Private Dublin

Chapter 33

Leopardstown’s holding room was an eight by twelve feet cell in the main administration building. It was bare apart from a metal bench, bolted to the floor. The walls were gloss-painted and a single strip light was recessed into the ceiling behind a sturdy metal grille.

The security guards had frog-marched me from the owners’ parking lot to the rear entrance of the administration building and manhandled me through the first door along. I guessed this cell was used to cool off any particularly troublesome drunks, or, as in my case, secure a person safely until the Garda arrived. There were police on site and nearby, providing crowd control and directing traffic, so I doubted I would have to wait very long.

Sure enough, I soon heard footsteps outside, and the heavy lock clicked open at the turn of a key. The door swung wide. I rose from the bench, expecting to be taken away, but instead I was surprised to see the man who had been at the heart of the shooter’s close protection detail. He entered the room like he owned the place. There was no sign of any of his bodyguards.

“Good morning, Mr. Morgan,” he said, offering me his hand. “My name is Lawrence Finch.”

I didn’t shake it. He shrugged and presented me with my phone and wallet, which had been confiscated by the security guards.

“I believe these are yours.”

“Thank you,” I replied, pocketing them. “Do you work here?”

He smiled. “No. My horses race here. I sit on the board as a non-executive director. I’d like to know why you were chasing Sam.”

“Sam?” I asked.

“Sam Farrell,” he said. “He’s part of my security detail. Or at least he was until he bolted like a hare chased by a hound.”

This man had the easy confidence that came with money and power. His two-piece double-breasted blue herringbone suit had been tailormade and hung perfectly from his muscular shoulders. The gray flecks in his dark brown hair and the wrinkles around the corners of his eyes suggested he was in his mid-forties.

“How long has he worked for you?” I asked.

“Three months,” Lawrence replied. “He was with the Garda in their serious crime unit before that. Impeccable references.”

So Farrell was a cop, I mused inwardly. That would explain how methodical the shooter had been and how he might have been able to disembark the plane without detection. He probably had contacts at the airport. His profile also fit Propaganda Tre’s usual modus operandi, which was to recruit people in positions of power and authority. I wondered if I was looking at a fellow member now or whether Lawrence Finch was a mark, the target of Sam Farrell’s plans. Either way, I knew I couldn’t trust him.

“What line of business are you in, Mr. Finch?” I asked.

“Construction,” he replied. “Horse racing is just a passion of mine. An expensive one.”

“I can imagine,” I said.

“I’ve spoken to the course management and they have agreed not to involve the police,” Finch said, “but I really must insist that you answer my question, Mr. Morgan. What did you want with Sam? And why did he run?”

He’d given me no clue as to his guilt or innocence but I saw no risk in telling him the truth, particularly since it would ease my release.

“The man you know as Sam Farrell was the perpetrator of a mass shooting at the screening of a movie in Los Angeles three days ago,” I replied.

“The Ecokiller?” he asked in disbelief. “I saw something about it on the news.”

“There was no Ecokiller, or rather it was a sensational cover story designed to throw the media and police off his trail and mask the truth,” I said. “My colleague and I were the intended targets of the shooting.”

Finch’s mouth opened and closed a few times, and his eyes widened in disbelief, but whatever he was thinking remained unspoken. If he was part of the conspiracy, he was an incredibly talented actor.

“So, I tracked him here and almost caught him,” I went on. “And now you will understand why I was chasing him. I want to find out why he tried to kill us and who sent him.”

Lawrence Finch collected himself. “I can understand, Mr. Morgan, and I want you to know that I’m very sorry you weren’t able to catch him.”

He hesitated.

“I’m not sure how to respond to something like this, other than to say I will help you and the police in any way I possibly can.”