Private Dublin

Chapter 54

The following morning, I woke feeling more rested than I had at any point since arriving in Dublin. I went downstairs to find an email from Justine waiting for me. It was a loving message and ended with an instruction to call her whenever I woke. It was a little after 8 a.m. in Dublin, so it would be after midnight in Los Angeles. Not a terrible time to call, and she might have something important to say. I used my laptop to place a video call, and she answered almost immediately.

“Jack,” she said dreamily. She looked as though she was on the verge of sleep. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too,” I replied. “How are you feeling?”

“Getting there,” she said. “Much better. Moving around on my own more. The pain is manageable. Less shortness of breath.”

“Good,” I said, relieved.

“How’s the investigation?” she asked.

“We’re working our leads,” I told her. I wasn’t lying, but I wasn’t being completely open either, which bothered me.

“You okay?” she asked.

I nodded. “Just missing you.”

“Me too.”

Andi entered the dining room wearing a red summer dress. “Ready?” she asked, without registering I was on a call. “Oh, sorry.”

“Is that Andi?” Justine asked.

“Yes,” she replied, leaning into the frame to wave. “Sorry for interrupting. I’ll leave you guys in peace.”

She stepped out of the room.

“How are you getting along?” Justine asked, and I wondered if I imagined an edge to her voice.

“She’s a smart detective,” I replied.

“That’s good.” Justine’s neutral tone sounded slightly forced. We’d had issues like this before when she’d been worried I was growing too close to Dinara Orlova on an investigation in Moscow.

“We’re working well together,” I assured her. “That’s all.”

“I understand. I’m just feeling lonely and vulnerable, Jack,” she said.

“I’m sorry, Jus. I want to get this done quickly so I can get right back to LA and be with you,” I told her.

“Then go do it,” she responded.

I hesitated.

“Go,” she said. “I’m fine. I just need to get some sleep. ’Night, Jack. Love you.”

“Love you too,” I replied, before she disconnected.

I found Andi in the hallway by the front door.

“All good?” she asked, and I wondered whether she’d heard the tail end of the conversation.

“All good,” I said. “Ready?”

She held up the car key in reply, and two minutes later, we were in the Ford heading west.

Andi phoned Lawrence Finch on our way out to Ballagh House, and his executive assistant told us to go to the training facility located ten miles west of his grand estate.

Lugh Stud, according to the research I did during the drive, was named after one of the Tuatha Dé Danann. These were the pre-Christian Gaelic deities who formed a pantheon of gods and heroes similar to those worshipped by the Ancient Greeks. Lugh is said to have invented horse racing, and the training facility that bore his name was worthy of this divine association. About a mile west of the village of Carbury, onyx pillars set either side of silver gates marked the start of the property, set in beautiful rolling countryside.

Andi turned off the road, and we drove a couple of miles along a tarmac track that cut through woodland and fallow fields. Beyond them lay hundreds of acres of pasture, meadows and paddocks. Lawrence Finch had a vast, modern training facility and at the heart of the complex lay a network of modern buildings in black-stained cedar, with panoramic smoked-glass windows and solar panels. The horses’ accommodations looked better than most human homes.

Our car was checked at a second gate near the stables, and we were directed to the visitors’ car park and told we’d find Finch in Stable B.

Andi pulled into a space, and we got out and followed discreet signs that marked out key buildings.

Lawrence Finch was in the paddock outside, talking with the trainer about a horse they were watching being exercised by a groom. I could see them both pointing to different aspects of the animal’s action and discussing it somberly.

Finch caught sight of me and Andi and excused himself before sauntering over. We met him by the fence.

“Good morning, Mr. Morgan, Ms. Harris. Any news?” he said, offering us a warm smile.

“We found evidence Sam Farrell might be linked to a narcotics operation,” I replied.

“Oh dear.” His smile fell. “Drugs are a terrible scourge. I sincerely hope you’re wrong. I can’t bear the thought of having had someone like that working for me.”

“We wondered whether you’d ever heard anything about Noah Kearney being involved in anything like that?” Andi asked. “Illegally importing medicines or anything?”

“Jesus,” Finch responded, before falling silent. He thought for a moment. “No, sorry. Any breeder who got mixed up in that sort of thing would be risking their reputation, livelihood and freedom. If he was doing anything shady, he’d keep it quieter than the grave. I haven’t heard a thing about it. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help. As far as I know, Noah Kearney is a reputable breeder and trainer, and a decent, law-abiding man. I’ve never heard a bad word spoken of him.”

Andi and I were crestfallen. She looked particularly disappointed, and I guessed it was because this had been her idea.

Lawrence Finch took advantage of our silence. “I wish I could give you something that would help crack this case, but I can’t. If there’s nothing else...” He trailed off and gestured to the racehorse behind him.

“Thank you, Mr. Finch,” I said.

“No — thank you,” he responded. “Now if you’ll excuse me? We’re in the middle of race preparations here.”

With that, he left us and returned to his beautiful thoroughbred.