Winterland (9 page)

At fifty-three, he feels that his time has come.

As he washes his hands, he glances at himself in the mirror. He’s better-looking now, too – that distinguished grey fleck in his hair, laser surgery taking care of the glasses, the sharper suits.

Fuck it, he positively
exudes
gravitas.

Bolger comes out of the men’s room and stands in the corridor. He’ll get a quick call in to Paddy Norton before the vultures descend on him again. He only heard the news about Noel Rafferty as he was going on air, and he wants to check that there isn’t anything about the story he needs to be up to speed on.

But as he’s getting the phone out of his pocket, it rings.

‘Larry, Paddy.’

‘Oh, I was just about to –’

‘Listen, I was on to our friend in New York earlier, and you remember that thing we talked about? Well, it seems they want to go ahead with it.’

‘Right. Jesus. Good.’ He pauses. ‘That’s
great
.’

‘Yeah, but keep it under wraps, OK? Don’t go around mouthing off about it to anyone.’

‘Paddy, give me a
little
credit, would you?’

‘No, I’m just
saying
. I mean, you know what this town is like.’

‘OK, OK, whatever.’

‘But anyway, I’ll get back to you later with the details.’

‘Fine.’

‘Right.’

There is a pause.

‘Listen,’ Bolger then says, ‘I was going to ask you about this Noel Rafferty thing.’

‘Oh? What about it?’

‘I was wondering, you know, what’s the story?’

Bolger knew Noel Rafferty fairly well and had professional dealings with him on a number of occasions – most recently, of course, in relation to Richmond Plaza.

‘There’s no story. What do you mean what’s the story?’

‘No, I just … I thought I’d check that –’

‘Look, he was over the limit, well over, and shouldn’t have been behind the wheel of a car, OK? That’s the story. You won’t read it in the papers, but believe me, I have it on good authority.’

‘Oh.’

‘I had a drink with him earlier, in town, and he was well on at
that
stage. The other thing is, you know that shooting last night in the pub? The guy who got shot was his nephew.’

‘
What?
’

‘Yeah, but that won’t be in the papers either. The Guards aren’t releasing his name yet, not for a day or two anyway. Out of sensitivity to the family.’ Norton pauses. ‘Look,I don’t know, I suppose he’d just heard the news about his nephew, he was upset, he’d had too much to drink, and boom, he loses control at the wheel. Before you know it he’s brown bread. Fucking tragic, but
that’s
the story.’

‘Jesus,’ Bolger says, subdued now. ‘Poor bastard.’

Maybe it’s a bit of a stretch to say that he’d had actual ‘dealings’ with Rafferty in relation to Richmond Plaza, but their paths
had
crossed many times over the years. There’d been a few foreign trips back in the nineties – those trade delegations to Shanghai. And he’d often met him at the races or at Lansdowne Road. They’d even played cards a few times.

‘But anyway,’ he says, ‘tell us, is this going to delay things at all?’

‘No, of course not. Everything’s in place. It’s like clockwork at this stage.’

‘OK.’

Clearly thinking this over, Norton then adds, ‘And again, don’t you go around mouthing off about it, saying there
will
be delays, or anything like it, do you hear me?’

Bolger can’t believe what he’s hearing. ‘Jesus,
Paddy
–’

‘Because we’re at a very delicate stage in negotiations at the moment, with Amcan. If we lose
them
we’re fucked.’

‘I know, I know.’

‘So, let’s stay on the same page here.’

‘Right, right, whatever. Look, I’ll talk to you again.’

‘OK.’

Bolger puts his phone away.

Bad-tempered prick
.

Now, as he heads back along the corridor to face his assistants and handlers,
he’s
in a bad mood as well.

But wasn’t the concern he expressed entirely legitimate? Because take a key player out of
any
team and who knows what the consequences will be? The thing is, already – months before completion – Richmond Plaza has achieved brand recognition, iconic status even, and with his own name firmly linked to it in the public’s mind, Bolger feels he has an awful lot to lose if anything goes wrong.

Initially, of course – because there was so much opposition to the project – nothing seemed to go right. There was widespread concern about the visual impact a high-rise development would have on the city’s skyline. The number of appeals lodged against it with An Bord Pleanála was unprecedented. Submissions came from An Taisce, the Green Party, the Irish Georgian Society, community groups, local councillors, activists, grey-haired hippies, crusties, every toerag in a beard and a woolly jumper.

But when it came to putting a case for the defence, Bolger was indefatigable. He was also passionate – and never more so than one Monday evening on RTÉ’s
Questions and Answers
programme. A speaker on the panel was making some laboured, predictable point about tall buildings and phallic symbolism when Bolger cut in saying that Richmond Plaza wasn’t even going to
be
particularly tall, not by global standards. OK, it was probably going to be one of the tallest buildings in Europe, but so what? With the growth of the new service-based economies, Europe was going to have to get its act together anyway and reform its planning regulations, because ten years down the line, cities like Frankfurt and Brussels, The Hague and Berlin, these would all be just like American and Asian cities, just like Houston and Kuala Lumpur … a process that we in this country – he said, banging his fist on the table – that we in this
city
, had the unique chance to kick-start,
right
here,
right
now …

It was one of his more full-on performances.

But he also did a lot behind the scenes. He persuaded, cajoled, used his charm,
and
took a lot of flak – so all in all it’s not as if he hasn’t played his part. And what? The thanks he gets for his loyalty is to be talked to like he’s one of the fucking hired help?

Bolger spots his press secretary, Paula, and one of his advisers standing by a pillar in the reception area. They’re both on their mobiles. Paula holds up a hand to indicate that she’ll be with him in a second.

He waits.

Bolger has known Paddy Norton for many, many years and is beholden to him in ways he’d rather not think about. In fact, he can’t really imagine his career without him – but still, there are times, like today, when he wishes to God he’d never met the man.

It is just as Mark Griffin is approaching the roundabout that he hears it, and his grip on the steering wheel tightens. ‘…
joining me now from our Dáil studio … Larry Bolger …
’

At that point, Mark would normally be reaching for the dial to switch the radio off, but with an articulated truck on his tail and the meat grinder of the Cherryvale roundabout directly ahead of him, it is several seconds before this can happen.

‘
… no, indeed, Sean, it certainly doesn’t, and days like today
make
my
job –
’

Then, silence.

When Mark replaces his hand on the steering wheel, it tightens again, automatically.

That velvety, media-trained voice, both obsequious
and
arrogant, never fails to unnerve him.

He comes off the roundabout.

It’s also becoming a lot harder to avoid. Bolger seems to be everywhere these days – in the papers, on radio, on TV.

He looks in the rearview mirror, indicates and gets into the left lane.

Though in one way or another this
is
something Mark has been dealing with for years. When he was a business student (and way before Bolger had anything like the high profile he has today), hearing that voice on the radio, or even the name, would have been enough to floor him. It would have triggered all manner of weird behaviour – depressive, destructive behaviour like not getting out of bed for days, not taking a shower, drinking himself stupid, arguing incessantly, and with everyone, his girlfriend, his lecturers, his uncle Des.

Mark takes the next exit. He has that meeting in town, in the Westbury, with the building contractor.

But these days, it must be said, things are different. He showers regularly, doesn’t drink anymore and is a lot less combative. If he comes across Larry Bolger’s name, he’ll still react, but more or less the way he’s reacting now – in a measured way, nothing extreme. Besides,
these
days, he has responsibilities. He has clients and contracts, and employs three people full-time at the showrooms in Ranelagh.

It’s all very grown-up.

So much so, in fact, that on occasion Mark has a hard time believing the whole thing is for real. It’s as if he expects an official with a clipboard to tap him on the shoulder one day and announce, politely, that it’s all been a mistake, that his company is to be dissolved, that his house and his car are to be repossessed.

Stopping at traffic lights, Mark closes his eyes for a moment. Then he opens them again and bangs on the steering wheel.

Shit
.

Now he’s all anxious.

Shit, shit, shit
.

Twenty minutes later, on his way into the Westbury, he gets a call on his mobile. It’s from the contractor saying he’ll be a few minutes late.

As he waits on his own in the lounge, Mark toys with the idea of ordering a gin and tonic.

Just one, he thinks, a quickie.

The waiter approaches. Mark clears his throat. He asks for a black coffee.

Then he turns back and glances at the table in front of him. There is a newspaper on it. After a moment, he lifts the paper up, leans over and tosses it onto the next table along.

The removal to the church of young Noel’s remains takes place at 5.30 the following afternoon. The Gardaí have released his name by that stage, and the story is all over the front page of the
Evening Herald
–
SHOCK DOUBLE TRAGEDY FOR FAMILY
. Inside, on page 4, a piece is headed
THE TWO NOELS
. It’s obvious when you read it that they’re straining to make a connection, to join up the dots, but they can’t, and the two stories remain stubbornly separate. Something else they can’t do is print what’s already been widely rumoured around town – that the older Noel had been drinking heavily before his car ran off the road.

Over a two-page spread, the paper’s crime correspondent concentrates on the nephew. Known locally as ‘Grassy’ Noel – on account of his preference for marijuana over hash – the twenty-six-year-old belonged to a Dublin gang with strong links to drug suppliers operating out of the Netherlands. The gang’s other activities include prostitution, mainly involving foreign nationals, and an elaborate piracy operation – involving anything from DVDs and computer software to Gucci handbags and Manchester United jerseys.

The gang leader is forty-two-year-old Terry ‘the Electrician’ Stack, and it is believed that Noel Rafferty was one of his trusted lieutenants.

The article goes on to say that usually within hours of a gangland killing, detectives know why the victim was killed and who pulled the trigger, but that apparently in this case everyone is baffled. However, one thing various sources say you
can
be sure of is that sooner or later, knowing Terry Stack, an act of reprisal will take place.

The Electrician, it seems, is not happy and won’t be sleeping until someone pays a price for this.

The
Herald’s
coverage is exhaustive. Another article reports how the beer garden of the pub was cordoned off so that members of the Garda technical bureau could carry out a complete forensic examination of the crime scene. According to Superintendent Frankie Deeghan, who is leading the inquiry, the State Pathologist then arrived to carry out a preliminary examination of the body, after which the remains were transferred to the city morgue for a full post-mortem.

Yet another report describes the kind of gun used in the shooting, and gives details about ballistics and fragmentation. It mentions wound cavities, torn muscle tissue and severed blood vessels.

No one who arrives for the removal – at the Church of Our Lady Queen of Heaven in Dolanstown – is seen holding a copy of the
Evening Herald
.

From about five o’clock on, mourners start drifting into the church. There are a lot of people from the area: friends and neighbours of Catherine’s; friends and ‘associates’ of Noel’s; Terry Stack, naturally; his entourage; friends of Yvonne’s and Michelle’s; friends of Gina’s. There are onlookers (friends of no one’s in particular), as well as a local councillor, a few journalists, a few photographers, and maybe one or two plainclothes detectives.

Our Lady Queen of Heaven, built in the early fifties, is enormous, a brick and granite echo chamber that can hold up to fifteen hundred people. When the ceremony starts, it is almost a quarter full. Sitting in the front pew, next to the coffin, are Catherine and her three sisters. In the couple of pews behind them are immediate family – Yvonne’s husband and their three kids, Michelle’s partner and their two, plus other family members, cousins, two aunts, an uncle.

Behind them is everyone else, the congregation thinning out farther back in the church.

Catherine is staring at the altar. She took a Xanax before coming out, and feels numb. Her mouth is dry. Every few minutes – literally, since Monday night – it’s been hitting her, the news, what happened … and each time it’s as though she’s hearing it for the first time. Her mind goes blank and then it hits her. Her mind goes blank and then it hits her
again
. But at least now it’s like someone hitting her with the cardboard tube from a roll of kitchen paper. Before it was like someone hitting her with a baseball bat.