Private Dublin

Chapter 71

Justine and I talked for an hour, and it felt good finally to be entirely open and honest with her, to re-establish our connection. I should never have doubted her ability to see the right course of action or her reserves of strength to discuss ideas and theories about Lawrence, Andi, Sam Farrell and Raymond Chalmont. In fact, she seemed to come alive as we spoke, as if memories of past investigations and her personal drive for justice were infusing her with energy.

In the end, though, she conceded defeat to the lateness of the hour and her fatigue, and we said our goodbyes.

“Be careful,” she told me.

“Always,” I replied. “Thank you.”

“What for? You’re the one out there risking everything.”

“For being you,” I said. “I love you.”

“Love you too. And I was being serious about being careful. These people are very dangerous, Jack.”

“I know. Get some sleep.”

I hung up and put on a new black suit. Fifteen minutes later, I was in the back of a taxi I’d hailed a safe distance from my new accommodation.

“Where to?” the driver asked.

“Curragh Racecourse,” I replied, and he smiled.

He couldn’t have been more than twenty-five and he had a glint in his eye.

“If it’s losing money you’re after, I’m quite happy to take it off you.”

“I don’t normally lose,” I replied coolly, and his impish smile fell for a moment before it returned, this time with a degree of uncertainty.

He put on some music and the rest of our journey took place to the soundtrack of “Good Luck, Babe!” on repeat. I called Mo-bot.

“Jack,” she said when she answered.

“Has Justine spoken to you?” I asked.

“Yes, we’re all good here,” she told me.

“That’s all I needed to know,” I replied. “I’m on my way.”

“Good luck.”

I pocketed my phone and settled back to watch the city roll by as we headed west. When we neared the Curragh, the traffic started to build. Today was the Airlie Stud Stakes. Trainers and owners used the day to prepare for the Derby, and I had no doubt Lawrence Finch would be here to watch his horses.

The roads surrounding the course were busier than I’d experienced at Leopardstown. Dating back to the eighteenth century, the Curragh Racecourse is built around a large grandstand and has capacity for up to 30,000 fans. Judging by the crowds thronging toward the complex, today would be a test of the upper limit. With more than 1,500 acres of course and training facilities, the Curragh hosts some of the most iconic Irish racing fixtures.

The cab driver dropped me off near the main stand, and I bought a pass from a tout who sold me a winners’ enclosure lanyard for an exorbitant sum. They weren’t strictly available for sale, but touts managed to get hold of them somehow and charged high prices for those who wanted to buy access to the rarified parts of the course. I didn’t care about money. I needed to get to Lawrence Finch.

I joined the throng of well-heeled, knowledgeable racegoers making their way into the course. After a moment’s doubt over whether my pass was a fake, I was waved through by the steward, who told me I could use the VIP entrance in future.

I walked through the course, past the hospitality buildings, listening to the groundswell of a crowd full of excited anticipation. Jeers, cries and shouts were coming at me in waves from every direction.

I made my way to the winners’ enclosure and went into the building beyond it, where I found Finch in the private bar. He was holding court, surrounded by about twenty smartly dressed men and women and three members of his close protection detail.

Justine had given me her assessment of the man’s psychological profile based on publicly available interviews, news articles, and my accounts of meeting him. She had told me that if I succeeded in reaching him, the first thing he was likely to do was smile.

As he did now: a broad genial grin, calculated to disarm.

I pushed my way through the crowd paying court to him, barely registering their hostile expressions. Were they all members of Propaganda Tre? Or just entitled high-hats who objected to being pushed around? The bodyguard closest to me stepped forward, but Lawrence waved him back.

“How long have you run the organization?” I tried.

“What organization, Mr. Morgan? I’m under no obligation to answer your questions,” said Finch. “Though I will say, I admire your tenacity, first in Rome, then Monaco and now here. Terrible shame about Ms. Smith though.”

I bridled visibly at the jibe, and his bodyguard stepped forward again.

“It’s okay,” Lawrence told him. “Mr. Morgan just came here to flex his muscles.”

“I came here to tell you that no man, not even a king, is above the law. You will face justice for what you’ve done.”

“Justice is an artificial concept, created by the strong to make the weak believe there is a rationale for robbing a person of life or liberty. It is an illusion designed to make those without power believe the world is fair.” He leaned close to me and spoke in a low, menacing tone. “If you want to come for me, I won’t need fairytale excuses to do whatever needs to be done.”

I stared at him. He held my gaze.

“Whenever you’re ready, Mr. Morgan,” he said.

I glanced at his security detail and the group of people gathered around us, most of whom would be loyal to him. I was outnumbered. I’d come here to give him a message and rattle him. As tempting as it was to deliver a painful lesson, it would be counterproductive to the aims I’d clarified with Justine.

“Tell Raymond Chalmont I’m coming for him too,” I said, and for the first time saw a flash of uncertainty cross Finch’s face.

He recovered his composure quickly and smiled again, but it wasn’t the same comfortable grin he had greeted me with.

Satisfied I’d achieved my objective, I pushed him out of my way and headed for the exit.