The Devil I Know (8 page)

‘Mr St Lawrence, can you clarify the extent of Desmond Hickey's involvement with Mr Deauville?'

No, Fergus, I cannot. That is a matter for Hickey’s conscience and Hickey’s conscience alone, if he has one. To my knowledge, M. Deauville spoke only to me. To me and through me. I am an interpreter, a perfect conduit, an instrument of
others
. M. Deauville issued the instructions and I carried them out. At first, I tried to keep Hickey’s name out of our conversations on the grounds that M. Deauville would have disapproved of the company I was keeping, or that was keeping me, because I couldn’t quite get shot of D. Hickey, I couldn’t quite shake him off.

I came out of the bank at Sutton Cross having lodged that initial Castle Holdings cheque. I’d anticipated trouble from the cashier – ‘This is not a valid cheque, sir’; ‘You cannot write a cheque to yourself for a hundred grand, Mr St Lawrence,’ but apparently it was, and you could. Anything was possible in an Irish bank back then. The Cross was dazzlingly vivid, as if I’d stumbled out of the darkness of a cinema into morning light. Each object was remarkable for its industrious wholeness, its bright sovereignty, and I was happy standing there in the afternoon sunshine and being part of it, the cheque for Father in my hand, when the battered red flatbed truck swerved and mounted the kerb. Hickey rolled down the window. ‘There ya are,’ he shouted at me. ‘Hop in.’ I’m telling you, that man could smell money.

‘Now,’ he said as we pulled away, ‘I’ve had a better idea.’ I smiled. There were some things you could always count on. Not that Hickey would have a better idea, but that he would think that the idea was a better one. The recent history of this country has been moulded by those without the vision to perceive the flaws in their plans.

He drove in the direction of the castle but pulled in at the old cement factory, which was located a few hundred yards shy of my gateposts and on the other side of the road. Only in Ireland would the acreage flanking a white sand beach be zoned for industrial use.

‘We don’t own this land any more,’ I said, heading him off at the pass.

Hickey threw his hands in the air. ‘Did I open me mouth?’ He jumped out and unlocked the gate and we trundled around the back of the lot. The factory was derelict. So was the motor company. And the petrol station beyond it.

‘So anyway,’ he said as we meandered along the perimeter wall, which was festooned with graffiti and edged with weeds, ‘this is me next project. I’m developing it for residential an commercial use.’ He pointed out through the passenger window. ‘There’ll be an apartment block here,’ we rolled along, ‘an another here, an two over there. Eight blocks in total, ranging in height from three to eight storeys. We’re looking at the guts of 400 residential units, with about 12,000 square metres of office an commercial space at ground level, to include a hotel.’

‘An hotel?’

‘Correct. That’ll go at the harbour end.’

‘Father built an hotel on the estate and it barely ever achieves full occupancy, not even in summer. Not even when there’s a wedding. The last thing Howth needs is another empty hotel.’

‘This is Ireland.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘You can’t build an apartment complex in Ireland without a hotel.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you can.’

‘Ah see,’ he said, ‘you can an you can’t. No investor will touch you unless you qualify for Section 23-type reliefs.’

‘Section 23?’

‘Tax write-offs. So we have to build either a hotel or a multi-storey car park or a hospital or a student residence. None a which are needed, but the way I see it, if you build a hotel, then at least you have a bar.’ He pointed through the windscreen at the western boundary. ‘The leisure centre is going to be over there, an we have to keep the park an public tennis courts or they’ll all be moanin an cribbin, though we’re turning some of it into an all-weather playing pitch, but we may as well not bother if you ask me because no one’s going to be able to use it in anyways seeing as we’re putting it right next to the cream crackers.’

‘The what?’

‘Travellers’ halting site. They have to be given three semi-Ds an a detached four-bed house gratis an for nothing.’ He rolled down the window and hawked out a gullier of spit. ‘The working man up to his bollocks in debt to live in a rabbit hutch an that shower in the proper houses breaking their holes laughing at him.’ He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘So don’t build rabbit hutches for the working man.’

He shrugged. ‘Logistics. Only way to make it worth me while. An I’ve to push planning permission through before that poncey bill on design standards gets passed, because then it’ll be all dual aspect this an acoustic privacy that. Windows in kitchens an adequate storage, blah blah. There’ll be a few flash penthouses up top, obviously, but the rest a the units will be shoeboxes. I’m going to increase the population of Howth by an eighth overnight.’ This stated with pride, as if he personally were to sire each newcomer.

‘What about zoning?’

‘Don’t mind zoning.’

This was what I was dealing with. ‘Dessie, the kind of population density you’re proposing is appropriate to a city-centre location, not a seaside suburb. You’ll never get permission for a series of eight-storey apartment blocks, never mind an hotel.’

Hickey winked. ‘I know the very man. Here, open the glovebox.’

‘Why?’

‘Lamb a God, just open it.’

Inside was the site map. I took it out, and then frowned. ‘How can you build three semi-Ds?’

‘Wha?’

‘You can’t, by definition, build an odd number of semi-
detached
houses. They have to be built in pairs.’

Hickey rolled his eyes, as if this were precisely the class of hair-splitting shite that he’d come to expect of me.

‘Besides,’ I said, ‘I already told you. We no longer own this land.’

‘I know that.’

‘So what do you want from me?’

‘I want you to lend me the money.’

Had he heard about the hundred grand from M. Deauville? Impossible. I’d literally just cashed the cheque. Either way, it wasn’t enough. ‘You’re talking a seven-figure sum there, Dessie.’

‘I am.’

I laughed. ‘What on earth makes you think I have that kind of money?’

‘Not you, ya thick. Your new bank.’

‘What new bank?’

‘Castle Holdings.’

A clang of alarm down my spinal cord. ‘How do you know about Castle Holdings?’

‘There’s a bleedin sign nailed to your bleedin door.’ Hickey wheeled the truck around so that we were facing the length of the site and he switched the engine off. ‘An you’re the bleedin director. At least, that’s what it says in the Register a Companies. Amn’t I only after coming from there?’ An image of a dusty black ledger of sins, and my name entered into the debtor’s column. ‘There was a phone number,’ he continued, ‘a Dublin one, city centre. I rang it an nobody answered. But the ringtone was funny.’ He narrowed his eyes at me. ‘You know, like,
foreign
. As if me call was being diverted to some other country, like when you dial them computer helplines an end up talking to some gee-bag in Bombay. Something dodgy going on there, I says, seeing as the registered address a Castle Holdings is up the road. So anyway, there I was driving home when I seen you coming out a the bank. An I thought: here, that’s dodgy too, His Lordship doing business with the competition, an that’s when I copped that Castle Holdings isn’t an ordinary bank with local branches an that. No, it’s a
commercial lender
.’

‘Castle Holdings isn’t a bank.’

Hickey shook his head. ‘Snot what I heard.’ He pulled a photocopy from his back pocket and began to read. ‘According to the Register a Companies, Castle Holdings is the treasury-management arm of a transnational corporation. Treasury-management arms of transnational corporations are permitted in Ireland to be licensed as banks. In the case of most group treasury and asset financing operations, the Financial Regulator has disapplied its powers of supervision.’

‘Disapplied?’

‘Yeah. Disapplied.’

‘That’s not a word.’

Hickey shrugged. ‘That’s what it says in the IDA brochure. Quote: “The Financial Regulator has disapplied its powers of supervision.” To cut a long story short,’ he concluded, ‘
global
corporations can establish unsupervised banks in Ireland. Banks like Castle Holdings. You’re routing money through the Irish State to avail a the low corporation tax.’ He dealt my arm a fond right hook. ‘I didn’t think you had it in ya. Personally, I hate the Tax Man. Any enemy a his is a friend a mine.’

I stared at him. What class of racket had I put my family name to? M. Deauville had some questions to answer. At that moment, my mobile rang.
Unknown
. Speak of the devil. I excused myself and climbed out of the truck.

‘We need to talk, Monsieur Deauville,’ I said. ‘I’ve a man here,’ – I glanced back at the truck to make sure that Hickey couldn’t hear me – ‘who seems to think that I’ll loan him money. Capital,’ I corrected myself, as seven figures commanded a more imperious title than money. ‘This man seems to think that Castle Holdings is some class of bank, and that I’m some class of bank manager.’

I waited for M. Deauville to dismiss Hickey’s ludicrous allegation. ‘I see,’ he said instead. I waited for him to say more. He did not.

‘Well?’ I prompted him. ‘Is this man correct in his assertions?’

‘What is his name?’

‘It’s Hickey again.’ The door of the truck slammed. The accused was on his way over.

‘Hickey, the property developer?’

‘He’s a builder.’

Tocka tocka
. M. Deauville’s fleet fingers flying across the keyboard. The man could type as quickly as he could think. I turned my back on Hickey and put some distance between us.

‘And where is the site located?’

I stopped walking. How did he know about the site? ‘I never mentioned a site.’

‘Mr Hickey is a developer. I assume he requires finance to develop a site. I am endeavouring to establish where this site is located.’

I turned to the perimeter wall and came face to face with Ireland’s Eye across the sound – russet against the blue of sea and sky, Lambay Island mauve in the distance. ‘It’s on the coast,’ I told him. ‘Along Claremont Beach. Just before you come to Howth Harbour.’

Tocka tocka
. ‘Indeed,’ M. Deauville said. ‘Area of high scenic amenity. Beaches and mountains. Yacht club, fishing village. Seafood restaurants, a proliferation of golf courses. Twenty-six minute journey by commuter train to the city centre. A most sought-after location. Castle Holdings is interested in investments of this nature.’

‘Is that so?’

A firm ‘Yes.’

I looked at Hickey. He was leaning against the truck. Arms folded, head cocked; ever the hard man. Glowering at me as he had glowered across the schoolyard while raising the smoke held pincered between thumb and index finger to his lips, aged what . . . eight? Daring me to rat him out, positively willing me to, so that he could kick my head in after school, the pinched yellow bloodthirsty face of him. And although I did not open my mouth to the teacher, he kicked my head in anyway.

‘With all due respect,’ I said to M. Deauville, pronouncing my words slowly and with care, seeking to communicate that the subject of our discussion was standing within earshot, ‘I don’t think Castle Holdings
should
be interested in
investments
of this nature.’

The
tocka tocka
on the keyboard ceased. ‘With all due respect, Tristram,’ M. Deauville countered, ‘this is business.’

‘What kind of business?’ I had to ask. ‘What exactly is Castle Holdings?’

‘Castle Holdings is a specialist lender. We finance exciting business ventures from the ground up. Desmond Hickey has an established track record. How much does he wish to borrow?’

I lowered the phone and met Hickey’s eye. ‘How much do you need?’

‘Ten million,’ the clown answered.

‘That’s eight figures, Dessie. A minute ago, you said you needed seven.’ It was the three semi-Ds all over again.

He displayed his palms. ‘Prices are rocketing. There’s a boom on.’

I raised the phone to my ear. ‘He says he needs ten million.’

‘And what percentage of that is for the site.’

I lowered the phone again. ‘How much of that is for the site?’

‘All of it.’

I raised the phone. ‘He says the ten million is for the site alone.’

Tocka tocka
. M. Deauville had a subscription to every credit-rating agency and private financial database going, his own personal copy of the big black ledger of sins. ‘Mr Hickey would need to put at least 390 units on it to return a satisfactory profit. And a hotel or multi-storey car park to secure valuable tax subsidies. Get him to submit a detailed proposal to you by Monday. But yes, Castle Holdings is interested.’

‘This is the purest form of speculation,’ I objected, relocating to evade Hickey only to find him relocating to tail me like some sort of cosmic detritus entangled in my train. Karma, I suppose you could call it. ‘He’s talking about purchasing land which hasn’t the zoning for the use to which he intends putting it. If he doesn’t get a high-rise rezoning – and frankly he hasn’t a hope in an area of outstanding natural beauty like this – well, the land is worth a fraction of the ten million he proposes to borrow to pay for it. You won’t get your money back.’

Tocka tocka
on the other end of the line, followed by silence as M. Deauville considered the results on the screen. It is a regrettable fact that many of us recovering alcoholics become workaholics, replacing one addiction with another.
Tocka tocka, tocka tocka
, and then a wry snort of approval. ‘Don’t worry,’ M. Deauville advised me. ‘In light of his recent track record with the various Dublin planning authorities, I think it’s safe to say that Mr Hickey knows the very man.’

‘What did he say?’ Hickey wanted to know after M. Deauville and I had finished up with a quick recitation of the Serenity Prayer.

‘He says you know the very man. Submit a detailed proposal to me by Monday.’

Hickey lit up. I thought he was coming over to shake my hand but he walked right past me, gauging his location in relation to the perimeter wall, the road, the railway line. He looked up at the sun and down at his shadow, consulted his site plan and counted out paces, searching for the buried chest of gold with his pirate’s treasure map. X marks the spot.