Quentins (33 page)

For now he would get to know the staff and talk to them.

The beautiful Mon, who told him every heartbeat of her romance with Mr. Clive Harris, and how she didn't give a damn about the Italian who had sweet-talked her out of all her money. He was welcome to it.

He heard from Yan about how his father back in Brittany wanted to put money into a small restaurant there for Yan. And how Yan didn't know how to tell him he was having too much fun in Ireland to leave.

He discovered that Harry had thought working in Dublin, the heart of the Republic of Ireland, would be a misery that he was prepared to endure in order to get a good training. But in fact he was never happier, and all his friends came down to Dublin for the weekends now. Times had changed, he explained to Quentin.

Quentin got to meet some of Brenda and Patrick's friends. The extraordinary woman who called herself Signora, who chopped vegetables, cleaned brasses, spoke flawless Italian, was going to marry a divorced man at her age, and confided to Quentin that she had the happiest life of any human on the planet.

The man she was going to marry had apparently lost money to some financier. They had been planning to have a wedding party with it but they could well survive without a party. And anyway, maybe they were too old for one.

He met Blouse Brennan, brother of Patrick, so proud of his red-haired wife, Mary, and their little son. Blouse confided that compared to a lot of the fellows he had been at school with, like Horse and Shay Harris, he had
done very well. And no one would have expected it at the time.

Quentin met all kinds of people whom he never knew existed in the old Ireland. There were Ella, and Derry King, who were going to put together a documentary about the place.
His
restaurant! Quentin made a note to write to Tobe about that.

And their colleagues in Firefly Films, Sandy and Nick. Utterly dedicated to their job.

Were there people like that around when he was young, full of courage and determination? Quentin wondered. There was no one to ask. Brother Rooney wasn't there to visit anymore. He had gone to some big garden in the sky.

There were Tom and Cathy Feather, who ran a catering service. Sometimes they did outside catering for the restaurant's clients, so they were in and out of the place a lot. They were expecting a baby. And there was a lot of kissing and hugging and wishing them good luck about that from time to time.

Quentin saw the sad look on Brenda's face one day when they had gone.

“Was that something you would have liked?” he asked gently.

“Oh, yes, so much. And Patrick would have been a wonderful father.”

“Still, there have been compensations?” he asked hopefully.

“This restaurant is our baby,” Brenda said, looking around the place very proudly.

He smiled and suddenly she realized that perhaps she had been presumptuous. “I didn't mean to suggest anything except that we have loved working here,” she said, flustered.

“Did you wonder why I came back, Brenda?” Quentin asked her gently.

“Why shouldn't you come back to see how well it's all going? I told you we wanted to show off.”

Her eyes were too bright. She knew all right.

“I'm dying, Brenda,” he said.

“I brought those dates and nuts over to the booth like you asked me,” Blouse Brennan explained to his brother. “But Brenda and Quentin were crying, so I decided not to interrupt them,” he said.

“Crying?” Patrick was surprised.

“Yes, Brenda was using the starched napkin to wipe her face.”

“That's serious crying. You were right not to disturb them,” Patrick said. “Any other dramas out there?”

“I was afraid to look,” Blouse admitted. “It's safer in the kitchen.” And he went back to the vegetables with Signora, the two of them chopping contentedly and expertly. It was good to be far away from All Human Life, which seemed to be fairly volatile out in the dining room.

“What about your friend Katar?” Brenda asked, unaware of her tear-stained face.

“He went before me, last year,” Quentin said. “Thank you for remembering his name.”

“Who would forget him? He was charming and so full of life . . . to say something which is foolish, because it's no longer true.”

“He liked it here. We sat at this table and Katar said that if the poor and the sick could only eat great food like this, they would surely get well . . . or at any rate, they would die happy.”

They laughed at the memory of the handsome laughing Moroccan boy, unafraid to face death, full of optimistic philosophy to the end.

“Well, that's what you could do, Quentin. Sell this place as a going concern and with the money you get set
up a kind of charity . . . very high-quality food for those who would not have been able to afford it.”

“I can't sell this from over your heads . . . you and Patrick have made it what it is,” Quentin protested.

“We'll get employed, our name is good . . .”

“But it's like your baby, you said.”

“There are other babies, Quentin.”

“But Blouse and Signora and everyone . . .”

“Will also survive . . .”

“Isn't there enough in the business to do both . . . keep this place going and the other?”

“Of course there can be, do you ever read those accountants' reports, they are always saying you should expand . . . but you will want money for medication, for clinics, for whatever . . .”

“No, no, I will go back to the house where Katar and I lived, that is best.” And his face looked much more peaceful as they talked about practical things. Blouse brought them dates, honey and nuts. Figures were written down on paper.

“And this film documentary, do you not want to be any part of it?” Brenda asked.

He shook his head gently. He wanted nothing at all to do with it but was happy if it went ahead.

Now he wanted her to listen carefully.

Quentin Barry was selling his enterprise to Brenda and Patrick Brennan, who would pay him a small once-only payment, and then a share of their profits would be paid every year to a company called the Kindness of Katar. They would cook gourmet food for those who were terminally ill.

“We'll need a lawyer,” he said. “I don't want my father's stuffy old friends.”

“I know the very girl. Maggie Nolan. She was partly the cause of our coming here. It would be a nice way of rounding it off.”

He loved the story of her eager family and wiped his eyes. “Katar said I cried very easily. If he could see me now,” he said.

At the end of the week, Maggie and her colleagues had been in and out of the private dining booth several times and everything was signed.

Quentin Barry had bought his mother an elegant hat and told her that she had the finest cheekbones in Dublin. He had taken his father for a long walk out by the sea and commented on the elegant boats and the good state of the Irish economy. He held their hands a little longer than usual when he said good-bye, but not so much longer that they might get suspicious.

And when he left the restaurant, he hugged Brenda and Patrick as if he never wanted to get into the taxi. If anyone was close enough, they would have heard him say that he, too, had a baby and that he was leaving it in good hands.

T
im and Barbara Brady had soup and toast for a late lunch, as they did most days. “She didn't go to bed at all?” Barbara asked.

“Apparently not. She made a few calls on her cell phone. Then she went out.”

“And did you talk about anything . . . you know.”

“No, Barbara, I said nothing about anything that was in a private letter for her, one which we were never meant to have read.”

“I'm not sure, it was open, you know . . .”

“Anyway, we didn't discuss anything, nor, as I told you, will I bring the matter up. And she called back to ask us to go to a brunch at Deirdre's on Sunday, so that we can meet the millionaire.”

“Good, that's something,” Barbara said.

“I don't know,” Tim Brady said gloomily. “I've had it up to here with millionaires, if you must know.”

“Apparently, your friend Ella was in America, and it didn't take her long to pick up a sugar daddy there,” Frank said to his wife, Nuala.

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“And you sure don't know much about your so-called friends. They were spotted getting off the New York
flight and into a limo this morning. So can you get onto her sharpish?”

“I can't, Frank.”

“Why not? You're always bleating on about what friends the two of you are.”

“Not since you said I shouldn't be friends with her anymore. She didn't take well to that.”

“Call her sometime today, Nuala,” Frank said firmly.

“He's dead, what does it matter now?”

“Today, Nuala.”

Ella was early for their meeting, but Derry was there already waiting for her in the bar. It had been only ten hours, yet it seemed much longer since they had been together.

“I had an odd, restless day, how about you?”

“Odd and restless. That covers it,” he agreed.

“Did you sleep?”

“Not a bit. And you?”

“Not a wink. So I don't think we should go to Quentins tonight. We're both so jet-lagged, we might fall asleep the moment we got in the door.”

“So what would you suggest?” He was agreeable to whatever she came up with.

But she felt at a loss. If she still had her own apartment, she could have made him supper. “Do you know, Derry, I haven't any idea,” she said honestly.

“Great pair of moviemakers we are,” he laughed. “We spent day and night in New York talking about this city of Dublin and how to tell its story, and now that we're here, we don't even know where to begin.”

They both began to laugh with a slightly hysterical tinge to the laughter. They agreed to go to the restaurant in the hotel. But just as they got up to move, a man approached them.

“Ella Brady? I'm Mike Martin. Remember we talked before about the late Don Richardson . . .”

“Yes, I was very sorry to hear of his death.” She kept moving, but the man moved with them and Derry steered her to the elevator.

The man positioned himself between them and the door and spoke again. “I know he tried to get in touch with you before he died.”

“I must go now.” She looked at Derry for help.

Very quickly Derry put his large, square frame between them.

Mike Martin reached around behind Derry. “Please, Ella . . . it was important to him.”

“Excuse me,” she said, and made for the elevator.

Derry was behind her. He turned around to the man, who was still trying to catch Ella's arm. “I think you heard the lady,” he said.

“Don't you obstruct me,” Mike Martin began.

Derry King was very swift. He was into the elevator before her and then pulled Ella in with him. She was shaking and he put his arms around her to calm her down as he pressed the number of his floor. It was a bear hug, a brotherly gesture. The kind of hug he could have given to anyone who had been through a shock. It lasted only a few seconds. Then the elevator stopped.

In the suite, he opened a miniature brandy. “Medicinal. I'll split it with you,” he said.

She swallowed and stopped trembling.

“Who was that?” he asked.

“A henchman,” she said.

“What a great word! What does it mean?”

“You know,” she said.

“Well, I imagine that it means a time server, a sidekick, a supporter. But what's a hench exactly?”

“It's okay, Derry. No need to fuss over me. I'm fine now.” She managed a watery smile.

“No, I'm interested. I'll go look it up.”

“You may find a Gideon's Bible, but I don't think they run to dictionaries,” Ella said.

“I never travel without one.” Derry went to a table where he had unpacked some books and papers. She watched, amazed, as he looked it up.

“Apparently it comes from some Old English word and some Old German word meaning a horse! Horseman! Isn't that absurd?” He was shaking his head with annoyance.

“It's not a very
big
dictionary,” Ella said.

“No, but it's a very good one. I look up ten words every day, always have.”

“Why on earth?”

“If you leave school at fifteen, it gives you a complex,” he said.

“I don't buy that. You went
back
to school, for heaven's sake!”

“Yes, but they never catch up on what you should have been learning earlier.”

“This isn't a real conversation,” she said suddenly.

“No, but it will do until we get over that guy downstairs.”

Ella agreed easily. “I'm sorry for involving you,” she said in a low voice.

“You didn't,” Derry said.

“He's nothing. He's not important. It's not serious.”

“You know that's not true.”

“Why do you say that, Derry?”

“Because he pushed right up to you in a public space, talking about private things which he's not meant to know about, in front of the whole of Dublin. He's come out of hiding, Ella, and he doesn't care who knows it. He shoved me. He was going to grab at you. It's very damn serious and you know it.”

She stared at him.

“And if it's not serious, why did you bring that laptop computer with you in that shoulder bag? I'm not a fool.
You were afraid to leave it at home, Ella. So can you just stop telling me that people aren't important, that things aren't serious. Give me some credit for something, will you.” He looked angry and upset.

“All right, I'll tell you. I got a call from Nuala. Remember her in the saga?”

He nodded.

“She said she called to see how I was, but I know her husband and his brothers are very anxious indeed to find me. I'm not sure why. But I got scared and brought the laptop with me. I was hoping you might not notice . . . but you have very sharp eyes. And I'm really very grateful to you for getting me out of all that business downstairs.”

“Yes, but what about tomorrow and the day after?” he asked. “Who'll get you out of it then?”

“I'll have to think, Derry.”

“Do you trust me?”

“You know I do.”

“Then why don't we look at it together,” he said.

“What?”

“You could go phone us up some coffee and sandwiches, and we'll open it up and decide what to do.”

There were tears of relief in her eyes as she reached over to the telephone and called room service.

“
No,
Nuala, I don't know where Ella is tonight,” Deirdre said.

“You must know, you're her friend.”

“And so were you until you started behaving like some kind of security firm trying to get her to talk to Frank.”

“It's not Frank, it's his brothers,” Nuala whined.

“Well, whoever it is, they have no sense. Ella is in bits over Don being dead and they don't have a word of sympathy for her. They just go on behaving like tracker dogs snuffling round to see does she know anything
about Don's business affairs. No wonder she doesn't return your calls or speak to you or anything.”

“She
did
speak to me. She just said she was going out. I assumed it was with you.” Nuala was very plaintive.

“It wasn't, Nuala, so leave her alone, will you?”

“I'm just telling you this, they'll find her.”

“And I'm telling you this too. I don't like your tone. It sounds like a threat.”

“It's not a threat, it's just that I'm worried about Frank's brothers.”

“With every reason, and if you come at me again about them, I'll sing loud and clear about what I got up to with Eric, one of the said brothers, on your wedding day. So think carefully before hounding Ella anymore. Do you get my drift?”

Deirdre hung up the telephone and took down the recipe book.

“What's that whole series of numbers there?” Ella asked Derry, pointing to a section of figures as they sat looking at the screen.

“It's like a series of routings. Someone bought a property here, sold it there, it was sold again, the money invested here, the money taken out and put into something else.” He shrugged as he spoke.

“And could you work out where something went? Suppose you ran this program.”

“Yes, but there's no proof that it might all be in the same name, the same ownership as it started out with at the beginning, if you see what I mean.”

“And I suppose that ordinary people don't keep records in this very complicated way.” Ella looked at him.

“No, not unless they want to obscure things.”

“And can you tell if it had been going on from the very start?” Her voice was very small.

“It goes back a fair number of years, certainly, since they set up this particular program and way of keeping records.”

“It's not a last-minute panic, then?”

“Afraid not, Ella.”

“I suppose I wanted to think they were clean at the start, but you say they were hiding things all along.”

“Perhaps they were doing it with the knowledge of clients who might have wanted to hide things also.” Derry King struggled to be fair.

“But from the sound of things, the clients were not informed of these routings.”

“I think not.”

“So they always planned it, Don and Ricky Rice.” She shook her head in disbelief.

“About this Ricky Rice . . .”

“His father-in-law. He pulled all the strings, made all the decisions. He dragged Don into it all. He was struggling to get out.”

“Sure.”

“No, I know I sound as if I'm defending Don. But Ricky Rice was the brains of it all. He ran it with an iron fist. They all had to make discs of their negotiations each day and mail them to Ricky personally. That's how much control he had.”

“Yeah.”

“What are you saying? You're just answering me in grunts, Derry. What is it?”

“There's no mention of Ricky Rice in here, none at all. That man could walk back to this country without a fear in the world. His name is on nothing here, nothing at all.”

“What do you mean?”

“There's nothing to tie him in with any of it. The entire thing is in the name of Don Richardson.”

***

“Any luck finding Ella, Nuala?” Frank said when he came in.

“No.” She was sullen.

“Well, you can thank your stars that someone's prepared to go and look for her. Mike Martin phoned. He's found her, wining and dining in Stephens Green with an American. Staying with him in the hotel there, even. Didn't take long for her to get over her grieving.”

“Frank, listen to me.”

“No, why should I? You listen to me. My brothers asked you to do a simple thing and you wouldn't do it. You
know
how much we owe them, and this was one occasion when you could have done a little digging . . .”

“I did do a little digging, and they won't like what I found. Not one bit. And if we don't stop hounding Ella, everyone will know. Including Carmel, for God's sake.”

“Know what?” Frank was confused.

“Know what your beautiful brother has been up to . . .”

“You mentioned Carmel.”

“Yes, I mentioned Carmel, because your brother Eric, if you remember, is her loving, faithful husband. She would be most interested in knowing what he was up to on our wedding day. Our own wedding day, I tell you, Frank.”

She saw from his face that the escapade with Deirdre did not come entirely like a bolt from the blue to Frank. “Oh shit,” he said.