DENIS FINNEGAN’S OFFICES WERE IN MOUNTJOY Square, about as far from the river on the northside of the city as Fitzwilliam Square was on the south. Before I left Dublin twenty-five years ago, you would have ended the comparison there: while there had been some major demolition and deterioration among the Georgian houses on the southside, not least on the adjoining Fitzwilliam Street, Fitzwilliam Square itself had survived relatively intact, whereas Mountjoy Square had been gutted, often without the demolished houses being replaced; vacant sites and derelict houses made it look like a cross between a bomb site and Skid Row. But the gold rush had changed the fabric of the city, for better or worse: Mountjoy Square fell firmly into the former category, with the gaps having been mostly filled either with restored originals or plausible facsimiles; it now looked like a square again, and tonight, high above the river, its park dense with shedding trees, the ashes already skeletal, in the swirling fog as a church bell struck one, it gave the impression simultaneously of being absolutely real in the concrete here and now, and an illusory dreamscape from the past, an ethereal evocation of times and lives now dead and done, as if whatever actions I might take, whatever my striving, it would be to the same end.
Finnegan’s house was on the north side of the square. He was as good as his word: hale and hearty, if a little drunk, he greeted me enthusiastically and led me up the stairs to a second-floor sitting room that overlooked the square and much of the city. The room was painted dark green, with a cream ceiling and a rich amber carpet; a gold chandelier with tulip bulbs hung from an ornate centerpiece; a turf fire seethed in the grate. Over chalk-stripe trousers, shirt and bow tie, he wore a peculiar-looking burgundy velvet smoking jacket brocaded in a faintly Turkish manner that looked like it had last seen use in a comic opera. He offered me a range of things from a groaning drinks table by one of the big sash windows; all I wanted was a bottle of Guinness, which was good for keeping the alcohol in the blood steady while not really counting as a drink. But since Finnegan was oiling himself with a ten-year-old Macallan, which may have had something to do with his face glowing a shade or two brighter than his jacket, I asked for one as well, and commandeered the bottle on the pretext of reading the label. I had such a number of things to charge Finnegan with that it was hard to know where to start, but I didn’t think asking him how many people in total he reckoned he had murdered was a great icebreaker. And the only one I was confident he had killed was Richard O’Connor, and that would be impossible to prove. But since I’d last seen Finnegan in south Dublin, indeed, looking like an exemplar of that zone, there was a time-honored city-sensitive way of kicking things off.
“So Denis, you’re here on the northside. What’s that about?”
“I made a little money in the eighties. These houses were tumbling down at the time, it was a civic disgrace. But it did mean you could pick one up for a song. I had it restored, over time-living on one floor while another was overrun with builders. And of course, I based my practice here.”
“During the eighties, the early eighties, while you were teaching in Castlehill School?”
“It would have been after that, about 1985.”
“You left in 1985? And what, you went back to university?”
“Oh no. I had already taken a degree and so forth, I just had to complete my apprenticeship. There weren’t many of us who hung around. But I had location on my side. Back then, before we had what the newspapers insist on referring to as ‘gangland,’ we just had a clutch of ordinary decent criminals. And the bulk of them came from within a stone’s throw of my door. Although, having represented many of the gentlemen concerned, I shouldn’t have considered it in the leastwise prudent to throw a stone at any of them.”
“You must have known them all at that time,” I said. “Lar and Shea Temple, the Flannery brothers, Brock Taylor.”
Finnegan nodded, as if we were reminiscing about some glorious rugby heroes of the past.
“Oh yes, Brian in particular. I brokered the settlement with the Criminal Assets Bureau on his behalf. Brian’s done well.”
“He’s done very well. House on Fitzwilliam Square, The Woodpark Inn, and he seems to be buying up half of the surrounding area.”
“Yes.” Finnegan nodded. His face had contracted into that Oriental rictus smile again.
“Why do you think he’s doing that? In that area particularly?”
“I wouldn’t really know. I suppose there’s council stock there still to be had relatively cheaply, he estimates that it’s the coming area, just on the Castlehill/Seafield border after all.”
“And he’s quite the man in Seafield Rugby Club as well.”
“Is that right?” Finnegan said.
“Is that right? Sure you know that’s right, aren’t you to be found there regularly? You and Jonathan? Sharing a drink with Brock?”
Finnegan put his drink down on a small mahogany side table and repositioned himself in his seat, uncrossing his legs and planting his tiny feet side by side on the amber carpet.
“Mr. Loy, I’m not entirely sure where, as our American friends might say, you’re going here. The fact is, I represent many people. Outside of that, I live my own life. Brian Taylor, since he seems to have become the focus of your current inquiries-although at some point in the dim and distant past, I did understand you to be working on behalf of Shane Howard, but who am I to tell a man how to do his job?-Brian Taylor appears to be a reformed character. If it turns out that he is not, I will hear about it soon enough, in the form of a phone call. Until then, what he does is beyond my control. The fact that he has chosen to move in circles, some of which are congruent with mine, is unusual but not illegal; I don’t normally enjoy the society of my clients out of office hours. But then, few of Brian’s coevals share his urge to…‘better himself.’”
“Do you think it’s a bit crass of him, Denis? A bit embarrassing? Do you and the rest of the car-coat brigade up the rugby club find yourselves sniggering into your scotches at the presumption of the fellow?”
Finnegan’s head swiveled around, and his chin jutted forward, like a man in a pub ready for a fight.
“I’m a Northside boy myself, as a matter of fact. O’Connell’s, then a scholarship to Belvedere. I didn’t cycle up the Liffey on a fucking bicycle. I earned every penny.”
The accent had coarsened a little, but only a little; over the years, the polish had worked its way deep into the grain of Denis Finnegan.
“So you and Brock go back, do you? Back to Blessington Street?”
“I came from Wellington Street.”
“Near neighbors then.”
“We weren’t friends.”
“I wouldn’t have thought so. Brock’s initial ideas for bettering himself were a little more short term than yours. But they seem to have worked out. Fitzwilliam Square still more fashionable than Mountjoy.”
“Once again, Mr. Loy, and while it is a continuing pleasure to talk to you, of course, I must ask-”
“It’s interesting, where people came from. And how they get where they’re going. I didn’t exactly start out with a silver spoon either. My father never really made a go of things. But for a while he ran a motor garage, quite near Woodpark. And the funny thing is, he had a fellow there working for him, name of Brian Dalton. Do you know who that was?”
Finnegan’s face was perfectly still.
“I think…and I could be wrong…that he and Brian Taylor are the same,” I said.
“And if they are…?”
“Well, I wonder if it’s interesting. Since a while later he married the Howard family’s heavily pregnant housemaid, and they moved into a house in Woodpark. And then he seems to have disappeared, and she was thought to have drowned herself.”
“And the child?”
“And the child was adopted. So you see, there are connections to be made. It would be extremely interesting to know what his proper name was, Taylor or Dalton. Someone who knew him back in the day should know that, at least. Then again, maybe you’re right, maybe it’s not that interesting at all. Why don’t we talk about property again? It’s still the conversational topic of choice in Dublin, isn’t it? And it’s what you chose to speak to me about when we first met-can it only have been two days ago? It feels like much longer.”
“It certainly does. Can I get you another drink?”
“Here, allow me.”
I took our glasses and the Macallan to the drinks table and, seeing my reflection in the window, checked to see if Finnegan was watching. He was staring into the fire, and it was the work of a moment to snap the top of the GHB bottle, drop a capful and a bit into Finnegan’s glass and replace the bottle in my pocket. As I poured the whisky and added water, I stared out the big sash window. The shutters were open, and I noted again how the windows diminished in size as the floors rose, how this one was smaller than the ground-floor window had been in Fitzwilliam Square. The congruence between Finnegan and Taylor, near neighbors as kids in a rough end of town, now residents of two of the city’s great squares, was setting off flares in my brain. The light from each revealed another stop on the map; I was counting on reaching my destination before the night was out.
“What I’m interested in is the will Shane and Sandra’s mother left. Remember, you were talking about it yesterday? You felt Jessica Howard was going to prove troublesome.”
Finnegan turned and looked at me as if he was surprised I was still here.
“And why should that be of any moment, Mr. Loy?”
“Because it gives several people a motive for wanting her out of the way. As you reminded me, I’m working on behalf of Shane Howard, and if he’s not the only one who might have profited from his wife’s death, well, all the better for him.”
I gave Denis Finnegan his drink and sat down across from him.
“I spoke to the Guards in Seafield about this myself.”
“And what did you say?”
“Mary Howard stipulated in her will that Rowan House was to go to Shane and Shane alone.”
“Yes, but Shane and Sandra were locked in a dispute over what to do about the bequest. Shane told me he wished it had been split.”
“Well, in practical terms, Shane was behaving as if it had been.”
“What does that mean? That he agreed with the plan to build the fourth tower?”
Finnegan looked into his glass and made a face. I took a drink of mine and smiled. He shook his head.
“Did you mix the whisky with mineral water?”
I nodded, and Finnegan clicked his tongue.
“An unforgivable solecism, Mr. Loy. An excess of sodium. Still, a sin to waste it.”
He took a good belt of his drink and sat back.
“I think au fond Shane was on Sandra’s side, yes. I think he favored that option. A center for private psychiatric care. It would be the final piece of the jigsaw. But Shane was caught between Sandra and Jessica’s plan for a residential development. And since Jessica and Shane were about to separate, and presumably to divorce, you might say she was keen to maximize her settlement before she left.”
“Why do you believe Shane would have supported the plan to build the final tower? He sounded at best neutral to me.”
“He knew Sandra wanted it. Shane has always been keen to see Sandra protected, ever since they were children. To make sure she wasn’t hurt. To make sure she got what she wanted. What she deserved.”
Finnegan was beaming at me now, his eyes flickering, the red dome of his brow glowing like exposed flesh. What was he asking me to believe? That Shane Howard had been the one all along, the one to ensure that Dr. Rock was free, that Finnegan was able to step forward, and now, the one to clear Jessica out of their way?
“I’ve tried to make that my job also, as her husband. I don’t know that I can say I’ve succeeded. We effectively live apart now. I know I’ve failed in many respects, although I think I have been a good father-yes, ‘father’ is not too strong a word-to young Jonathan. But I know too that I’ve always given of my best. And I always have been, and remain, loyal to the Howard family, Mr. Loy.”
He sounded like a politician giving a resignation speech. He drained his glass, made his way to the drinks table and poured a large neat whisky.
“And that’s what the fourth tower would be, would it?” I said. “The vindication of the Howards?”
“I don’t think ‘vindication’ is the appropriate word. You might find ‘apotheosis’ excessive.”
“I might. If I was sure just what it meant.”
“Their ascension to Olympus. Their deification. Mock all you like, but when John Howard built the first tower there was no vision in this country, nothing but piety and spite. And he saw beyond that, he saw…he saw the future, Mr. Loy. It’s not fashionable anymore to laud great men, but I’ve seen one in my lifetime, and John Howard was that man. I remember the day I first set eyes on him. It was way back, an under thirteens A game. I played hooker for Belvedere, Shane was the captain of that year’s Castlehill side. It wasn’t much of a game, muddy pitch, kick and ruck, grind out the penalties. Castlehill won, of course, chiefly because of a great piece of opportunist play from young Howard, blind-side break from twenty yards caught us napping, handed off fullback and winger like they were made of straw, only try of the game. And it was a killer, but it was one of those times where you have to go, fair enough, you’ve got it and we don’t. And that’s when I saw John Howard for the first time, tall, elegant, the long coat, the red and green paisley scarf, the black fedora. He cut a dash, you know? He really cut a dash. He looked fitter than any of the boys on the field, and he must have been knocking on seventy by then. Like Peter O’Toole, you know? And the two angel girls with him, my God. Sandra, maybe fourteen, with her hair right down her back, her eyes like jewels, her milky skin…my God, she looked like a princess. Like a real…princess.”
Finnegan stood against the window, swaying now, slopping the whisky in his glass. He leant over from the waist and let gravity trundle him toward the fire, where he slapped his crystal tumbler down above his chin on the high mantelpiece and left his arm there, as if his glass was a peg he was hanging from. I hardly dared breathe, waiting for him to continue; from my neck to my rib cage, wave after wave of chill ice rippled; I was shaking with it. Finally, because he seemed lost to dreams, and I was afraid the drug would kick in before he said any more, I spoke.
“And her sister?” I said.
“What’s that?”
“Sandra’s sister. You were remembering seeing John Howard for the first time, and his two angel girls.”
Finnegan stared at me as if I had set him a riddle. Then he shook his head slowly, and gingerly lifted his glass of whisky down from the mantelpiece, brought it to his lips and held it there a moment before moving it away from his head and holding it at arm’s length. The glass seemed to have taken on a life of its own, and Finnegan appeared mesmerized by it.
“What was she like?” I said. “Sandra’s sister.”
“No no no,” he said. “Sandra’s mother.”
“Sandra’s mother? You said ‘two girls,’ ‘John Howard’s two girls.’”
“That’s right.”
“Her mother was one of the girls?”
“Yeah. Fine-looking woman she was too, for her age. That’s when I saw the Howards first. And you know, to this day…there isn’t a thing I wouldn’t do for them…to this day…”
Finnegan pulled the glass back in toward his face, tipped it up to his mouth and emptied it, then staggered across to pour himself another. On the way, he was intercepted by his chair, which soaked up his great bulk without a sound. He waved his glass vaguely in the direction of the Macallan on the drinks table, then dropped it on the arm of the chair, where it tumbled silently to the floor. His head came down to rest where the glass had just been.
Within seconds, he was snoring, and I could do what I came to do. The attic floor was full of old case files and law books. On the first floor, there was a master bedroom and two guest bedrooms, one of which looked to be in regular use. With a collection of men’s magazines-FHM, Loaded, Maxim-and a shelf full of mathematics textbooks, it wasn’t too difficult to work out that Jonathan O’Connor stayed here. As with his rooms in Trinity, a portrait of John Howard and a photograph of the Howard Medical Center hung on the wall. There was a laptop computer on a pine desk, and I wondered whether he had been here tonight. But Jonathan’s laptop was silver; this one was white. I switched it on, opened Entourage and saw that it belonged to Emily Howard-and I remembered there had been a laptop dust outline in her room. I worked through the in-box until I came to an e-mail address I recognized: [email protected]. I opened the mail. It was a note of congratulations to Emily for getting a place in Trinity to study medicine, and it came from Denis Finnegan.
The other guest bedroom contained a display cabinet that was like a shrine to Seafield and Irish rugby, with photographs and press cuttings and Finnegan’s own schoolboy and club medals. Shane Howard and Richard O’Connor featured prominently; there were several shots of David Brady, even a few of Finnegan himself, younger and slimmer and not quite as red.
I went next door to examine Finnegan’s bedroom. I trawled through wardrobes and chests of drawers. There was nothing but clothes and shoes and volumes of political biography. I began to feel like this was a wasted trip, that anything I needed would be fast in a safe. I went back into the rugby shrine. There were two drawers beneath the glass cabinet that I hadn’t noticed. The first one opened to reveal all manner of memorabilia: tickets stubs to games from the sixties and seventies; autographs of JPR Williams and Tony O’Reilly and other rugby greats of the past; programs and lapel badges and so on. The second drawer was locked. I went up to the second floor to check on Finnegan: he was solid. I tipped his head to one side in case he vomited in his sleep and went down to the kitchen on the ground floor. I was looking for tools, but there weren’t any; there was a lot of expensive kitchenware that looked like it was never used. I got a mallet and a pointed steel used for keeping knives sharp and brought them upstairs and, using the steel like a chisel, I smashed my way into the locked drawer, breaking off every now and again to make sure Finnegan was still asleep.
The drawer was lined with green velvet. Rugby medals were laid out on the velvet. I looked at the medals, and pocketed one of several with a name engraved on the back. I also took a silver ID bracelet. Then I pushed the drawer back in and tried to minimize the apparent damage. I took Emily’s laptop and went downstairs and replaced the mallet and the steel in the kitchen. On the counter there was a block with a number of sharp Sabatier knives. There were two knives missing. As I walked to my car, I fingered the medal and the bracelet in my pocket. The name engraved on the back of the medal was Richard O’Connor’s. The words engraved on the bracelet were Diabetes Type 1.