3
The programmer from Cork is one of those geeky obsessives who can sit at a computer terminal for hours on end and seem to move only the muscles in his eyeballs and fingertips – except for one or two, now and again, in his eyeballs maybe, or his fingertips. It’s a level of concentration that Gina envies. She watches from the other room, through the open doors, and wonders how he doesn’t need to fidget, squirm, stretch, yawn – all things she’s been doing non-stop herself since she sat down here.
She looks around. Everyone else has left, and the place is eerily quiet.
It’s already dark outside.
Gina was a little self-conscious walking into the office with a laptop under her arm, given that she’s effectively been using her bereavement to justify not coming to work, but she didn’t have any choice. She got a bewildered, slightly frosty reception from Siobhan, and was relieved to discover that P.J. was in Belfast for the day. She went straight through to the back and over to Steve’s workstation. When she apologised for taking him away from whatever he was working on, he shrugged and said, ‘Same difference sure’ – the implication no doubt being that it didn’t matter what he was working on since the company was going down the tubes anyway. Which was maybe true, but Gina didn’t want to get into it. She handed him the laptop and explained what she needed. At first he was reluctant; then he started to focus – as she knew he would – and before long he was totally absorbed.
Gina tried to get busy at her own desk, organising work stuff and answering emails, but she couldn’t concentrate and after a while fell into idly monitoring Steve through the open doors.
She looks at her watch now, and something occurs to her.
She reaches back over the chair to one of the pockets of her jacket. She pulls out the three photographs she found in the warehouse and puts them on her desk. She switches on her printer and scans the photos. Then she puts them together in a file and emails the file to her own address as an attachment.
After that, she leans back in the chair and looks over at Steve. ‘So, how’re we doing?’
‘Yeah.’ He doesn’t look up. ‘We’re getting there.’
‘I’ve never seen him like this before,’ Paula says, and chews her lower lip for a second. ‘I think he’s getting cold feet. Or something.’
‘No, he’ll be fine,’ Norton says. ‘He’s probably just tired.’
‘Well, he should get some caffeine into his system then, and plenty of it, because the next couple of hours are going to be crucial.’
Norton has a headache and is finding Paula’s voice grating. They are in the corridor outside Bolger’s offices in Government Buildings. There are two people ahead of them, with three others already inside, camped in the Private Secretary’s office. Behind them, and all along the corridor, little groups are huddled – whispering, texting, shuffling, waiting. Everyone is hoping for five minutes with the Minister.
The atmosphere around Government Buildings this evening – and around Leinster House, and even out on Kildare Street – is electric. Speculation is rife that a major development is imminent.
The Taoiseach is isolated. The numbers stack up. The prize is there for the taking.
So what’s wrong?
Alarm bells rang for Norton when he got the message, through Paula, that Bolger wanted to see him in his office – and this evening, straightaway, A-S-A-fucking-P. Because that isn’t how it works between them. Larry doesn’t summon Norton. Though maybe he’s trying to mark out his new turf, establish a new set of ground rules. Maybe. But Norton doubts it. He suspects it has more to do with this trip Bolger made out to Wicklow earlier.
The door of the Secretary’s office opens and a current of expectancy ripples down the corridor.
Bolger himself appears. His shirtsleeves are rolled up and his tie is loose. He looks frazzled. He points at Paddy and indicates inside with his head. Gritting his teeth, Paddy follows Bolger into the Secretary’s office and then through to the inner sanctum. They pass anxious-looking party officials and civil servants. At the door, Bolger turns. He allows Norton in but puts a hand up to block Paula.
‘Ten minutes,’ he says, not looking at her, and shuts the door.
Bolger’s office is spacious, all mahogany panels and red leather. Norton has been in here only a couple of times – because again, if they have business to do, it tends to be on Norton’s terms, and on Norton’s turf.
‘Jesus,’ Bolger says, pacing up and down in front of his desk, ‘I don’t know if I can handle this. They’re like fucking vultures out there.’
‘Come on,’ Norton says, forcing a smile, ‘you can tell your grandchildren about it someday.’
Bolger ignores this.
The smile drops from Norton’s face. His head is pounding. He’s about to say something when Bolger stops moving and turns to face him. ‘Paddy, I was out in Glenalba this afternoon.’
‘So I gather. How is he?’
‘Shite. Awful. He didn’t know who I was. He’s… he’s gone.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
Norton wasn’t aware that the old man’s condition was as bad as all that, and he shakes his head. At the same time, he’s mildly relieved at the news. It’s one more thing out of the way, one more little dose of closure.
But Bolger doesn’t seem to be finished. He takes a step forward.
‘I ran into someone else, though.’
‘Oh, you did? Who was that?’
‘Romy Mulcahy.’
Norton releases a barely audible groan.
Bolger says, ‘You remember him then?’
‘Yeah. I do. Very much.’ Norton pauses. ‘So. The old bollocks hasn’t kicked it yet?’
‘No. In fact, he’s very much alive.’ Bolger points a finger at the side of his head. ‘Upstairs, anyway. We were raking over some ancient history.’
‘I see.’
Romy Mulcahy and Liam Bolger. That whole crowd. Norton shakes his head again. They were among the first people he ever had dealings with in his business career, and the strange truth of it is, in some ways he’s still dealing with them.
‘He had a couple of interesting things to say, Paddy.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah. A couple of very interesting things.’
Bolger lets that hang in the air for a moment. But Norton snaps. He’s had enough.
‘OK, Larry,’ he says, ‘get to the fucking point, would you? I don’t appreciate being dragged in here like this. You’re not the only one who’s busy, so come on, what is it?’
‘It’s Frank,’ Bolger says, getting red in the face now. ‘It’s Dunbrogan House. It’s you.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I’ve been on the phone,’ Bolger says, and points at his desk. ‘I’ve been talking to people, checking some facts. Dunbrogan House and estate, that was the site Frank didn’t think should be rezoned, wasn’t it? It was the site that he kicked up a stink over.’ He pauses. ‘That he became a right pain in the arse over.’ He pauses again. ‘The hundred-and-fifty-acre site that you owned.’
Norton rolls his eyes.
Bolger holds up a finger. ‘No, no, Paddy, not so fast. You bought it off Miriam’s old man for a few thousand quid and then sold it after it was rezoned for a quarter of a fucking million. It was the deal that made your fortune. It set you up, it -’
‘So fucking what?’ Norton roars.
‘It was -’
‘It was perfectly legitimate is what it was. A bloody land deal. I’ve made hundreds of them. What’s so -’
‘Frank dies in a car crash days before a county-council meeting on the issue, a meeting he’s declared he’s going to disrupt? Come on.’