Alan Glynn: Winterland

At first he is puzzled. He looks inside the envelope again and sees a business card. He takes this out and examines it.

The name on the card is Gina Rafferty.

His heart lurches.

If she ever comes near me again…

He looks back at the photographs and…

Of course.

Jesus, she has a nerve. But what is she up to? Is this meant to be some sort of coded message – a veiled threat? He thought that by not pressing charges he’d at least be eliminating her from the equation. He thought she’d go away and leave him to deal with the fallout, with all the shit she’d stirred up… but now this…

He reaches forward, straining to breathe, and places the page of photos on the coffee table. He picks up his mobile and flops back. He switches the phone on, enters his PIN and waits.

Then he looks for her number, finds it, calls it.

It rings.

There is an ad on the TV, a silver car speeding across a desolate moonscape.

‘Yes?’

‘This is harassment. I could get the Guards to have you -’

‘Then go ahead. Call them. They know where I live.’

He pauses, glances at the photographs again – at the three faces, with their alien, remote expressions.

‘What am I supposed to do with these pictures?’ he says. ‘What’s your point?’

‘My point?’ She almost laughs. ‘That no one has made the connection yet.’ She pauses. ‘But they will, sooner or later, and probably sooner.’

‘What connection?’

‘Oh come on . All it takes is one journalist to see it, to remember the name from the other night. Or one phone call.’

He grinds his teeth. He stands up. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

This sounds weak, even to him.

‘No?’

‘No.’

He waits. She doesn’t respond. The silence goes on for quite a while. During it, he walks across the room and stands at the window. The curtains are half open. It’s dark outside, except for the security lights on the front lawn, and the streetlights in the distance, and all the lights of the city, thrown up, reflected, falling back like snow.

‘Listen,’ Gina says eventually, ‘those three people died unnecessarily. And it wasn’t his fault, Tony Griffin’s, like everyone said it was at the time. Now, I can’t prove it, of course, what was going on. No one can. Mark couldn’t. But maybe it’s time that someone bloody well admitted it, yeah?’

‘ Jesus . What was going on ? I don’t…’ He is barely able to suppress his rage. ‘Meaning what exactly? Dunbrogan House? Is that it?’

She says nothing.

‘Been doing your homework, have you? You bitch .’ He puts a hand up to his chest and rubs it. ‘Very well,’ he goes on, wincing, ‘you want to talk about this, yeah? About Frank and Larry? About the accident? Let’s talk about it then.’

‘Yes… let’s .’

‘But not over the phone.’ His voice is hard now, and controlled, almost a whisper. ‘Somewhere outside. Somewhere neutral. And right now.’

If she ever comes near me again…

‘Fine,’ Gina says without hesitation. ‘Tell me where.’

The main story on the front page of the Sunday Tribune is about Larry Bolger and his imminent coronation. However, there is a piece at the bottom – and two more inside, on page 8 – about Richmond Plaza.

Mark reads these, a little impatiently at first, but then with growing interest.

It is not stated explicitly – nothing is, presumably because of the country’s strict libel laws – but with the report by that engineer, what Gina seems to have uncovered here, theoretically, reading between the lines, is a motive for the murder of her brother.

Or what she sees as the murder of her brother.

And this Paddy Norton, the developer, is the focus of all her attention. She seems to have pursued the man with a ferocious determination, and…

Mark puts the paper down for a moment, and as he gazes at the wall opposite, and listens to the monotonous beeping of the monitors, a thought occurs to him.

She was going to tell him something.

It was their last conversation. The one on the phone. She was talking and he interrupted her.

What had she been going to say?

He tries to remember. He was…

I think I’m maybe on the wrong track .

That was it.

About Bolger .

He closes his eyes.

I think I’m maybe on the wrong track, about Bolger. I mean, itdoesn’t seem –

He opens his eyes again.

But what? It doesn’t seem what ?

It doesn’t seem that Bolger…

He’s confused. He takes up the paper again and scans the final paragraphs of the article he was reading.

Paddy Norton… Paddy Norton…

He’s barely able to focus on the words.

… started out over twenty-five years ago… web of businessand political connections… soon established as a leading…party affiliations… the Bolger brothers…

Mark feels dizzy.

But what does this mean? Has he been wrong all along? Allhis life?

He goes back a few pages, to another article, one about Bolger and scans that.

… called back from Boston… funeral arrangements alreadyin place… reluctant to run…

Mark closes his eyes.

It hits him now with the force of a religious revelation.

Bolger wasn’t even in the country when the accident happened…

By the time he got back from America, everything had been taken care of, everything had been set in train.

Jesus Christ.

He has always just assumed…

The name… it was always the name, Larry Bolger, looming like a dark cloud over everything he ever did.

Larry Bolger… Larry Bolger…

But he never questioned it, never talked to anyone about it. No one ever talked to him about it…

He shakes his head, a surge of anger now rising through him.

He needs to know.

He needs to know .

Paddy Norton.

Billionaire property developer.

The name is familiar, of course, but Mark can’t put a face to it. Then it occurs to him that given how the construction industry works here, he might actually have met Norton at some point, or at least have seen him at functions, trade fairs.

And he definitely knows people who have met him. Just a while back, in fact – there was that developer from Cork. Didn’t he say he’d been ‘talking to’ Norton?

Jesus .

How many degrees of separation? Never too many in this fucking town, that’s for sure.

Never enough .

As a politician, Bolger had always seemed a distant figure to Mark – in a numb, mediated sort of way. But this ? This is too close to the bone.

Way too close…

They might have shaken hands .

Through his anger, and now revulsion, Mark steels himself, does his best to concentrate, to focus.

Winterland Properties. Their head office is on Baggot Street. But Norton himself… he has that huge spread out in…

He’s read about it.

Foxrock .

It shouldn’t be too hard to get his number. It might even be listed.

When the nurse comes back, before she’s even through the door, Mark calls out to her.

Startled by the urgency in his voice, she comes straight over to his bedside.

‘Yes, love, what is it?’

‘That phone?’

‘Oh yes, I haven’t… er, I’ll -’

‘Can I borrow yours then? You said I could borrow yours. Can I? It’s just for minute. It’s just… Can I? It’s important.’