’ Sophie asks.
‘Terry Stack.’
‘Oh my God.’ She puts a hand up to her mouth. ‘I’m sorry, but this is very weird.’
‘Yeah.’ Gina nods. ‘Tell me about it.’
‘I was just reading about him,’ Sophie says, ‘before I came here, in the paper. They call him the Electrician. Apparently because he is one, or trained as one, but it’s more because he uses electric shock as a -’ she stops suddenly, and looks at Gina, not knowing where to go with this, ‘- form of…’
‘Thanks, Soph. I really needed to know that.’
‘Oh God. Sorry.’
As they stand there for a while, not speaking, Gina trawls back through everything in her mind – everything that happened the other night. She thinks about the conversation she had with her brother outside Catherine’s house. Noel said he was going into town, so how did he end up out in Wicklow? He was tired and maybe a bit stressed, but he certainly wasn’t – as some people seem to be suggesting – drunk. Besides, Noel wouldn’t drive a car if he was drunk. Noel was one of the straightest and most responsible people she’s ever known.
Gina feels dizzy. It’s as if she’s standing on the edge of a cliff, fighting the impulse to jump.
She swallows, and looks over at Terry Stack again. He’s talking into his mobile. She can’t help wondering if he avoided her question just now, or evaded it? Was he being honest, or was he lying through his teeth? The thing is, she has no way of knowing. Her instincts aren’t telling her anything. Except that what happened to her brother – what is supposed to have happened to her brother – makes absolutely no sense at all…
2
Miriam chooses his tie, as usual – burgundy, to go with his dark suit. Years ago, Norton used to have a weakness for garish ties – multicoloured, psychedelic affairs, ones depicting cartoon characters even – but Miriam eventually put a stop to that.
‘If you want to dress like a politician,’ she said with contempt, ‘go up for election.’
Norton sees the sense in this now. Larry Bolger still wears a Homer Simpson tie occasionally and he looks like a fool in it. But it gets him noticed.
Norton has no interest in being noticed. It took him years to understand this about himself. Politicians live to be noticed, it’s like photosynthesis to them, attention is their light – and that’s why they’re so easy to manipulate. Take it away and they’re fucked. Give it to them, a steady supply, and they’ll do anything for you.
Men like Norton, on the other hand, thrive in the shadows. Miriam – with her background – understood this instinctively, and it was she who steered him in the right direction. It was she who taught him what to wear, and how to present himself. It was she who made him realise that being rich meant never having to smile for the cameras.
Shaved and fully dressed now, Norton stands in front of the mirror in his bathroom and puts on some cologne.
So is that what drove him earlier in the week? Not just a dread of negative publicity, but a dread of any publicity at all? Maybe. In part. But he’s not an idiot. He knows, for instance, that the official opening of Richmond Plaza is going to involve some exposure, that he might have to appear in a few press photos or on the six o’clock news. But so what. He’ll be anonymous, just another suit in the background. The real focus will be on the architect, on Ray Sullivan’s people, on Larry Bolger.
Norton stares at himself in the mirror.