Winterland

1

The removal to the church of young Noel’s remains takes place at 5.30 the following afternoon. The Gardaí have released his name by that stage, and the story is all over the front page of the Evening Herald – SHOCK DOUBLE TRAGEDY FOR FAMILY. Inside, on page 4, a piece is headed THE TWO NOELS. It’s obvious when you read it that they’re straining to make a connection, to join up the dots, but they can’t, and the two stories remain stubbornly separate. Something else they can’t do is print what’s already been widely rumoured around town – that the older Noel had been drinking heavily before his car ran off the road.

Over a two-page spread, the paper’s crime correspondent concentrates on the nephew. Known locally as ‘Grassy’ Noel – on account of his preference for marijuana over hash – the twenty-six-year-old belonged to a Dublin gang with strong links to drug suppliers operating out of the Netherlands. The gang’s other activities include prostitution, mainly involving foreign nationals, and an elaborate piracy operation – involving anything from DVDs and computer software to Gucci handbags and Manchester United jerseys.

The gang leader is forty-two-year-old Terry ‘the Electrician’ Stack, and it is believed that Noel Rafferty was one of his trusted lieutenants.

The article goes on to say that usually within hours of a gangland killing, detectives know why the victim was killed and who pulled the trigger, but that apparently in this case everyone is baffled. However, one thing various sources say you can be sure of is that sooner or later, knowing Terry Stack, an act of reprisal will take place.

The Electrician, it seems, is not happy and won’t be sleeping until someone pays a price for this.

The Herald’s coverage is exhaustive. Another article reports how the beer garden of the pub was cordoned off so that members of the Garda technical bureau could carry out a complete forensic examination of the crime scene. According to Superintendent Frankie Deeghan, who is leading the inquiry, the State Pathologist then arrived to carry out a preliminary examination of the body, after which the remains were transferred to the city morgue for a full post-mortem.

Yet another report describes the kind of gun used in the shooting, and gives details about ballistics and fragmentation. It mentions wound cavities, torn muscle tissue and severed blood vessels.

No one who arrives for the removal – at the Church of Our Lady Queen of Heaven in Dolanstown – is seen holding a copy of the Evening Herald.

From about five o’clock on, mourners start drifting into the church. There are a lot of people from the area: friends and neighbours of Catherine’s; friends and ‘associates’ of Noel’s; Terry Stack, naturally; his entourage; friends of Yvonne’s and Michelle’s; friends of Gina’s. There are onlookers (friends of no one’s in particular), as well as a local councillor, a few journalists, a few photographers, and maybe one or two plainclothes detectives.

Our Lady Queen of Heaven, built in the early fifties, is enormous, a brick and granite echo chamber that can hold up to fifteen hundred people. When the ceremony starts, it is almost a quarter full. Sitting in the front pew, next to the coffin, are Catherine and her three sisters. In the couple of pews behind them are immediate family – Yvonne’s husband and their three kids, Michelle’s partner and their two, plus other family members, cousins, two aunts, an uncle.

Behind them is everyone else, the congregation thinning out farther back in the church.

Catherine is staring at the altar. She took a Xanax before coming out, and feels numb. Her mouth is dry. Every few minutes – literally, since Monday night – it’s been hitting her, the news, what happened… and each time it’s as though she’s hearing it for the first time. Her mind goes blank and then it hits her. Her mind goes blank and then it hits her again. But at least now it’s like someone hitting her with the cardboard tube from a roll of kitchen paper. Before it was like someone hitting her with a baseball bat.

The news about her brother, on the other hand, has barely sunk in at all.

It has for Yvonne, Michelle and Gina, though. They are grieving for Catherine and her loss, but also for their brother, Noel, and it’s pretty much unbearable. One day you’re going about your business, everything is normal, and the next you’re plunged into an abyss of anguish and pain.

Who could make sense of that?

Certainly not this Father Kerrigan, it occurs to Gina. As the priest walks out of the sacristy and onto the altar, she feels a mild hostility rippling across the surface of her grief. Everyone stands up, and the sound of a few hundred people collectively shuffling to their feet reverberates throughout the church. Father Kerrigan positions himself at the lectern and leans towards the microphone. He is a portly man in his fifties. He has receding hair and is wearing glasses. He makes the sign of the cross.

‘In the name of the Father,’ he says, leading the congregation, ‘and of the Son -’

Gina doesn’t move or say anything.

‘- and of the Holy Spirit.’

Father Kerrigan’s amplified voice and the voices of the crowd echo loudly. It is such a familiar sound, a sound from her childhood. Gina hasn’t been inside this church for at least ten years, not since her mother died. She looks around. She looks at the marble pillars, the confession boxes, the statues of Our Lady, the Stations of the Cross represented in paintings that line the walls on either side.

She really can’t believe this is happening.

Back at the house someone offered her a Xanax, but she refused it. She knows that Yvonne and Michelle took a half one each, and already, coming from the funeral parlour to the church, she could see the medication taking effect, could see her sisters retreating into its quiet, chilly cocoon.

Gina can understand the attraction here. Her own mind is a riot of thoughts and emotions, and she’d love to put it temporarily out of commission, or even calm it down – but not at the expense of clarity, or of rawness, or of anger.

Most of what she’s feeling makes a kind of sense to her, and she doesn’t want to lose that. The rawness certainly makes sense. She has cried a lot over these past couple of days and has felt a depth of sorrow she hadn’t previously known was possible.

But she’s been angry a lot of the time, too, and although that makes sense to a degree, it doesn’t make sense entirely. Her anger at the seeming randomness of what happened makes sense. Her anger at what she’s learned about her nephew’s activities makes sense, as does her anger at what’s been suggested might have caused her brother’s accident – but she’s angry about something else as well, and she doesn’t know what that is.

It’s below the surface. It’s like a scrambled password, a piece of code.

It’s what doesn’t make sense.

It’s the two Noels.

As Gina listens to the liturgy, and to the readings, and to the extravagant promises about souls reposing in the afterlife, she strains to see a pattern in events, something that might explain what happened. She’s sure there is one, because randomness only goes so far – it’s an easy way out, shorthand for I give up, for defeat, for what her mother’s generation would have called God’s will. But for Gina that’s not enough. For Gina, what happened on Monday night is simply too random.

There has to be a more satisfactory explanation.

As Father Kerrigan steps forward to say a few words, Gina braces herself, expecting the worst, platitudes, condescension. Soon, though, she has to admit that he’s doing a pretty good job in the circumstances. Young Noel isn’t exactly a shoo-in for Paradise and yet the priest manages to say some simple, affecting things about life – regardless of how it is lived – and about death.

But it is when the ceremony ends and the members of the congregation file past the front pew that Gina wishes she’d taken a tranquilliser after all. Because this most public part of the ordeal is very intense. It’s exhausting, and emotionally draining. Knowing that they have to go through it again tomorrow doesn’t exactly help either.

Every once in a while Gina glances to her left to see how the others are coping. Of course it’s a lot harder for Catherine, who not unreasonably breaks down several times, the sudden appearance of a familiar face triggering fresh waves of tears and sobbing.

For her part, Gina doesn’t recognise many of the faces at all. Sophie passes, as does P.J., and a couple of others from work. She recognises a few of the neighbours from when she was a kid. She thinks she recognises one or two of Noel’s associates. She’s seen their photos in the papers.

She definitely recognises Terry Stack.

He has an unmistakable air about him, of arrogance, of self-regard. He’s quite short and lean and rugged-looking. When he reaches out to shake her hand, Gina notices a flicker of interest in his eyes.

Who’s your one?

He nods. She nods back but keeps her head down. The line shuffles on.

Afterwards, on the steps of the church and in the car park, people mingle and things loosen up a bit. Sophie comes up to Gina and they hug. P.J. comes up to her as well. They haven’t spoken since the other day on the phone, and they clearly need to talk, but – equally clearly – that’s not going to happen now. At one point, Father Kerrigan is passing. Gina stops him, shakes his hand and thanks him. Yvonne sticks close by Catherine, holding her arm, as they move slowly through the crowd. Michelle stands at the side with Dan, her partner, and her two kids. She’s clutching an unlit cigarette in one hand, a lighter in the other, and looks lost.

People are invited back to the house for something to drink, or at least that was the idea before it became clear how many people this might involve. But then word quickly gets around that Terry Stack is taking over Kennedy’s pub down the road, and that tea, coffee, sandwiches and drink are available for anyone who wants to come along, all taken care of, all in honour of Noel.

Gina sees Stack over with Catherine now, arms around her for a second, then looking into her eyes, talking to her – Noel this, she imagines, Noel that. Catherine was always ambivalent about Noel’s association with Stack, but she’s vulnerable at the moment and he’s probably laying it on with a trowel.

At one point Stack looks over in Gina’s direction, and their eyes meet. That’s when she knows he’ll be coming up to her, sooner or later, to introduce himself.

It happens about ten minutes later. Having shared a few words with a neighbour of Catherine’s, Gina turns around and there he is.

‘Howa’ya,’ he says, holding out his hand. ‘I’m Terry Stack. Gina, right?’

He’s already done his homework.

‘Yes.’

They shake.

‘I’m sorry for your troubles.’

‘Thanks.’

Stack is flanked by two younger guys. He’s wearing a suit. They’re in jeans and hoodies. He looks like he could be a businessman, or a teacher, or even a priest in civvies. They look like drug dealers.

‘Noel was a sound bloke,’ Stack says, ‘and a good earner. He didn’t deserve this.’

‘No.’

Gina isn’t being tight-lipped here. She wants to say something, but just isn’t sure what, exactly.

‘Listen, love, I’d like you and your sisters to know something. I’m not going to let this rest.’

‘No?’

‘No.’ Stack shakes his head. ‘Whoever done this is going to fucking pay, believe me.’ His face contorts with the emphasis he places on the word pay. Normally, Gina would be freaked out by this – boys in hoodies, threats, lingo – but what’s normal here?

‘Excuse my French,’ Stack then adds, a gentlemanly afterthought.

Gina notices one of the hoodies eyeing her up. He has a tattoo on his neck. She is freaked out.

‘Look, Mr Stack,’ she says, ‘I suppose -’

‘Call me Terry.’

‘OK. Terry. I suppose you know that my brother died on Monday night as well?’

‘Yeah, terrible,’ he says, nodding.

‘Well, what I want to know is… could there be any connection between the two deaths? It seems weird that -’

‘I doubt that very much, love. Your brother had a car accident. It’s terrible, it’s awful, but… it’s a coincidence.’

Gina exhales. ‘I don’t believe in coincidence.’

She turns directly to the hoodie who’s been eyeing her up and holds his gaze until he looks away.

She then turns back to Stack and waits for a response.

‘I don’t either,’ he says eventually, and a little uncomfortably, ‘but I don’t see what connection there could be, because I mean -’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ Gina goes on, ‘but am I right in thinking that you don’t have any idea why my nephew was killed?’

‘No.’ He shakes his head.

‘Or who did it?’

He pauses. ‘No.’

‘Or who was behind it even?’

‘No.’ He swallows, and pauses again, clearly uneasy at the way this is going. ‘No, not yet, but -’

‘So it’s wide open. Anything is possible.’

Now it’s Stack’s turn to exhale.

‘I… suppose.’

Gina can see him thinking, What’s this mad bitch on about? But she doesn’t care. She mightn’t get the chance again.

‘OK, so Terry, let me ask you another question. Do you people have any links maybe with the building trade? With suppliers? Unions? Could there -’

‘Ah, hold on here, love. For Jaysus’ sake. You’re losing the run of yourself.’ Half turning back to one of his hoodies, he says, with a smirk, ‘You people. I like that.’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t -’

‘Don’t worry about it.’ Stack looks at his watch. ‘Anyway, listen,’ he says, ‘are you coming down to Kennedy’s? We can continue this little chat over a drink.’

Gina hesitates, and closes her eyes. What is she doing? What does she expect here? Some kind of revelation? Hardly. In the following few seconds it all breaks up anyway. When she opens her eyes, someone has approached Stack and is asking him a question. The tattooed hoodie is gazing down at her legs again. The other hoodie is texting.

She stands there for a moment, but then just walks off. She goes over to Sophie and throws her eyes up.

‘Who was that?’ Sophie asks.

‘Terry Stack.’

‘Oh my God.’ She puts a hand up to her mouth. ‘I’m sorry, but this is very weird.’

‘Yeah.’ Gina nods. ‘Tell me about it.’

‘I was just reading about him,’ Sophie says, ‘before I came here, in the paper. They call him the Electrician. Apparently because he is one, or trained as one, but it’s more because he uses electric shock as a -’ she stops suddenly, and looks at Gina, not knowing where to go with this, ‘- form of…’

‘Thanks, Soph. I really needed to know that.’

‘Oh God. Sorry.’

As they stand there for a while, not speaking, Gina trawls back through everything in her mind – everything that happened the other night. She thinks about the conversation she had with her brother outside Catherine’s house. Noel said he was going into town, so how did he end up out in Wicklow? He was tired and maybe a bit stressed, but he certainly wasn’t – as some people seem to be suggesting – drunk. Besides, Noel wouldn’t drive a car if he was drunk. Noel was one of the straightest and most responsible people she’s ever known.

Gina feels dizzy. It’s as if she’s standing on the edge of a cliff, fighting the impulse to jump.

She swallows, and looks over at Terry Stack again. He’s talking into his mobile. She can’t help wondering if he avoided her question just now, or evaded it? Was he being honest, or was he lying through his teeth? The thing is, she has no way of knowing. Her instincts aren’t telling her anything. Except that what happened to her brother – what is supposed to have happened to her brother – makes absolutely no sense at all…

2

Miriam chooses his tie, as usual – burgundy, to go with his dark suit. Years ago, Norton used to have a weakness for garish ties – multicoloured, psychedelic affairs, ones depicting cartoon characters even – but Miriam eventually put a stop to that.

‘If you want to dress like a politician,’ she said with contempt, ‘go up for election.’

Norton sees the sense in this now. Larry Bolger still wears a Homer Simpson tie occasionally and he looks like a fool in it. But it gets him noticed.

Norton has no interest in being noticed. It took him years to understand this about himself. Politicians live to be noticed, it’s like photosynthesis to them, attention is their light – and that’s why they’re so easy to manipulate. Take it away and they’re fucked. Give it to them, a steady supply, and they’ll do anything for you.

Men like Norton, on the other hand, thrive in the shadows. Miriam – with her background – understood this instinctively, and it was she who steered him in the right direction. It was she who taught him what to wear, and how to present himself. It was she who made him realise that being rich meant never having to smile for the cameras.

Shaved and fully dressed now, Norton stands in front of the mirror in his bathroom and puts on some cologne.

So is that what drove him earlier in the week? Not just a dread of negative publicity, but a dread of any publicity at all? Maybe. In part. But he’s not an idiot. He knows, for instance, that the official opening of Richmond Plaza is going to involve some exposure, that he might have to appear in a few press photos or on the six o’clock news. But so what. He’ll be anonymous, just another suit in the background. The real focus will be on the architect, on Ray Sullivan’s people, on Larry Bolger.

Norton stares at himself in the mirror.

In terms of publicity, however, the alternative scenario doesn’t even bear thinking about. He’d get caught up in it personally. He’d be fodder for the tabloids and for the radio talk shows. They’d run an identifying clip of him on the TV news, and repeat it night after night as they spun the story to death – maybe a shot of him walking along a street, looking shifty, or struggling to get out of a car.

The idea horrifies him.

Exposure like that, of course, would be the least of his worries – because there’d also be protracted litigation, followed, almost certainly, by bankruptcy, disgrace, ruin.

Norton straightens his jacket and runs a hand across his hair.

Definitely, on reflection, he did the right thing.

He goes through the bedroom and out onto the landing. He looks at his watch: 4.45.

‘Miriam!’

‘Yes, yes, I’m coming.’

Miriam appears from her bedroom. She is wearing a navy suit, navy shoes and a navy pillbox hat. She looks elegant and appropriately sombre.

‘Which church is it?’ she says, adjusting one of her earrings.

‘Donnybrook.’

Miriam stands in front of the full-length mirror on the landing and repositions her hat. ‘Do you think there’ll be many people there?’

‘I’d say so, yeah,’ Norton replies. ‘Actually, I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s packed to the rafters.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah. He was very popular.’

‘How well did you know him?’

‘Not very. I had dealings with him the odd time.’

Most recently, of course – Norton thinks – in the last week or so. And given what he soon found himself contemplating, that fact had naturally raised something of a red flag in his mind. But then he also remembered reading about Rafferty’s nephew in the paper, in a report about local gangs and DVD piracy.

‘Come on, Mo. There’ll be traffic.’

‘I’m coming.’

She finishes at the mirror and they both head downstairs.

It had seemed like a good plan – a few words in the back of his car with Fitz and that should have been more or less the size of it, at least as far as his own involvement was concerned.

But then look what happened.

They leave the house and get in the car. As he drives slowly across the gravel to the gates, Norton runs it through his mind once again. Monday night, the panic, the sleeplessness, the hours of waiting – how close he came to self-destructing. Then, on Tuesday morning, the phone call. It took him a long time to calm down after that, but as the day progressed, and he spoke to different people, the story did gel into place. He nevertheless found it hard to shake his sense of unease. It had been a very close thing.

Now though, on Thursday afternoon, as he drives to the church for the removal – where he will sit and pray in front of Noel Rafferty’s earthly remains – Norton feels calm again, and secure.

The panic is gone. The threat has been lifted.

It’s almost five o’clock and Larry Bolger is on the plinth outside Leinster House. He is looking over at Buswell’s. He has just left the chamber after a debate on stamp-duty reform and is waiting for his car. He knows that a group of four or five backbenchers is meeting in the hotel to discuss what are euphemistically called ‘developments’ and he wonders how they’re getting on.

The weirdest thing about this stage of a leadership challenge is that all you are required to do is behave as if it isn’t happening. Other people do the important stuff for you – the mobilising, the lobbying, the whispering.

‘Er… Larry, can I have a word?’

Bolger looks around and releases a low groan. ‘A word? There’s no such thing, Ken, not where you’re concerned, so no -’

‘Yeah, but this is -’

‘Look, I’ve no time at the moment.’ Miraculously, the car pulls up. ‘I’m on my way to a removal. Tomorrow maybe, or when I get back from the States.’

Bolger hurries down the steps and opens the back door of the car.

‘Larry, you’re going to want to hear this, believe me, because it’s -’

‘Some other time, OK? I’m busy.’

He gets in the car and bangs the door shut behind him.

The driver knows enough not to delay. ‘Good evening, Minister,’ he says, pulling away. ‘Where are we off to?’

Bolger takes a deep breath.

‘Er… Donnybrook, Billy. The church there on the corner. Thanks.’

Billy nods. They go out the main gates and turn left onto Kildare Street.

Bolger then leans back in his seat and exhales. Is he alone in finding the chief political correspondent of the Irish Independent an epic pain in the arse? Like one or two of the other hacks in the press gallery, Ken Murphy is never off the radio talk shows and seems to claim ownership of practically every story that makes it into the news.

But at the same time, if this leadership bid is to succeed, Bolger realises – be it a messy heave, or a bloodless coup – he is going to have to be… well, a little more accommodating, and play the game.

He closes his eyes, luxuriating in a kind of steely clear-headedness – something he associates these days with not drinking.

The choreography of the next few months is going to be crucial, of course. The Paloma announcement the other day, his upcoming trade mission to the States, the opening of Richmond Plaza in the new year… each of these, incrementally, will ratchet up his profile – in the party, with the media, with the public at large.

Bolger opens his eyes again. They’re almost at Leeson Street Bridge.

It’s certainly been a long time coming. He entered politics in the mid-eighties – though as far as he remembers, and it’s all a bit vague now, standing for election hadn’t even been his idea. Frank, his brother, had held the seat originally but died, and then somehow Larry was persuaded to come back from Boston and contest it in the ensuing by-election. With plenty of backing from within the party, and much to his own surprise, he won the seat. What followed was a blur that has lasted two and a half decades, a blur of clinics, funerals, functions, branch meetings, Oireachtas committees and, every few years or so, like a recurring anxiety dream, the curious sensation of being raised shoulder-high by screaming mobs of your own supporters at a count centre. Eventually, a junior ministry materialised, along with a little national exposure – on Morning Ireland, on Questions and Answers, on Tonight with Vincent Browne. Other junior portfolios came along, and then, at last, his first full seat at the cabinet table.

After that it was all very serious and grown-up – access, privilege, power.

Compromise.

He opens his eyes. They’re on Morehampton Road now, passing the old Sach’s Hotel.

But all of a sudden, for some reason, his mood has shifted. He feels anxious. He feels that familiar jumping in the pit of his stomach.

Then, as the car approaches the gates of the church, and he sees a big silver BMW pulling in just ahead of them, he realises why.

It’s because no matter how he looks at it, no matter from what angle, there is one constant in all of this, in his career, in his life, stretching right back to that surprise by-election of nineteen eighty whenever-it-was, and stretching right into his future, too, inescapable, looming like an Atlantic weather front. And that constant – over there now, struggling to climb out of his BMW – is, of course, Paddy Norton.

3

Despite her exhaustion (she didn’t get any sleep last night, and young Noel’s funeral was this morning), Gina immediately registers the contrast between yesterday’s removal in Dolanstown and the one today here in Donnybrook. Passing through the gates on the way in, she can’t help noticing all the BMWs, Mercs, Saabs and Jags. The church is smaller, too, but the crowd seems to be bigger. As she and Jennifer and her sisters (except for Catherine, who is at home, in bed, unconscious) get out of the funeral car and follow the coffin into the church and up the aisle towards the altar, Gina glances left and right at this congregation of what appear to be well-groomed middle-aged men and their brittle, pampered wives. There isn’t a hoodie or a tracksuit in sight. Instead, she sees silk suits, cashmere overcoats, fur coats – and hats, dozens of them (how many women yesterday were wearing hats?). And is it her imagination or is there something in the air, a certain pungency – a subtle fusion, perhaps, of incense, cologne and expensive perfume?

The ceremony passes quickly. It is dreamlike – the same words as yesterday, the same sentiments, the same skewed sense that none of this can possibly be for real. The hardest part – again, like yesterday – is when the members of the congregation file past the front pew to express their condolences. Although a form of torture, this also happens to be when Gina realises for the first time just how far Noel travelled in his life. She always knew that he was successful, but she is surprised to see certain people file past here, people he must have known, people whose circles he must have moved in – politicians, businessmen, sports stars, TV personalities. She realises how little she really knew him, and this adds to her heartache.

Afterwards, outside the church, the mood is sombre, but there is still an air of conviviality, as people greet each other, shake hands, slap shoulders and talk.

Jenny is very dignified, but she is frozen in her grief, moving slowly and saying almost nothing. Yvonne and Michelle, who are as tired as Gina, also find it hard to speak.

Gina, though, forces herself. She doesn’t know where to begin, or who to talk to, but she moves around, introducing herself to people, determined to get some kind of a fix on Monday night. It seems obvious to her that the sequence of events, at the very least, needs to be established. What she finds hard to take, however, is that no one else is asking any questions. An official version of Noel’s accident very quickly fell into place, and was accepted, but hasn’t it occurred to anyone that what happened was, well… strange? There is the supposed coincidence of the two deaths, Noel’s unaccounted-for trip into Wicklow and the downright unacceptable notion that he was drunk behind the wheel.

But it’s not that easy. Actually, it’s very awkward. How do you quiz people without coming across as abrupt, or rude, or possibly even – given how exhausted she is and must look – unhinged? Perhaps now is not the most suitable time for this. But when is? When else does she find practically everyone Noel knew herded together in the one location?

She talks, then, to people who knew Noel through work but didn’t really know him. She talks to people who knew him well but hadn’t seen him for ages. She talks to someone who regales her with anecdotes about Noel’s capacity for work, his dedication, his legendary perfectionism. She introduces herself to a TV presenter who apparently played a lot of poker with Noel.

As things break up and people begin leaving, Gina feels frustrated, as if she’s blown her one chance at this. But trying to get someone’s life into focus, trying to square up different people’s perspectives on the same person, is difficult. More than difficult. It’s like trying to pick mercury up with a fork. How do private investigators do it? How do biographers do it? Although she’s only starting, she already has a nagging sense of how futile this might prove to be.

There is a general invitation to come back to the house – Noel and Jenny’s new spread on Clyde Road. Despite how tired she is, Gina decides to go, and accepts a lift from Jenny’s brother, Harry. Yvonne and Michelle have to get back to Catherine’s and they leave. Goodbyes are said and very quickly the crowd disperses – cars inching towards the gates and feeding out into the evening traffic.

In the house people are received, coats are taken, drinks are served. Jenny sits in the main reception room, in an armchair, sipping a cup of tea. The room gradually fills up, as does the hallway outside, as well as a large kitchen area at the back. Gina hasn’t been here before and is amazed at how grand the place is. Noel and Jenny only moved into it from their place in Kilmacud a few weeks back and had been meaning to have family over. Gina stands with a glass of wine at the bay window in the main reception room – which is more like a ballroom – and looks out onto the floodlit front lawn.

She is alone, and her will has flagged, but when someone approaches her she musters energy from somewhere and introduces herself. She quickly finds that she is talking to a Detective Superintendent Jackie Merrigan. He is the first person she has met today who it turns out actually spoke to Noel on Monday night, and this fact animates her further. He tells her that he was a friend of Noel’s from years back and that it was he who informed Noel about their nephew’s murder.

‘You phoned him?’

‘Yes.’

Gina latches on to this and tries to find out as much as she can about the conversation. Merrigan is tall and slightly stooped. He’s in his fifties and has a shock of silvery white hair. He seems to understand Gina’s desperate need for information, that it’s part of the grieving process, and she, in turn, seems to understand that he is indulging her in this, and is grateful.

One fact that comes out of their exchange is that when Merrigan made the call, Noel was having a drink somewhere with Paddy Norton, the developer.

Gina nods along at this. ‘I see.’

Merrigan then turns to his left and looks around the room. ‘In fact,’ he says, pointing, ‘that’s him over there, in that group. The one in the dark red tie.’

Gina scans the room and zeroes in on the red tie.

She takes a sip from her wine. ‘Thanks,’ she says, almost in a whisper.

The room is full. Most people are in clusters of two or three, but standing in front of the fireplace (a huge marble affair, the fire roaring), and in a rough circle, are five men in suits. They are holding glasses of wine or whiskey, and two of them are smoking cigars. One of them is young, twenty-four or twenty-five, but the rest of them look older, mid-fifties maybe, or late fifties. The man wearing the dark red tie is holding forth about something. The others are listening.

As she makes her way across the room towards the group, Gina recognises one of them, and then another. The young guy, tall and thickset, is the captain of the Ireland rugby team. The man on Norton’s right, standing with his back to the fire, is a cabinet minister, Larry Bolger. The other two she doesn’t recognise, but they look generic – they could be barristers, solicitors, accountants, anything, bank executives, equity-fund managers.

She reaches the edge of the circle and stops, uncertain how to proceed. She can’t just break in here – though she could.

Jenny’s brother passes with a bottle of wine and offers her a refill.

She holds up her glass. ‘Thanks. How’s Jen?’

‘She’s OK. Well. I don’t think it’s really hit her yet.’

‘No, me neither.’

‘It’s sad, you know,’ Harry goes on. ‘She keeps looking around this place in disbelief. There are still a few boxes upstairs they haven’t unpacked yet.’

This hits Gina hard, and she groans, ‘Oh God.’ It’s another unexpected little window into her brother’s life.

Then, as Harry turns one way to refill someone else’s glass, Gina turns the other, and finds herself looking directly at Paddy Norton. He’s not speaking now, but is listening to one of the barristers or equity-fund managers and staring down at the carpet. After a moment, he lifts his head and looks in Gina’s direction. Their eyes meet. Gina instinctively raises her eyebrows and gestures to him, pointing to the side. Surprised, Norton immediately moves, mumbling a word of excuse to no one in particular, and exits the circle. Gina moves around it and they meet head on.

‘Excuse me, Mr Norton,’ she says, extending a hand. ‘I didn’t mean to interrupt, but my name is Gina. I’m one of Noel’s sisters.’

‘My dear,’ Norton says, shaking her hand vigorously, ‘my dear. Of course. Gina. How are you? I’m very sorry. You have my deepest sympathies.’

‘Thank you.’

‘How are you?’

People keep asking her this – how are you? – as if they really want to know, but it’s just a formula.

‘I’m fine.’ She pauses. ‘I suppose.’

‘Of course. It’s… it’s very hard on all of you.’

She nods. Norton is holding a glass of whiskey. As he speaks, he looks into it and swirls the whiskey around. Up close, he is quite portly, but his tailored charcoal grey suit does a lot to disguise this. He has chubby manicured hands and beads of sweat on his upper lip. His eyes are blue and very intense.

‘How well did you know my brother?’

Here she goes.

‘Not very well, I’m afraid. We liaised, of course, on the project.’

‘On Richmond Plaza?’

‘Yes. Which, incidentally, you know, will be a tremendous tribute to your brother when it’s finished.’

‘I’m sure it will, yes.’ She pauses. ‘But you didn’t know him socially.’

‘Not really, no.’ Norton takes a sip of whiskey from his glass.

‘Because, I was just wondering -’ she half turns here, vaguely indicating behind her, ‘you see, I was talking a minute ago to a Detective Superintendent… Merrigan I think it was, and he says that you had a drink with Noel on Monday night. Is that correct?’

She doesn’t mean this to sound quite so inquisitorial. But she’s very tired and it’s weird standing here. It’s almost surreal. She’s aware of the government minister a few feet away from her, and the rugby captain, and she’s just spotted – over Norton’s shoulder – the presenter of a popular new reality TV show.

‘Well, yes,’ Norton says. ‘There’s social, I suppose, and social. If a quick drink after work to go over some notes qualifies as social, then yes.’

What she really wants to ask him is the question she asked Terry Stack, only in reverse – because it seems to her, on reflection, that Stack was lying. But she has to build up to it.

‘I see,’ she says, ‘and what… notes were these?’

‘Just, you know… work-related stuff.’

‘Right.’ She nods. ‘When I saw Noel later he did seem fairly stressed all right.’

‘Stressed?’

‘Yes, very, in fact, I’d say. About work.’

She keeps glancing over his shoulder. How does she phrase this without putting him off the way she put Terry Stack off?

‘What did he say?’

‘What did he say?’ She looks at him now, directly. ‘Um, he…’ She goes on staring into his eyes, as she struggles to recall what Noel said, to summon up his words – even though she’s tired, even though time seems elastic… but eventually something comes to her. ‘He mentioned the situation… he said it was an unholy mess.’

Norton nods. ‘I see.’ He continues nodding, and Gina feels compelled to nod along with him. She also feels that the wine she’s been drinking has kicked in and that she needs to be a little more focused here.

‘I see,’ Norton says again.

Maybe she should start by asking him out straight if he knows who Terry Stack is. Take it from there.

‘Mr Norton, do -’

‘Look, Gina -’

Just then the government minister appears behind Norton and slaps him on the back.

‘I’ve got to be pushing on, Paddy,’ Bolger says. He smiles at Gina, and then, as if remembering he’s a politician, stretches out his hand. ‘Larry Bolger,’ he says. ‘Deepest sympathies. Your brother was a fine man.’

‘Thank you,’ Gina says, shaking his hand. ‘You knew him?’

‘Oh indeed, quite well. Noel beat me at poker on more than one occasion – humiliated me, you might say.’

‘Really?’

‘Oh yes. He was a quite serious card player, your brother.’

Gina wants to pursue this, but just then a tall woman in a navy suit appears and Bolger takes a couple of steps back. The woman says to Norton, ‘Sweetheart, we should be leaving, too.’ She reaches out to take the glass from his hand.

Norton, who looks a little pale now, lets her.

Gina sees her chance slipping away here. But Norton leans towards her and whispers, ‘We should talk about this again.’

She can smell the whiskey on his breath.

‘Yes,’ she says.

Someone with an empty tray is passing, and the woman in the navy suit puts Norton’s glass onto it.

‘Phone my office in Baggot Street,’ Norton says, handing her a business card, ‘and we can arrange to meet, or… if you could just come there?’

‘Yes,’ Gina says, nodding. ‘The funeral’s tomorrow, so – I don’t know – Monday?’

‘Yes, fine. Absolutely.’

‘Er…’

‘Ten o’clock?’

She nods again. ‘OK.’

The woman in the navy suit, Norton’s wife presumably, tugs at his sleeve and leads him away.

Larry Bolger moves away as well. The captain of the Ireland team and the two solicitors – or fund managers, or whatever they are – continue talking by the fire.

Gina turns and walks back across the room to the bay window. She glances at Norton’s business card and then slips it into her pocket. What just happened there? She’s not quite sure. He seemed eager to meet – which might mean something, or it might not. At least in the privacy of an office, and when she’s not so tired, she’ll have a better chance of assessing what Norton has to say – and she’ll ask him then, out straight, if he or anyone in his organisation has links with Terry Stack.

Once a couple of people have left, others start leaving as well, and the room quickly thins out.

After a while, Gina gathers her strength and goes over to have a few words with Jenny.

4

‘You drive.’

‘What?’

‘You drive. I don’t feel well.’

‘Oh for goodness’ sake, Paddy. Give me the keys.’

Norton hands Miriam the keys and goes around to the passenger side. He gets in and immediately fumbles in his jacket pocket for his silver pillbox. As Miriam is putting on her seatbelt she looks at what he’s doing and says, ‘You’re not still taking those, are you?’

He pops two of the tablets into his mouth and turns to her. ‘What do you think?’

‘Oh, Paddy. On top of… what were you drinking in there, whiskey?’

‘Just drive, would you? Jesus.’

Norton swallows the pills. He can still see those eyes, staring at him accusingly. He’s assuming accusingly. The thing he can’t believe is that Noel Rafferty blabbered about this to his kid sister. But how much did he tell her? How much does she know? Maybe he should have stayed and had it out with her, but he felt weak standing there, like he was going to faint. He needed to get away and was glad when Bolger and Miriam appeared.

His mind is racing. He goes back over the conversation. First she wouldn’t look him in the eye and then she wouldn’t look away, taking ages over it, going for maximum effect – the situation… he mentioned the situation…

Jesus Christ.

And what was that about a detective superintendent knowing where he was on Monday night?

This is too much.

‘Are you feeling ill?’

‘What?’

Miriam is tapping her fingers on the steering wheel. ‘Are you feeling ill?’

‘Yes.’

‘Those pills won’t help, you know.’

‘Yes they will.’

They already are.

‘You’re not in pain, are you?’

‘No.’

‘Then how can they help? They’re meant to be painkillers, aren’t they?’

‘There are different kinds of pain, Miriam.’

‘Oh for goodness’ sake.’

‘Yeah, well.’ He pauses, regroups. ‘Anyway, look who’s talking.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Oh come on, the sleeping pills? You’ve been taking those for as long as I’ve known you. So don’t talk to me about -’

‘That’s entirely different. They’re for a diagnosed, clinical condition.’

‘Hhnm.’

They drive in silence for a while along the Dual Carriageway.

‘Look,’ Miriam says, ‘do you want me to stop off at Dr Walsh’s?’

‘No. I’m fine. I’m just a bit stressed at the moment.’

‘But -’

‘All I need is some peace and quiet.’

‘Yes, but -’

‘Oh for fuck’s sake, Miriam -’

There is a pause.

‘Don’t you dare speak to me like that. I don’t care how you feel, there’s no call for language.’

She reaches down and aggressively flicks on the CD player. Lush sounds fill the car. Adagios to Die For, Volume 3.

Norton sits back and exhales.

What is he going to do? Should he call Fitz? Should he wait? He has to do something. He’s too deep into this to let it unravel now. But what does Gina want? Is she going to blackmail him? Is she linking what she knows – or thinks she knows – with her brother’s death? Is she as much of a threat as he was?

Norton closes his eyes. He sees drizzle falling in a beer garden and a young man slumped over a wooden table. He sees an SUV skidding off the road and hurtling down a ravine. He sees a Merc and a Toyota, one concertinaed into a tree, the other merged with an old brick wall. Through a pervasive rain-drenched orange glow, he sees speckles of red – everywhere – and a continuous rotating blue light. He sees carnage, one body in the Merc, three in the Toyota, mangled, misshapen. He sees a little boy, his face streaked with blood, eyes vacant, but walking somehow – walking across shattered glass and strips of metal towards the flashing blue light and his own mangled, misshapen future. He sees a catalogue of panic, of fuck-ups, of near misses – and he’s tired of it, tired of having to piece together in his mind what he was never there to see, tired of having to confront these dark shards of imagining, these little glimpses into hell.

The Narolet has been building steadily, and now, like the music coming from the speakers – aching strings, sweet, swirling woodwinds – it reaches a crescendo, rises up in a tide of emotion and washes over him.

As it ebbs away, he opens his eyes – drained, spent. He glances to the right.

It takes him a moment to refocus.

He has always liked the way Miriam drives – fast, but very controlled. She really concentrates. She changes gears with the determination of a Formula One driver.

He’s such a fool.

‘I’m sorry, darling.’

They’re speeding down through the underpass.

‘When we get home, you should go to bed,’ Miriam says, after an appropriate pause. ‘Or at least,’ she goes on, more tenderly, ‘at a decent hour. For once.’

‘You’re right. I will.’

They remain silent for a while. The sound of a single violin, lonely and resonant, carries them forward.

Fifty yards ahead, the traffic light turns and they come gliding to a halt.

‘Who was that girl you were talking to?’

‘Gina Rafferty. One of the sisters.’

‘She seems young.’

‘Yeah. Big family apparently. She must be the youngest. She was quite upset, of course. She wanted to talk about her brother.’ He stares at the dashboard. ‘About what he did, and the building and stuff.’

‘Poor thing.’

‘I’ve asked her to come and see me at the office.’

The light turns green and they surge forward – as does Norton’s stomach. He detects a slight chemical shift, somewhere deep inside the dense, woolly fug of the Narolet.

‘You should take her to see it,’ Miriam says. ‘If she’s so interested.’

‘See what?’

‘The building. Give her a tour. Bring her up to the top. Show her the view.’

‘Hmm,’ Norton says, feeling a bit queasy now. ‘Maybe.’ He closes his eyes, and a rapid sequence of images flashes by, like frames of celluloid spooling to the end of a reel: the top floor of Richmond Plaza… howling winds, tarpaulin sheets flapping, sunlight flickering through the grid of interlocking steel girders. The scene is spectacular, with the city spread out below – Liberty Hall, the Central Bank, the spire of Christ Church Cathedral, and then, farther out, the parks and greenbelt areas, the housing estates that look like electronic circuit-boards, the gigantic shopping centres, the new ring roads and motorway extensions, languid and serpentine, laid out in every direction…

The new city.

His city.

‘Yes.’ He nods, opening his eyes again and placing a firm, steadying hand on his stomach. ‘Maybe that’s what I’ll do.’