Private Dublin

Chapter 30

I woke to messages from Justine, telling me how much she loved and missed me, and Mo-bot, saying she hadn’t yet been able to identify a link between Kearney and the Dark Fates or Propaganda Tre, but that she was still digging. On the face of it, Mo-bot told me, Noah and Mary Kearney’s business seemed legitimate and quite successful. They bred and trained some top-tier racehorses, and there were no allegations of irregular dealing against them. Not the sort of people one would typically associate with a dangerous criminal enterprise.

I replied to both messages, put my phone down, and went to my bathroom to shower and prepare for the day ahead. I emerged from the piping-hot water feeling refreshed and eager to discover why Noah Kearney had sent us to the races.

I put on a dark gray suit and black shirt, a smart outfit I felt wouldn’t be out of place at the races. Once dressed, I went downstairs to find Andi at the kitchen table, sitting where I’d left her last night. She was wearing a long green dress and seemed a little sheepish as she cradled a mug of coffee between her hands.

“Can I get you one?” she asked. “It’s not freshly brewed, but still pretty good.”

She stood up awkwardly and moved to the counter, where she’d placed a cafetiere of coffee and a clean mug.

“I’m fine,” I replied. “What time is the first race?”

“One-twenty,” she replied. “So we have plenty of time.”

She paused, and I sensed she had more to say.

“I think we should get there early. Check the lay of the land,” I suggested, trying to keep us focused on the investigation.

“Listen,” she said, “I just wanted to apologize in case anything I said last night made you feel uncomfortable. I think I was feeling the effects of exhilaration and beer, and I don’t want you to get the wrong impression.”

“You’ve got nothing to worry about,” I replied. “You did an outstanding job yesterday, and I owe you my life.”

She smiled, clearly relieved.

“It can be difficult to see the line sometimes, particularly in situations like this, when we’re living the job, but you were off the clock last night. A human being, rather than a detective.”

“A flawed human being,” she added quickly.

“A decent human being,” I countered. “You didn’t say anything wrong, so there’s nothing to worry about.”

“Good,” she said before draining her coffee. “In that case, let’s take a mosey out to Leopardstown and see what we can find.”

An hour later, after heading south-east through Dublin, we turned off and joined a line of traffic heading toward the racetrack. Even though it lay directly beside the motorway, it took us thirty minutes to join another line of cars being directed toward race-day parking.

Dating back to the nineteenth century, Leopardstown Racecourse is built around a large grandstand and has capacity for up to 10,000 fans. Judging by the crowds thronging toward the complex, today would be a test of the upper limit. With more than 200 acres of course and training facilities, Leopardstown is a respected course that hosts some significant Irish racing fixtures.

We were waved into a space at the very edge of the parking lot by a marshal in a high-visibility vest.

“Thanks,” I said to Andi as she cut the engine.

“No problem,” she replied.

“I wonder what they do when it rains,” I commented as we traipsed through the long grass between rows of cars.

It was a fine day and the ground was firm, but in fouler weather, I could imagine a quagmire that might trap people and their vehicles.

“Bring wellies,” Andi said with a sideways grin. “And prepare to get muddy.”

We collected day passes Andi had bought online, and I slipped a lanyard over my head, so the pass rested against my chest like a medal. We joined a gaggle of excited racegoers to have our passes checked and were waved through security.

The grandstand was alive with anticipation. Most people were here for a fun day out, and even though it was almost two hours until the first race, some had already started drinking. There were a few professional gamblers who gathered in small, serious groups and checked their phones obsessively, looking at prices, running reports and rumors about horses’ form.

Our passes got us general admission and we found a spot in the main stand, not far from the winners’ enclosure, which lay to the east of the grandstand and was surrounded by hospitality and office blocks.

I’d never before taken much interest in horse racing, but I could sense the anticipation and excitement building. Andi and I walked the complex in the run-up to the first race, checking out the hospitality venues, which were all packed. We couldn’t see why Noah Kearney had sent us here. Finally, feeling somewhat frustrated, we returned to the main grandstand just in time for the first race.

I couldn’t help but be swept up in the buzz and thrill as the horses were settled for the start and calm descended over the course for a moment before the starter sent them off, which sparked roars and cheers throughout the huge crowd. There were screens dotted around the grandstand and a large one positioned almost opposite the crowded venue, and Andi and I watched the magnificent, highly trained thoroughbreds speed around the course, spurred on by some of the best jockeys in the world. The sport of kings had the spectators up on their feet, hands in the air, cheering, jeering and venting their excitement or disappointment, and Andi and I joined them, standing for a better view of the horses thundering around the last bend, jostling for the lead. One, called Hunter’s Lodge, was pulling away from the pack, and quickly established his dominance. The excitable commentator broadcasting over the public address system was yelling the horse’s name, and judging by the crowd’s reaction it must have been popular with the punters because a thunderous roar went up as its lead lengthened. The jockey pushed the animal to give its all. The cheering reached a crescendo as Hunter’s Lodge crossed the finishing line comfortably in first place. This took place directly opposite the grandstand and the crowd there was the thickest and most vocal. As the horses slowed to a trot, the crowd dispersed and with the clamor dying down, I heard the delighted chatter of people all around us who’d backed the winner.

“We should check out the winners’ enclosure,” I shouted to Andi above the furor.

“Kearney said the second race,” she replied.

“I know, but it won’t hurt to be there watching the comings and goings in advance.”

Andi nodded, and we joined the flow of people leaving the stand to collect their winnings or buy commiseration drinks. We worked our way through the grandstand, following the signs for the winners’ enclosure.

We stepped outside and tracked a group of men in tailored suits who showed their passes to a steward at a gate. Beyond it was a paddock, parade ring and a small seating area.

“Passes,” the steward asked us as he waved the group of men through.

“Is this part of the general ticket?” I asked, accentuating my American drawl.

“I’m afraid not, sir,” the steward replied. “This is the winners’ enclosure, for owners, their guests and select passholders. You’re welcome to use the main grandstand and any of the facilities in that part of the course.”

“Jack.” Andi nudged me sharply, and I immediately saw why.

Across the enclosure I saw a man step out of a building. He was followed by an entourage of bodyguards, who were scanning their surroundings. They carried themselves with the posture and bearing of military men and all of them knew how to move around their principal to maximize the effectiveness of their close protection. One of the bodyguards recognized me the moment we locked eyes across the enclosure. I understood then why Noah Kearney had sent us to this place.

This was the shooter from Los Angeles, the man who’d put Justine, Salvatore Mattera and eighteen others in hospital and five innocent victims in the ground. Here was the man I’d pursued across the Atlantic to Ireland.