Winterland (41 page)

But then she looks at the screen again, at that final email,
and she sees it
.

She didn’t spot this the first time, but she’s definitely seeing it now.

It’s the last field in the message header, right there along with the others, with the sender and the receiver, with the date and the subject line …

Digital, ineradicable.

Cc:
Paddy Norton
.

He is parked along the quays, not far from her building, close enough to see her coming out or going in.

He looks at his watch.

Maybe he should try phoning her again. But what would he say this time if she answered? He doesn’t want to scare her off.

Outside, it’s cold and blustery, and there’s hardly anyone about, the odd pedestrian maybe,
some
traffic, but not much. An articulated truck rumbles by.

He switches to another station. There’ll be a news bulletin on in five minutes.

He rubs his chest.

Ten minutes ago, he got out of the car and walked up to the entrance of her building. He found her name and rang the bell. He waited, but there was no answer.

He came back to the car.

He looks around again now. Then he looks at his watch again.

Gina’s brother was that dangerous animal, a man of principle – so Norton wonders what
she
is like. He knows she’s stubborn and determined, but is she smart? Will she listen to reason?

On reflection, he doesn’t think she will. He’s been turning this over in his mind all day. He knows from what Fitz said that her software company is in financial difficulty and it occurred to him that he could offer to bail her out – he could provide some capital investment, or just
give
her the money he’d promised to pay Fitz.

But somehow he doesn’t see it.

What if he talks to her tonight and makes her an offer, and she accepts, but then in the morning she changes her mind?

There’s too much happening right now to justify that level of risk.

The news bulletin comes on. The reporting – live from Leinster House – is breathless, almost hysterical. He listens, but any sense of satisfaction or achievement he might have expected to feel is muted. In ‘other news’, it is reported that Gardaí have established the identity of the last victim of last night’s gangland shootout. He is thirty-year-old Dubliner Mark Griffin. Gardaí, however, don’t believe that the local businessman, who is still in a critical condition, has any criminal connections, and they are operating on the assumption that he may simply – and tragically – have been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Norton groans.

How is Gina Rafferty going to react when she hears
that
?

He looks around, checks out the street, ahead and behind. The place is deserted. It would be so perfect if she were to turn up now.

He reaches across to the passenger seat, to where he impatiently tossed the gun when he got back into the car a few minutes earlier.

He picks it up, turns it, studies it, rests it in his lap.

Where the bloody hell
is
she?

From O’Connell Bridge the taxi makes a right onto Eden Quay.

Gina’s main reason for going back to her apartment is that she needs a change of clothes. Sophie tried to convince her to stay another night at her place, but it seems intolerable to Gina – as well as absurd – that she should be denied access to her own wardrobe.

It’s clear from the anonymous call she received that someone is keeping tabs on her. They have her mobile number, and no doubt have her home address as well. But Gina refuses to be intimidated.

She has Fitz’s gun in her pocket.

The taxi passes under Butt Bridge and along by the Custom House. A moment later, they stop at a traffic light, and the driver says, ‘That’s a blustery one.’

‘Yeah,’ Gina responds, distracted, and then adds, ‘
awful
night.’

‘Not a bad one for your man Larry Bolger, though.’

‘Sorry?’

‘You didn’t hear? It was on the news there. He’s going to be taking over. A palace coup, they’re calling it.’

Gina is stunned. This was expected, but somehow it doesn’t feel that way. Pressing back against the leather of the car seat, she senses new, subterranean levels of activity in all of this, like little tremors, previously undetected, but now growing stronger.

She puts her hand into her jacket pocket. ‘Listen,’ she says, leaning forward, ‘there wasn’t anything else on the news, was there, about that thing in Cherryvale?’

The taxi driver whistles. ‘Jaysus, that was shocking, wasn’t it?’ A nanosecond before the light turns green, he accelerates. ‘Anyway, they’ve named your man, the one in hospital, the last one. Seems he’s in a bad way. Internal bleeding, organ failure, what have you.’

‘You don’t happen to remember the name, do you?’

Gina is keenly aware of having asked this same question not so long ago.

‘
Owhhh
,’ the driver says, as though in pain, ‘come here, what was it …
Mark
something, I think. Yeah, that was it.’

Gina closes her eyes.

‘Apparently, he had nothing to do with it,’ the driver goes on. ‘They said he was just unlucky to be there.’ He laughs. ‘I lost a hundred euros on the gee-gees last weekend.
That
was unlucky, but I mean your
man
? A bullet in the back? For
fuck’s
sake.’

Gina opens her eyes.

The reality of this hits her hard, as does an inescapable corollary: the bullet concerned almost certainly – well, very probably – came from the gun she’s now holding tightly in her hand.

The taxi begins to slow down. ‘So, here on the left somewhere, is it, love, yeah?’

Gina looks around her and out of the window. She sees her building up ahead. As usual at this time of night the place is more or less deserted – a pedestrian or two, a few parked cars, but that’s it.

‘Er … yeah,’ she says, releasing her grip on the gun. ‘But you know what? Keep going. If you don’t mind. Change of plan.’

‘No problem,’ he says, picking up speed again.

They cruise past her building.

‘So,’ the driver says. ‘Where to?’

Gina feels foolish, and even considers getting him to turn around and go back, but what she eventually says is, ‘Take the toll bridge, would you? Thanks. Then head for Blackrock.’

The sight of the parsley-flecked potatoes, the poached salmon, the yellowish sauce, it’s all making him a little sick – as is everything else on this large round table in front of him … the silverware, the curlicued edges of the condiment sets and serving tureens, not to mention the wider room’s busy, crimsony, five-star decor …

There is a mildly hallucinatory aspect to everything.

James Vaughan, sitting opposite him, concentratedly guiding his fork towards his mouth, looks like a wizened, hundred-year-old baby. Ray Sullivan, in his shiny grey suit and silver hair, reminds him of the Tin Man.

Norton is exhausted. From lack of sleep, and possibly from not having eaten for … at least since breakfast yesterday, now that he thinks of it.

In fact, did he eat at all yesterday? He can’t remember.

Last night he stayed outside Gina Rafferty’s building until 2 a.m., to no avail, and when he finally got home to bed he couldn’t sleep. Not for ages anyway – though he must have dozed off at some point, because when the alarm clock went off at 6.30 he woke up. From a muddled dream. And with a blinding headache.

He immediately took three Nalprox tablets – his new standard dose.

‘And what about the press,’ Vaughan says, taking a breather from his food. ‘What kind of a ride do you think they’ll give him?’

‘I haven’t looked at the papers today,’ Norton says. ‘But they did their best to crucify him recently, and failed, so I’d say they might just go all out and canonise the man this time.’

‘It’s been quite a turnaround.’

‘Yeah, but Larry’s a survivor. He’s got the human factor as well, vulnerability, people tend to like that. The thing is, he never really lost public support, which I think is crucial.’

Norton is waffling here. He wishes he could just go somewhere and lie down.

‘Ray, old sport,’ Vaughan then says, dabbing his lips with his napkin. ‘Pour me some more wine there, would you?’

Sullivan obliges, and Norton idly watches as the golden liquid passes, glugging loudly, from bottle to glass.

Norton could probably do with some coffee or something, but doesn’t think he’d be able to hold it down.

‘Sure you won’t have something to eat, Paddy?’

‘No, no, I’m fine. Thanks.’

He’s about to pat his stomach and say something moronic like
Watching my figure
, but he manages to restrain himself.

It’s going to be a long afternoon. After they leave the hotel here, they’re heading down to the site for a quick tour and then Norton and Sullivan will be officially signing the tenancy contract. They’ll hang around the newly named Amcan Building for a while, and then Vaughan and Sullivan want to play some golf, so it’ll be out to the K Club.

Norton is their host for the afternoon, and won’t have time for anything else.

He’s about to ask Vaughan a question when he detects some kind of a commotion behind him.

‘
Ahh
,’ Vaughan says, raising an arm, ‘here he is, the man of the moment.’

Norton turns around in his seat. Entering the dining room with his entourage, like a Roman emperor, is Larry Bolger. When he gets to the table, he stretches out his arm and shakes hands with Vaughan and Sullivan in turn. He nods at Norton but doesn’t look him in the eye.

A waiter pulls out a chair and Bolger sits down. His entourage – Paula Duff and various others, secretaries, advisers – hover in the background and look busy with their PDAs and mobile phones.

‘It’s great to see you again, James,’ Bolger says. ‘Everything is to your satisfaction, I hope?’

James
.

Jesus.

Norton knows for a fact that people call Vaughan either
Mr
Vaughan or Jimmy. There is no James.

‘Oh, excellent, Taoiseach, excellent. But tell me, how are
you
?’

‘I’m fine, but let’s not jump the gun. There
is
a ratification process to be gone through.’

Vaughan waves this away.

Norton leans back in his chair and exhales. He barely listens to the ensuing conversation, but he can tell from the body language that it’s all good-humoured banter – skilful and professional. Norton’s in a foul mood, OK, but he can’t deny that Bolger is carrying himself very well here. He also has to remember that this is what they’ve both been working towards, in one way or another, for many, many years. The thought helps to elevate Norton’s mood a bit, and he even allows himself, fleetingly, to speculate that Gina Rafferty poses no real threat … that she knows nothing of substance, or is too stupid to act on what she does know – or too frightened.

After about ten minutes, Bolger rises, as do Vaughan and Sullivan, and there is another flurry of formal handshakes. The imperial party then sweeps out of the dining room.

Vaughan remains standing. He picks up his napkin, wipes his mouth with it and then throws it back down.

‘OK, fellas,’ he says, ‘let’s get this show on the road.’

They move out of the dining room and into the lobby, where Sullivan stops by a marble pillar to take a call on his mobile. Norton and Vaughan stand and wait. Near the reception desk, by a large potted plant, a burly man in a grey suit and dark glasses is flicking through a brochure or guidebook. Ostensibly. This is Jimmy Vaughan’s bodyguard. The lobby is quite busy. At the reception desk, there are a few obvious stragglers from the media, hovering, trying to pick up crumbs of information in the wake of Bolger’s brief visit.

‘I have to hand it to you, Paddy,’ Vaughan says. ‘You’ve done a good job here. I only wish things were this easy over in London.’

‘Yeah?’

‘
Oh
.’ Vaughan’s face contorts briefly. ‘Please. Dealing with the Brits? It’s hard work, believe me. Same language, OK, but you still need an interpreter, and I’m not talking differences in vocabulary – elevator, lift, that kind of thing, cell, mobile.’ He taps the side of his head. ‘It’s approach I’m talking about. In this country I feel we understand each other.’

Norton nods in agreement. He can’t help feeling pleased at this, and encouraged. ‘Absolutely,’ he says. ‘Fifty-first state and all that. Now if we could just do something about the weather.’

‘Yeah.’ Vaughan laughs. ‘That’d be something. But you know what? I remember Jack Kennedy once telling me that if you …’

He stops.

‘Paddy?’

Norton is staring across the lobby, the spike in his mood reversing rapidly. Standing at the entrance to the hotel, glancing around, is Gina Rafferty. Behind her, the revolving door is still in motion. Slowly, like a roulette wheel, it comes to rest.

She spots him.

Before he can do anything, she’s on her way over.

*

As she gets closer, Gina sees that the man beside Paddy Norton is elderly. He is small and slightly stooped. She’d prefer it if Norton were alone, but for the moment this’ll have to do. What she wanted was to take him by surprise, and she can see from the expression on his face that she has accomplished that.

‘My dear,’ Norton says as she arrives, ‘how lovely to see you.’

The smile is clearly forced. It doesn’t make it to his eyes. The elderly man is smiling, too – but
his
eyes are sparkling.

‘Mr Norton,’ Gina says, not smiling at all, ‘I need to talk to you.’

‘
Paddy
. Please. Call me Paddy.’

She has already decided on a policy. She’s going to remain calm and take this in stages.

‘
Paddy
,’ she says. ‘I need to talk to you.’

‘Yes, of course, but –’

‘I need to talk to you
now
.’

‘Fine, fine. But … how did you track me down?’